The Beautiful Mystery

TWENTY-THREE

“There you are, Chief Inspector.”

Frère Simon came around the desk, his hand out.

Gamache took it and smiled. What a difference a chicken could make.

Doo-dah, doo-dah.

Gamache sighed to himself. Of all the literally divine music here, he had to have “Camptown Races” sung by a rooster stuck in his head.

“I was about to come looking for you,” Simon continued. “I have your paper.”

Frère Simon handed the yellowed page to the Chief Inspector and smiled. A smile would never, on that face, look completely at home. But it camped comfortably there for an instant.

Once again, in repose, the abbot’s secretary slipped back to severe.

“Merci,” said Gamache. “You were able to make a copy, obviously. Have you started transcribing the neumes into musical notes?”

“Not yet. I was planning on working at it this afternoon. I might ask some of the other brothers for help, if that’s all right with you.”

“Absolument,” agreed Gamache. “The sooner the better.”

Once again Frère Simon grinned. “I think your idea of time and ours is slightly different. We deal with millennia here, but I’ll try to make it quicker than that.”

“Believe me, mon frère, you don’t want us hanging around for that long. Do you mind?” Gamache indicated a comfortable chair and the abbot’s secretary nodded.

The two men sat facing each other.

“As you worked on this,” Gamache raised the page slightly, “did you translate any of the Latin?”

Frère Simon looked uneasy. “I’m not exactly fluent, and I suspect whoever wrote it wasn’t either.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because what little I could understand is ridiculous.”

He went to the desk and returned with a notebook.

“I jotted down some thoughts as I went. Even if we manage to figure out the neumes and turn them into notes, I don’t think we can possibly sing the words.”

“So it’s not a known hymn or chant or even a prayer?” Gamache glanced at the original.

“Not unless there was a prophet or apostle in need of medication.” Frère Simon consulted his notebook. “The first phrase, there,” Simon pointed to the top of the chant, “now I may be wrong but I translate it as saying, I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear.”

He said it so solemnly Gamache had to laugh. When he tried to suppress it, it bubbled up again. He looked down at the page, to cover up his amusement.

“What else does it say?” he asked, his voice slightly squeaky from the effort of keeping the laughter in.

“This isn’t funny, Chief Inspector.”

“No, of course not. It’s sacrilege.” But a little snort betrayed him and when he dared look at the monk again, he surprised on Frère Simon’s face a slender grin.

“Were you able to understand anything else?” asked Gamache, regaining control of himself after a mighty effort.

Frère Simon sighed and leaned forward, pointing to a line further down the page. “This you probably know.”

Dies irae.

Gamache nodded. He no longer felt like laughing and all the doo-dahs had gone away. “Yes, I had noticed that. Day of wrath. It’s the one Latin phrase I recognize in this. The abbot and I talked about it.”

“And what did he say?”

“He also thought the words were nonsense. He seemed as perplexed as you.”

“Did he have a theory?”

“No particular one. But he found it odd, as do I, that while there is clearly in here a dies irae, a day of wrath, there’s no accompanying dies illa.”

“Day of mourning. Yes, that struck me too. Even more strongly than the banana.”

Gamache smiled again, but only briefly. “What do you think it means?”

“I think whoever wrote this did it as a joke,” said Frère Simon. “He just tossed all sorts of Latin into it.”

“But why not use more phrases or words from chants? Why is ‘day of wrath’ the only phrase from a prayer?”

Frère Simon shrugged. “I wish I knew. Maybe he was angry. Maybe that’s what this is. A mockery. He wants to show his rage, and actually declares it. Dies irae. And then throws in all sorts of ridiculous Latin words and phrases, so that it looks like a chant, looks like something we’d sing to God.”

“But is actually an insult,” said Gamache, and Frère Simon nodded.

“Who here might be able to help with the translation?”

Frère Simon thought about that. “The only one who comes to mind is Frère Luc.”

“The porter?”

“He’s not long out of the seminary, so he’s closer to having studied Latin than the rest of us. And he’s just pompous enough to enjoy having us know it.”

“You don’t like him?”

The question seemed to surprise Frère Simon.

“Like him?” It was as though he’d never considered it before, and Gamache realized, a bit surprised himself, that Frère Simon probably hadn’t. “It’s not a matter of like or dislike here. It’s a matter of accepting. Like can turn to dislike fairly easily in a closed environment. We learn here not to even think in those terms, but to accept as God’s will that the monks who are here are meant to be. If it’s good enough for God, it’s good enough for us.”

“But you just called him pompous.”

“And he is. And he probably calls me morose, and I am. We all have flaws we’re working on. Denying them doesn’t help.”

Gamache again held up the page. “Is it possible Frère Luc wrote this?”

“I doubt it. Frère Luc doesn’t like to make mistakes, or to be wrong. If he wrote a hymn in Latin it would be perfect.”

“And might not have a lot of humor,” said Gamache.

Frère Simon smiled a little. “Unlike the hilarity of the rest of us.”

Gamache recognized the sarcasm, but thought Simon was wrong. The monks he’d met here seemed to have a good sense of humor and to be able to laugh at themselves and their world. It was quiet, and gentle, and fairly well hidden behind a solemn visage, but it was there.

Gamache studied the paper in his hand. He agreed with Simon, Frère Luc could not possibly have written this. But one of them had.

More than ever, Chief Inspector Gamache was convinced this slim paper in his hand was the key to the killing.

And Gamache knew he’d figure it out, if it took millennia.

“The neumes,” he began, trying to work out what he wanted from Frère Simon. “You say you haven’t started transcribing them into notes, but can you still read them?”

“Oh, yes. They’re confused.” Frère Simon picked up his own copy. “No, that’s the wrong word. They’re complex. Most neumes for chants look confusing but once you know what you’re looking at, they’re really quite simple. That was the point of them. Simple directions for plainchants.”

“But these aren’t simple,” said Gamache.

“Far from it.”

“Can you give me an idea what it sounds like?”

Frère Simon looked up from the page, his face extremely stern, severe even. But Gamache didn’t back down. The two men stared at each other for a moment until Simon finally broke contact and looked back down at the page.

After a minute or so of silence, Gamache heard a sound. It seemed quite far off, and he wondered if a plane was approaching again. It was a haunting sort of hum.

Then he realized it wasn’t coming from outside at all. But inside.

The sound was coming from Frère Simon.

What started as a drone, a hum, a note hanging in the air, turned into something else. With a swoop, the note descended and seemed to play in the lower registers before leaping back up. Not a jagged leap, but a soft soar.

It seemed to sweep into Gamache’s chest and surround his heart, then take it along for the ride. Higher and higher. But never precipitous, never dangerous. Never did Gamache feel the music, or his heart, were about to come crashing down.

There was a certainty, a confidence. A lilting joy.

Words had replaced the hum, and now Frère Simon was singing. Gamache, of course, couldn’t understand the Latin, and yet, he felt he understood completely.

Frère Simon’s clear, calm, rich tenor held the notes, the nonsensical words, like a lover. There was no judgment there, just acceptance, in the voice and in the music.

And then, the final note descended to the earth. Softly, gently. A tender landing.

And the voice stopped. But the music stayed with Gamache. More a feeling than a memory. He wanted that feeling back. That levity. Wanted to ask Frère Simon to please keep going, to never stop.

The Chief realized there was no sign of “Camptown Races.” It had been replaced by this brief, but glorious, burst of song.

Even Frère Simon seemed surprised by what he’d just produced.

Gamache knew he’d be humming this beautiful tune for a long time to come. The doo-dahs had been replaced with I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear.

Beauvoir tossed a rock into the water, as far from the shore as he could heave it.

No skipping of flat stones. He chose another heavy rock, hefted it in his hand, then cocked his arm back and threw.

The rock arched away and landed in the water with a plop.

Beauvoir stood on the shore, strewn with water-rounded pebbles and stones and clamshells, and looked into the clear, clean lake. The waves he’d created washed ashore, breaking over the pebbles in tiny white caps. Like a miniature world, inundated by an unexpected tidal wave. Of Beauvoir’s making.

After his encounter with Francoeur he needed fresh air.

Frère Bernard, the wild blueberry monk, had mentioned a path. Beauvoir found it and started walking, though he didn’t take in much of his surroundings. Instead he was squirreling away in his head. Going over the few words he’d had with Francoeur.

And what he should have said. Could have said. The clever, cutting remarks he might have made.

But after a few minutes his furious thinking and his furious pace slowed, and he realized this path hugged the coastline. The shore here was strewn with boulders. And blueberry bushes.

He slowed to a normal walk, then a stroll, then finally he stopped on a small, stony peninsula that jutted into the remote lake. Huge birds swooped and glided overhead, never seeming to flap their wings.

Beauvoir removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs and put his big toe into the lake. Then quickly brought it out again. It was so cold it scalded. He tried again, until, millimeter by millimeter, both his feet were in the freezing water. They’d grown used to it. It constantly amazed him what you could get used to. Especially if you went numb.

He sat quietly for a minute, picking and eating tiny wild blueberries from a nearby bush, and trying not to think.

And when he did think, what came to mind was Annie. He took out his BlackBerry. There was a message from her. He read it, smiling.

It talked about her day at the law office. A funny little story about an Internet mix-up. Trivial, but Beauvoir read every word twice. Imagining her bafflement, the crossed communications, the happy resolution. She told him how much she missed him. And loved him.

Then he wrote back, describing where he was. Telling her they were making progress. He hesitated before hitting send, knowing while he hadn’t exactly lied, neither had he told her the complete truth. Of how he was feeling. His confusion, his anger. It seemed both directed at Francoeur and undirected. He was mad at Frère Raymond, mad at the monks, mad at being in the monastery instead of with Annie. Mad at the silence, broken by interminable masses.

Mad at himself for letting Francoeur get under his skin.

Mostly he was mad at Superintendent Francoeur.

But he told Annie none of that. Instead, he ended his message with a smiley face and hit send.

Wiping his feet off with his sweater, he put his socks and shoes back on.

He should be heading back. But instead, he picked up another stone and threw it, watching the rings disturb the calm waters.

“The funny thing is,” said Frère Simon, after he’d stopped singing. “The words actually fit.”

“I thought you said they were ridiculous. Nonsense,” said Gamache.

“They are. What I mean is, they fit the meter of the music. Like lyrics, they have to fit with the rhythm.”

“And these do?” Gamache looked back down at the yellowed page, though he didn’t know what he expected. That some magic would have worked, and he’d suddenly understand? But he understood nothing. Not the words, not the neumes.

“I think whoever wrote this knew music,” said Frère Simon. “But didn’t know how to write lyrics.”

“Like Lerner and Loewe” said Gamache.

“Simon and Garfunkel,” said Frère Simon.

“Gilbert and Sullivan,” said Gamache, smiling.

Simon actually laughed. “I heard they despised each other. Wouldn’t be in the same room.”

“So,” said Gamache, working his way through his thoughts, “the music is beautiful, we agree on that. And the words are ridiculous. We agree on that.”

Frère Simon nodded.

“You’re thinking there was a writing team involved. Not one monk but two?”

“One wrote the music,” said Simon, “and the other wrote the words.”

They looked down at the papers in their hands. Then looked up into each other’s eyes.

“But that doesn’t explain why the words are so stupid,” said Frère Simon.

“Unless whoever wrote the neumes didn’t understand the Latin. Maybe he assumed his partner wrote lyrics as beautiful as the music deserved.”

“And when he found out what the words really meant…” said Frère Simon.

“Oui,” said Gamache. “It led to murder.”

“Do people really kill over something like this?” Simon asked.

“The Church castrated men to keep them sopranos,” Gamache reminded the monk. “Emotions run high when it comes to sacred music. It might not be such a big step from maiming to killing.”

Frère Simon thrust out his lower lip, thinking. It made him look suddenly quite young. A boy, working on a puzzle.

“The prior,” said Gamache. “Which is he likely to have written? The words or the music?”

“The music, without a doubt. He was a world authority on neumes and Gregorian chants.”

“But could he write original music using neumes?” asked the Chief.

“He certainly knew his neumes, so I suppose it’s possible.”

“Something’s bothering you,” said Gamache.

“It just seems unlikely, that’s all. Frère Mathieu loved Gregorian chants. He didn’t just like them, it was a form of adoration for him. A great religious passion.”

Gamache understood what the monk was saying. If he adored the plainchants so much, had made them his life’s work, why would he suddenly diverge from them, and create what the Chief held in his hands?

“Unless…” said Frère Simon.

“Unless he didn’t write this,” said Gamache, lifting the page slightly. “But found it in someone else’s possession and confronted him. In the one place they wouldn’t be seen.”

Which brought the Chief Inspector to his next question. “When you found the prior, was he still alive?”