The Beautiful Mystery

EIGHTEEN

“Are you lost?”

Beauvoir spun around to confront the voice.

“I only ask because it’s unusual to find someone here.”

A monk was standing in the thick forest, a few feet from Beauvoir. It was as though he’d suddenly materialized. Beauvoir recognized him. It was the monk from the chocolate factory, who’d been covered in dribbled dark chocolate the last time Beauvoir had seen him. Now he had on a clean cassock and was carrying a basket. Like Little Red Riding Hood. Entre-les-Loups, thought Beauvoir. Among the wolves.

“No, I’m not lost,” he said, and tried to quickly roll up the plan of Saint-Gilbert. But it was way too late for that. The monk was standing very still, just watching. It made Beauvoir feel foolish and wary. It was disconcerting to be around people who were so still and so quiet. And so stealthy.

“Can I help you with something?” asked the monk.

“I was just…” Beauvoir waved the semi-rolled plan.

“Looking?” he smiled. Beauvoir half expected to see long canine teeth, but instead it was a small, almost tentative grin. “I’m looking too,” said the monk, “but probably not for the same thing.”

It was the kind of vaguely patronizing remark Beauvoir expected from a religieux. He was probably on some spiritual quest, so much more worthy than whatever the bumbling human in front of him might be about. The monk was strolling the forest looking for inspiration or salvation, or God. Praying or meditating. While Beauvoir was looking for treasure.

“Ah,” said the monk. “Found some.”

He stooped, then stood back up and offered his palm to Beauvoir. Tiny wild blueberries rolled together in the valley of the man’s hand.

“They’re perfect,” said the monk.

Beauvoir looked at them. They looked like every other wild blueberry he’d ever seen.

“Please.” The monk moved his palm closer and Beauvoir took a single tiny berry. It was like trying to pick up an atom.

He popped it in his mouth and there was an immediate wallop of flavor far out of proportion to the portion. It tasted, not surprisingly, of blueberry. But it also tasted like autumn in Québec. Sweet and musky.

This monk was right. It really was perfect.

He took another, as did the monk.

The two men stood in the shadow of the tall wall of the abbot’s garden, eating berries. Just a few feet away, over the wall, was a manicured garden, beautifully planted and cared for. With lawns and flower beds, clipped bushes and benches.

But here, on this side of the wall, there were tiny perfect blueberries.

There was also a tangle of undergrowth so thick it had scratched Beauvoir’s legs through his slacks as he’d plowed his way through the thickets. He’d been following the line of the monastery, on foot, and on paper. He’d borrowed rubber boots from the monks, and found himself stepping into muck, climbing over downed tree trunks and scrambling over rocks. Trying to figure out if the lines on the page matched the walls of the actual abbey.

“How’d you sneak up on me?”

“Sneak?” the monk laughed. “I’m just doing my rounds. There’s a path over there. Why didn’t you take that?”

“Well, I would have had I known,” said Beauvoir, not altogether sure they were talking about the same thing. He’d worked long enough with Chief Inspector Gamache to smell an allegory.

“My name’s Bernard,” said the monk, sticking out his purple-stained hand.

“Beauvoir.” The handshake surprised Beauvoir. He’d expected a soft, doughy hand, but instead it was firm and assured, the skin far tougher than his own.

“Wow, look at that.” Frère Bernard stooped again and stayed there, kneeling and plucking berries. Beauvoir knelt as well, and peered at the ground. Slowly, instead of seeing just a riot of twigs and moss and dried leaves, he began to see what Frère Bernard had been looking for.

Not salvation, but the tiniest of wild fruit.

“My God,” laughed Bernard. “It’s the mother lode. I’ve been along that path every fall for years and never knew this was here.”

“You can’t be suggesting it’s sometimes good to wander from the path.” Beauvoir was pleased with himself. He could give good allegory too.

The monk laughed again. “Touché.”

They spent the next few minutes crawling around the undergrowth, collecting blueberries.

“Well,” said Frère Bernard at last, standing and stretching and brushing twigs from his cassock. “This must be a record.” He looked at his basket, piled high with berries. “You’re my good-luck charm. Merci.”

Beauvoir felt quite pleased with himself.

“Now,” said Bernard, pointing to a couple of flat rocks. “It’s my turn to help you.”

Beauvoir hesitated. He’d stuck the plan of the monastery in a bush, where it would be safe while they picked the berries. Now he looked over at it. Bernard followed his gaze, but said nothing.

Beauvoir retrieved the plan and the two men sat facing each other on the rocks.

“What’re you looking for?” asked the monk.

Still Beauvoir hesitated. Then made up his mind and unrolled the plan.

Frère Bernard lowered his gaze from Beauvoir’s face to the vellum. His eyes widened slightly. “Dom Clément’s plan of the monastery,” he said. “We’d heard he’d made one. He was a famous architect in his day, you know. Then he joined the Gilbertines and disappeared along with the other twenty-three monks. No one knew where they went. No one much cared, actually. The Gilbertines were never a rich or powerful order. Just the opposite. So when the monastery in France was abandoned everyone just assumed the order had disbanded or died out.”

“But they hadn’t,” said Beauvoir, also staring at the plan.

“No. They came here. Might as well have been the moon, in those days.”

“Why’d they come?”

“They were afraid of the Inquisition.”

“But if they were so poor and marginal, why were they afraid?”

“Why is anyone afraid? Most of the time it’s all in their heads. Has nothing to do with reality. I imagine the Inquisition couldn’t have cared less about the Gilbertines, but they took off anyway. Just in case. That could be our motto. Just in case. Exsisto paratus.”

“You’ve never seen this before?” Beauvoir pointed to the drawing.

Frère Bernard shook his head. He seemed lost in the lines on the page. “It’s fascinating,” said the monk, leaning closer, “seeing Dom Clément’s actual plans. I wonder if this was made before or after Saint-Gilbert was built.”

“Would it matter?”

“Maybe not, but one would be the ideal, the other would be the reality. If it was made after, then this shows what’s really here. Not what they might have wanted then changed their minds.”

“You know the monastery,” said Beauvoir. “What do you think?”

For a few minutes Frère Bernard bowed his head over the vellum, sometimes tracing the ink with his blueberry finger. He gave a few grunts. Hummed a bit. Shook his head, then backed up his finger to follow another line, another corridor.

Finally he looked up and met Beauvoir’s eyes.

“There’s something wrong with this drawing.”

Beauvoir felt a thrill, a frisson. “What?”

“The scale’s off. You see here and here—”

“The vegetable garden and the place for the animals.”

“Right. They’re shown as the same size as the abbot’s garden. But they’re not. In reality, they’re at least twice the size.”

It was true. Beauvoir remembered picking the squash that morning with Frère Antoine. The vegetable garden had been huge. But the abbot’s garden, the murder scene, was much smaller.

“But how do you know?” asked Beauvoir. “Have you ever been in the abbot’s garden?” He glanced to the tall wall.

“Never, but I’ve been around it. Looking for berries. I’ve also been around the other gardens. This plan,” he looked back down, “is wrong.”

“So what does that mean?” asked Beauvoir. “Why would Dom Clément do that?”

Bernard considered, then shook his head. “Hard to say. The Church had a way of exaggerating things. If you see some of the old paintings, the baby Jesus looks about ten years old when he was born. And old maps of cities show cathedrals much bigger than they actually were. Dominating their surroundings.”

“So you think Dom Clément exaggerated the size of the abbot’s garden? But why?”

Again the monk shook his head. “Vanity, maybe. To make the drawing look more to scale. Church architecture has little tolerance for anything unusual, out of balance. This looks better on paper,” again the monk gestured toward the drawing, “than the real thing. Though the real thing functions better in reality.”

Again Beauvoir was taken by the clash of perception and reality in this monastery. And the choice to reflect what looked good rather than what was truthful.

Frère Bernard continued to study the drawing. “If Dom Clément had drawn it exactly as it is, the monastery wouldn’t look like a crucifix anymore. It’d look like a bird. Two big wings and a shorter body.”

“So he cheated?”

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”

“Could he have cheated in other areas of the plan?” asked Beauvoir. Though he knew the answer to that. When someone deceived once, they’d do it again.

“I suppose.” The monk looked as though one of the angels had fallen. “But I can’t see anything else wrong. Why does it matter?”

“It might not.” Beauvoir rolled the plan back up. “You asked what I was looking for. I’m looking for a hidden room.”

“Like the Chapter House?”

“We know about that one. I’m looking for another.”

“So there is one.”

“We don’t know. We’ve just heard rumors, and obviously you have too.”

For the first time in their conversation Beauvoir sensed a hesitation in the monk. As though a door had slowly swung shut. As though Frère Bernard had his own hidden room.

Of course, everyone had one. And it was his job, and the Chief’s, to find those too. Unfortunately for them those rooms almost never hid treasure. What they invariably found were mountains of crap.

“If there really is a secret room in the monastery, you need to tell me,” Beauvoir pressed.

“I don’t know of any.”

“But you’ve heard rumors?”

“There’re always rumors. I heard that one the first day I arrived.”

“For a silent order you seem to do a lot of talking.”

Bernard smiled. “We’re not completely silent, you know. We’re allowed to talk at certain times of the day.”

“And one of the things you talk about is secret rooms?”

“If you’re only allowed a few minutes’ conversation a day, what do you think you’d talk about? The weather? Politics?”

“Secrets?”

Frère Bernard smiled. “Sometimes the divine mystery, and sometimes just mysteries. Like hidden rooms. And treasure.”

He gave Beauvoir a knowing look. A sharp look. This monk, thought Beauvoir, might be calm and even gentle. But he was no fool.

“Do you think they exist?”

“A room and some treasure lugged here by Dom Clément and the other monks centuries ago?” Frère Bernard shook his head. “It’s fun to think about. Passes the time on cold winter nights. But no one really believes it exists. Someone would’ve found it ages ago. The abbey’s been renovated, updated, repaired. If there was a secret room we’d have found it.”

“Maybe someone did.” Beauvoir stood. “So, how often are you allowed to leave?”

The monk laughed. “It’s not a prison, you know.”

But even Frère Bernard had to admit, from that angle, Saint-Gilbert sure looked like one.

“We leave whenever we want, though we don’t go far. Walks, mostly. We look for berries and firewood. We fish. In the winter we play hockey on the ice. Frère Antoine organizes that.”

Beauvoir felt again that vertigo. Frère Antoine played hockey. Was probably the captain and the center. The same position Beauvoir played.

“In the summer some of us jog and do tai chi. You’re welcome to join us after Vigils.”

“Is that the early morning service?”

“Five A.M.” He smiled. “Your Chief was there this morning.”

Beauvoir was about to say something sharp, to shut down any ridiculing of Gamache, when he saw that Frère Bernard seemed simply amused. Not mocking.

“Yes, he mentioned it to me,” said Beauvoir.

“We talked later, you know.”

“Oh, really?” But Beauvoir knew perfectly well it was Frère Bernard the Chief had spoken to that morning in the showers and that they’d then collected eggs together. Brother Bernard had told the Chief about the rift in the community. In fact, Chief Inspector Gamache had the impression the monk had sought him out specifically to tell him that.

And only then did it occur to Beauvoir to wonder if the same thing was happening here. Had this monk simply been out collecting blueberries and stumbled upon him? Or was this no accident? Had Frère Bernard seen Beauvoir leave, with the scroll, and followed him?

“Your Chief’s a good listener,” said the monk. “He’d fit in well here.”

“He does look good in a robe,” said Beauvoir.

Frère Bernard laughed. “I was afraid to say it.” The monk looked at Beauvoir, examining the younger man. “I think you’d also enjoy it here.”

Enjoy? thought Beauvoir. Enjoy? Does anyone actually enjoy it here?

He’d presumed they tolerated it, like a hair shirt. It never occurred to him living in Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups actually made them happy.

Frère Bernard picked up his basket of blueberries and they walked a few paces before he spoke again. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

“I was surprised to see someone else arrive. We all were. Including your boss, I think. Who was that man who flew in?”

“His name’s Francoeur. He’s the Chief Superintendent.”

“Of the Sûreté?”

Beauvoir nodded. “The big boss.”

“Your pope,” said Bernard.

“Only if the pope’s a moron with a gun.”

Frère Bernard snorted then fought to wipe the smile from his face.

“You don’t like him?”

“Years of contemplation have sharpened your instincts, Frère Bernard.”

Again Bernard laughed. “People come from miles around to hear my insights.” Then his smile disappeared completely. “For instance, this Francoeur, he doesn’t like your boss, does he?”

This too, they both knew, wasn’t exactly an incredible feat of perception.

Beauvoir wondered what to say. His impulse was always to lie. He’d have made, he thought, a good medieval architect. He immediately wanted to deny there was a problem, to cover the truth. To at the very least hide the scale of it. But he could see that would be useless. This man had seen clearly, as had everyone else, Francoeur’s easy dismissal of Gamache on the dock.

“It goes back a few years. They had a disagreement over a fellow officer.”

Frère Bernard didn’t say anything. He simply listened. His face calm, his eyes noncommittal and attentive. They walked slowly through the forest, their feet crackling on the twigs and leaves, fallen to the well-trodden path. The sun broke through the trees in patches and every now and then they heard the scrambling of a chipmunk or a bird or some other wild creature.

Beauvoir waited a moment, then went on. Might as well, he thought. It was all public knowledge anyway. Unless you lived in a monastery in the middle of nowhere.

What the monks knew and what everyone else knew seemed two very different things.

“The Chief arrested one of the superintendents of the Sûreté, even though Francoeur and the others had ordered him not to. His name was Arnot. He was actually the Chief Superintendent at the time.”

And now there was a small reaction on the monk’s placid face. A tiny lifting of the brows. And then they settled back into place. It was almost invisible. Almost.

“Arrested him for what?”

“Murder. Sedition. It came out that Arnot was encouraging officers on reserves to kill any native who made trouble. Or, at the very least, when a young native was shot or beaten to death, Arnot didn’t discipline the officers who did it. It was a short step from turning a blind eye, to actively encouraging the killings. It became, apparently—” Beauvoir spoke haltingly, finding it difficult to talk about something so shameful. “—almost a sport. An elderly Cree woman asked Gamache for help finding her missing son. That’s when he discovered what was going on.”

“And the rest of the Sûreté leadership wanted your boss to stay quiet about it?”

Beauvoir nodded. “They agreed to fire Arnot and the other officers, but they didn’t want a scandal. Didn’t want to lose the trust of the public.”

Frère Bernard didn’t drop his eyes, but Beauvoir had the impression they wavered.

“Chief Inspector Gamache arrested Arnot anyway,” said Frère Bernard. “He disobeyed orders.”

“It never occurred to him not to. He thought the mothers and fathers and loved ones of those who were killed deserved an answer. And a public trial. And an apology. It all came out. It was a mess.”

Bernard nodded. The Church knew from scandals, and knew from cover-ups and knew from messes.

“What happened?” the monk asked.

“Arnot and the others were convicted. They’re serving life sentences.”

“And the Chief Inspector?”

Beauvoir smiled. “He’s still Chief. But he’ll never make Superintendent and he knows it.”

“But he kept his job.”

“They couldn’t fire him. Even before this happened he was one of the most respected officers in the Sûreté. The trial made him hated by the big bosses, but adored by the rank and file. He restored their pride. And, ironically, the public trust. Francoeur couldn’t fire him. Though he wanted to. He and Arnot were friends. Good friends.”

Frère Bernard thought about that for a moment. “So did this Francoeur know what his friend was doing? They were both superintendents.”

“The Chief could never prove it.”

“But he tried?”

“He wanted to get all the rot out,” said Beauvoir.

“And did he?”

“I hope so.”

Both men thought back to that moment on the dock. Gamache’s extended hand, to help Francoeur from the plane. And Francoeur’s look. A glance.

There wasn’t just enmity there. There was hatred.

“Why’s the Chief Superintendent here?” asked Frère Bernard.

“I don’t know.” Beauvoir tried to keep his voice light. And it was the truth. He really didn’t know. But again he felt the worry in his stomach roll over and scrape his insides.

Frère Bernard frowned as he thought. “Must be difficult for them to work together. Do they have to often?”

“Not often.”

He’d go no further. He certainly wouldn’t tell this monk about the last time Gamache and Francoeur had been thrown together on a case. The raid on the factory. Almost a year ago now. And the disastrous results.

He saw again the Chief gripping the sides of his desk and leaning toward Francoeur in a manner so threatening the Chief Superintendent had paled and stepped back. Beauvoir could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard Gamache yell. But he’d yelled that day. Right into Francoeur’s face.

The ferocity of it had frightened even Beauvoir.

And the Chief Superintendent had shouted back.

Gamache had prevailed. But only by stepping back. By apologizing. By begging Francoeur to see reason. Gamache had begged. That was the price he’d paid, to get Francoeur to act.

Beauvoir had never seen the Chief beg before. But he’d done it that day.

Gamache and Francoeur had barely spoken since. Perhaps a word at the state funeral for the officers killed in that raid on the factory, though Beauvoir doubted it. And maybe something at the ceremony, when Francoeur had pinned a medal of bravery on Gamache’s chest. Against Gamache’s wishes.

But Francoeur had insisted. Knowing that to the rest of the world it would appear he was rewarding the Chief Inspector. But the two men, privately, knew the truth.

Beauvoir had been in the audience for that ceremony. Had seen his Chief’s face when the medal had been placed on his chest. It might as well have pierced his heart.

It was the right deed. For the wrong reason.

Beauvoir knew his Chief deserved that medal, but Francoeur had done it to humiliate. Publicly rewarding Gamache for an action that had left so many Sûreté agents dead and wounded. Francoeur had given it to him not as recognition for all the lives Gamache had saved that terrible day, but as an accusation. A permanent reminder. Of all the young lives lost.

Beauvoir could have killed Francoeur at that moment.

Again he felt a clawing in the pit of his stomach. Something was trying to rip its way out. He wanted desperately to change the subject. To wipe away the memories. Of the ceremony, but mostly of that horrific day. In the factory.

When one of the lives lost had almost been his own.

When one of the lives lost had almost been the Chief’s.

Beauvoir thought about the tiny pills the size of wild blueberries. The ones still hidden in his apartment. And the burst they brought. Not of musky flavor, but of blessed oblivion.

Numbing what hid in Beauvoir’s secret room.

He hadn’t had an OxyContin or a Percocet in months, not since the Chief had confronted him. Taken the pills away. Gotten him help.

He might make a good Gilbertine after all. Like them, he lived in fear. Not of what would come at him from the outside, but what was patiently lying in wait inside his own walls.

“Are you all right?”

Beauvoir followed the soft voice back. Like candies along a path. Leading him out of the forest.

“Can I help?”

Frère Bernard had put out his rough hand and was touching Beauvoir’s arm.

“No, I’m fine. Just thinking about the case.”

The monk continued to examine his companion. Far from convinced he was hearing the truth.

Beauvoir scrambled around in his memory, picking up bits and pieces, desperate to find something useful. The case. The case. The prior. The murder. The scene. The garden.

The garden.

“We were talking about the abbot’s garden,” said Beauvoir. His voice was gruff, not inviting any more confidences. He’d already gone too far.

“Were we?” asked Frère Bernard.

“You said everyone knows about it. But you haven’t actually been in the garden yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“Who had?”

“Anyone Dom Philippe invited.”

Beauvoir realized he wasn’t listening as closely as he should. He was still distracted by his memories, and the feelings they awakened.

Had there been resentment in Frère Bernard’s voice just now?

Beauvoir didn’t think so, but with his attention frayed he couldn’t be sure. And again he cursed Francoeur. For being where he wasn’t wanted. In the monastery. And in Beauvoir’s head. Rattling around in there. Poking awake things better left sleeping.

He remembered what one of his counselors had advised when he felt anxious.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“What do you think of the abbot?” he asked. He was feeling light-headed.

“What do you mean?”

Beauvoir wasn’t sure what he meant.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“You’re one of the abbot’s men, aren’t you?” he asked. Grabbing at whatever questions surfaced.

“I am.”

“Why? Why not join with the prior?”

The monk starting kicking a stone and Beauvoir focused on that as it danced and jumped along the dirt path. The door into the monastery seemed a long way off. And suddenly he wished he was back in the Blessed Chapel. Where it was calm and peaceful. Listening to the monotone chants. Clinging to the chants.

No chaos there. No thoughts, no decisions. No raw emotions.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“Frère Mathieu was a gifted musician,” Frère Bernard was saying. “He turned our vocation of singing chants into something sublime. He was a great teacher and a natural leader. He gave our lives new meaning and purpose. He breathed life into the abbey.”

“Then why wasn’t he abbot?”

It was working. Beauvoir followed his breath, and the monk’s quiet voice, back into his own body.

“Perhaps he should have been. But Dom Philippe was elected.”

“Over Frère Mathieu?”

“No. Frère Mathieu didn’t run.”

“Did Dom Philippe get in by acclamation?”

“No. The prior at the time ran. Most expected him to win since it was a natural progression. The prior almost always became the abbot.”

“And who was the prior at the time?” Beauvoir’s mind was working again. Taking things in, and churning rational questions back out. But the fist in his belly remained.

“I was.”

Beauvoir wasn’t sure he heard right. “You were the prior?”

“Yes. And Dom Philippe was just plain old Frère Philippe. A regular monk.”

“It must have been humiliating.”

Frère Bernard smiled. “We try not to personalize these things. It was God’s will.”

“And that makes it better? I’d rather be humiliated by men than God himself.”

Bernard chose not to answer.

“So you go back to being a regular monk, and the abbot appoints his friend as prior. Frère Mathieu.”

Bernard nodded, and absently took a handful of blueberries from his basket.

“Did you resent the new prior?” asked Beauvoir, helping himself to some of the berries.

“Not at all. It turned out to be an inspired choice. The former abbot and I were a good team. But I wouldn’t have been as good a prior to Dom Philippe as Frère Mathieu proved. It worked well for many years.”

“So you had to suck it up.”

“You have a singular way of putting things.”

“You should hear what I’m not saying,” Beauvoir said and saw Frère Bernard smile. “Have you heard that the prior was considering replacing Frère Antoine as soloist?”

“With Frère Luc? Yes. It was a rumor spread by Frère Luc, and apparently believed by him, but no one else.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t true?”

“The prior could be difficult. I think,” Frère Bernard shot Beauvoir a glance, “you might call him an asshole.”

“I’m hurt.”

“But he knew music. Gregorian chant was more than just music to him. It was his path to the Divine. He would rather die than do anything to undermine the choir or the chants.”

Frère Bernard walked on, apparently unaware of what he’d said. But Beauvoir tucked it away.

“Frère Antoine should be soloist,” said the monk, nibbling at more berries. “He has a magnificent voice.”

“Better than Luc’s?”

“Far better. Frère Luc’s is better technically. He can control it. It has a beautiful tone but there’s nothing divine there. It’s like seeing a painting of a person, instead of the real thing. It’s missing a dimension.”

Frère Bernard’s opinion of Luc’s voice was almost exactly the same as Frère Antoine’s.

Still, the young monk had been convinced and convincing.

“If Luc was right,” ventured Beauvoir, “what would the reaction have been?”

Bernard thought about that for a moment.

“I think people would have wondered.”

“Wondered what?”

Now Frère Bernard was distinctly uncomfortable. He popped more berries into his mouth. The basket, once overflowing, had been reduced to a puddle of blueberries.

“Just wondered.”

“You’re not telling me everything, Frère Bernard.”

Bernard remained silent. Swallowing his thoughts and opinions and words along with the berries.

But Beauvoir had a pretty good idea what he meant.

“You’d have wondered at their relationship.”

Bernard’s mouth clamped shut, the muscles around his jaw bulging with the effort of keeping the words in.

“You’d have wondered,” Beauvoir pressed, “what was going on between the older prior and the new recruit.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Of course it is. You and the other monks would have wondered what happened after choir practice. When the rest of you went back to your cells.”

“No. You’re wrong.”

“Is that how Antoine got his job? Was he more than just a soloist, and Frère Mathieu more than just the choirmaster?”

“Stop,” snapped Frère Bernard. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“You’re making the chants, the choir, sordid. Mathieu was a deeply unpleasant man. I didn’t like him at all. But even I know that never,” Bernard hissed the words, “never would he have chosen a soloist in exchange for sex. Frère Mathieu loved the chants. Above all else.”

“But still,” said Beauvoir, his voice very quiet now. “You would have wondered.”

Frère Bernard stared at Beauvoir, his eyes wide. His hand around the handle of the basket showed a strip of white knuckles.

“Did you know that the abbot has made Frère Antoine the new choirmaster?”

Beauvoir’s voice was friendly. Conversational. As though the confrontation hadn’t just happened. It was a trick he’d learned from Gamache. Don’t keep attacking. Move forward, back, sideways. Stand still.

Be unpredictable.

Slowly Frère Bernard gathered himself. And took a deep breath in.

A deep breath out.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” he finally said. “It’s the sort of thing the abbot would do.”

“Go on.”

“A few minutes ago you asked why I’m the abbot’s man. This is why. Only a saint or a fool would promote an adversary. Dom Philippe’s no fool.”

“You think he’s a saint?”

Frère Bernard shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think he’s the closest we have. Why do you think he was elected abbot? What did he have to offer? He was just a quiet little monk going about his day. He wasn’t a leader. He wasn’t a great administrator. He wasn’t a fine musician. He brought almost no actual skills to the community. He wasn’t a plumber or carpenter or stonemason.”

“Then what is he?”

“He’s a man of God. The real deal. He believes with all his heart and soul. And he inspires that in others. If people hear the Divine when we sing, Dom Philippe put it there. He makes us better men and better monks. He believes in God and he believes in the power of love and forgiveness. And not just a faith of convenience. If you ever needed proof, look at what he just did. He made Frère Antoine choirmaster. Because it was the right thing to do. For the choir, for the chants and for the peace of the community.”

“That just makes him a savvy politician, not a saint.”

“You’re a skeptic, Monsieur Beauvoir.”

“And for good reason, Frère Bernard. Someone killed your prior. Bashed his head in in the abbot’s pretty little garden. You talk of saints. Where was the saint then? Where was God then?”

Bernard said nothing.

“Oui,” snapped Beauvoir. “I’m a skeptic.”

Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?

Someone had.

“And your precious abbot wasn’t simply elected out of the blue,” Beauvoir reminded him. “He chose to run. He wanted the job. Does a saint seek power? I thought they were supposed to be humble.”

They were within sight of the gate now. Inside were the long, light hallways. And small cells. And silent, gliding monks. And Chief Inspector Gamache. And Francoeur. Together. Beauvoir was a little surprised the walls and foundations of the monastery weren’t shaking.

They approached the door, made of thick wood, cut from this forest four hundred years ago. And then hinges were forged. And a deadbolt. And a lock.

On the rolled paper in Beauvoir’s hand Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups looked like a crucifix. But in reality?

It looked like a prison.

Beauvoir stopped.

“Why is the door locked?” he asked Frère Bernard.

“Tradition, nothing more. I expect lots of what we do seems senseless, but our rules and traditions make sense to us.”

Still Beauvoir stared.

“A door is locked as protection,” he finally said. “But who’s being protected?”

“Pardon?”

“You said your slogan could be ‘Just in case.’”

“Exsisto paratus, yes. It was a joke.”

Beauvoir nodded. “Lots of truth is said in jest, or so I’ve heard. Just in case of what, mon frère? What’re the locked doors for? To keep the world out, or the monks in? To protect you, or protect us?”

“I don’t understand,” said Frère Bernard. But Beauvoir could see by his expression that he understood perfectly well. He could also see that the monk’s basket, with its mother lode of berries, was now empty. The perfect offering gone.

“Maybe your precious abbot was neither a savvy politician nor a saint. But a jailer. Maybe that’s why he was so against another recording. So adamant about keeping the vow of silence. Was he just enforcing a long tradition of silence? Or was the abbot afraid of loosing some monster into the world?”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” said Bernard, trembling with the effort to contain himself. “Are you talking about pedophilia? Do you think we’re here because we violated little boys? Do you think Brother Charles, Brother Simon, the abbot—” he sputtered. “—I … You can’t possibly…”

He could go no further. His face was red with rage and Beauvoir wondered if his head might explode.

But still, the homicide inspector said nothing. He waited. And waited.

Finally silence was his friend. And this monk’s enemy. Because in that silence sat a specter. Fully grown. Fully fleshed. Of all the little boys. All the choirboys. The schoolboys. The altar boys. The trusting boys. And their parents.

That lived forever, in the silence of the Church.

When given a choice, given free will, the Church had chosen to protect the priests. And how better to protect those clerics than to send them into the wilderness. To an order all but extinct. And build a wall around them.

Where they could sing, but not speak.

Was Dom Philippe as much guard as abbot? A saint who kept watch over sinners?