The Beautiful Mystery

TWENTY-FOUR

The door to the prior’s office was closed.

The last time Beauvoir had been in this position he’d walked in on what was clearly an argument between Gamache and Francoeur.

He leaned in and listened.

The wood was thick and dense. A hard wood, making it hard to hear. But he could just make out the Chief. The words were muffled, but he recognized the voice.

Beauvoir stood back, wondering what to do. That didn’t take long. If the Chief was again arguing with that fuck-head Francoeur, Beauvoir wasn’t going to let him fight it out alone.

He rapped twice and opened the door.

The sound inside abruptly stopped.

Beauvoir looked around. There was no Gamache.

Superintendent Francoeur sat behind the desk. Alone.

“What is it?” the Superintendent demanded.

It was one of the few times Beauvoir had seen Francoeur rattled. Then Beauvoir noticed the computer. The laptop had been facing in the other direction, toward the visitor’s chair. Now it was turned around, facing Francoeur. He appeared to have been using it when Beauvoir interrupted him.

Was he downloading something? Beauvoir couldn’t see how. The satellite connection hadn’t worked since they arrived. Unless Francoeur had gotten it to work, but Beauvoir doubted it. He wasn’t that smart.

Francoeur had the guilty look of a teenager interrupted by Mom.

“Well?” The Superintendent glared at Beauvoir.

“I heard voices,” he said and immediately regretted it.

Francoeur gave him a dismissive look and picking up a dossier he started to read. Ignoring Beauvoir completely. As though a hole in the atmosphere had just walked in. Nothing. No one. Beauvoir was empty air as far as the Superintendent was concerned.

“What did you mean earlier?” Beauvoir shut the door hard and Francoeur looked up.

Jean-Guy hadn’t meant to ask, had promised himself not to. And had Gamache been there he certainly would never have asked. But the Chief wasn’t there, and Francoeur was, and the question shot out, like lightning from a storm cloud.

Francoeur ignored him.

“Tell me,” Beauvoir kicked the chair, then grabbed it from behind and leaned over it, toward the Superintendent.

“Or what?” asked Francoeur. He was amused, not afraid at all, and Beauvoir felt his cheeks burning. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the wooden chair.

“You going to beat me up?” the Superintendent asked. “Threaten me? That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re Gamache’s dog.” Now Francoeur put the dossier down and leaned toward Beauvoir. “You want to know what I meant when I said I thought you had no balls? That’s what I meant. It’s what all your colleagues say, Jean-Guy. Is it true?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“That your only use is as Armand Gamache’s puppy. They call you his bitch, because while you growl and sometimes bite, they don’t think you actually have balls.”

Francoeur looked at Beauvoir as if he was something soft and smelly real men wiped from the bottom of their shoes. The chair squeaked as the Superintendent leaned back, comfortably. His suit jacket opened and Beauvoir saw his gun there.

Through the howl of rage in his head Beauvoir had enough presence of mind to wonder why the Chief Superintendent, a bureaucrat, wore a gun.

And why he had brought it into the abbey.

Not even Gamache wore a gun, though Beauvoir did. And now he was glad.

“That’s what I meant earlier,” said Francoeur. “I went with you when you interviewed that monk not because you invited me, but because I was curious. How would this man who was the laughingstock of the Sûreté handle an interrogation? But you surprised me. I was actually impressed.”

And Beauvoir surprised himself. Some small part of him was relieved to hear that. But it was deeply buried under the wrath, the rage, the near apocalyptic fury of the insult.

He opened his mouth but only stuttering came out. No words formed. Just empty air.

“You can’t tell me you didn’t know.” Francoeur actually looked surprised. “Come on, man, only an idiot could miss that. You strut through headquarters, half a pace behind your master, practically sniveling, and you think the other agents and inspectors admire you? They admire the Chief Inspector, and fear him a little. If he could cut your balls off, maybe he could do it to them too. Look, no one blames you. You were this little agent in a little Sûreté outpost. You were about to be fired because no one wanted to work with you, and Gamache hired you. Right?”

Beauvoir stared at Francoeur, dumbfounded.

“Right,” Francoeur leaned forward. “And why do you think he did that? Why do you think he’s surrounded himself with agents no one else wanted? He just promoted Isabelle Lacoste to inspector. Your rank—” Francoeur gave Beauvoir a sharp look, “—I’d watch that if I were you. Not good when you’re supposed to be the second in command but she’s the one left at headquarters, in charge. What was I saying? Oui, the Chief Inspector’s hiring practices. Have you looked around the homicide department? He’s created a division of losers. He’s taken the dregs. Why?”

Now Beauvoir’s anger finally erupted. He lifted the chair and brought it down so hard the two back legs broke off. But he didn’t care. He only had eyes for the man in front of him. He had Superintendent Francoeur in his sights.

“Losers?” Beauvoir rasped. “The Chief Inspector surrounds himself with agents who think for themselves, who can act on their own. The rest of you shits are afraid of us. You toss us out, demote us, treat us like crap until we quit. And why?”

He was actually, literally, spitting his words across the desk.

“Because you’re threatened by us. We won’t play your corrupt little games. Chief Inspector Gamache picked up your garbage and gave us a chance. He believed in us when no one else did. And you, you fuck-head, you think I’m going to believe any of your crap? Let your weasels laugh at me. That’s the biggest compliment I can think of. We have the best arrest record of the force. That’s what matters. And if you and your assholes think that’s laughable, then laugh.”

“The best arrest record?” Francoeur was on his feet now. His voice glacial. “Like the Brulé case? Your Chief arrested him. Cost the province a fortune to try him, for murder. He was even convicted, the poor shit, and what happens? It turns out he didn’t kill that guy. And what did your Gamache do? Did he go and clean up his own mess? No. He sent you to find the real murderer. And you did. That’s when I began to think you might not be the complete waste of space you appear to be.”

Francoeur gathered up some papers but paused at the desk. “You’re wondering why I came here, aren’t you?”

Beauvoir said nothing.

“Of course you are. Gamache is too. He even asked. I didn’t tell him the truth, but I’ll tell you. I had to catch him and you away from headquarters. Away from where he has some influence. So I could talk to you. I didn’t need to come all this way to bring you some reports. I’m the Chief Superintendent, for chrissake. A homicide agent could’ve done that. But I saw the chance and I took it. I came here to save you. From him.”

“You’re insane.”

“Think about what I said. Put it together. You’re smarter than that. Think. And while you’re at it, you might wonder why he promoted Isabelle Lacoste to inspector.”

“Because she’s a fine investigator. She earned it.”

Francoeur gave him that look again, as though Beauvoir was spectacularly stupid. Then he walked to the door.

“What?” demanded Beauvoir. “What’re you trying to say?”

“I’ve said far too much already, Inspector Beauvoir. Still, it’s out there now.” He gave Beauvoir an appraising look. “You’re actually a very good investigator. Use those skills. And feel free to tell Gamache exactly what I’ve just said. It’s about time he realized someone was on to him.”

The door closed and Beauvoir was alone with his anger. And the laptop.

Frère Simon gaped at Gamache.

“Do you think the prior was still alive when I found him?”

“I think it’s possible. I think you knew he was dying and instead of going to get help, which would almost certainly mean he’d die alone, you stayed with him for the final moments. To comfort him. Give him last rites. It was an act of kindness. Of compassion.”

“Then why wouldn’t I say anything? The rest of the congregation would’ve been relieved to hear that even in this terrible situation, at least the prior was given last rites.” He looked closely at the Chief Inspector. “You think I’d keep that quiet? Why?”

“Now, that was the question,” Gamache crossed his legs and got comfortable, to Frère Simon’s obvious discomfort. The Chief was prepared for a long visit.

“I haven’t had all that long to think about it,” the Chief admitted. “I only just read in the autopsy report that the coroner believes Frère Mathieu might have lived up to half an hour after the fatal blow.”

“Could have doesn’t mean he did.”

“Absolutely true. But suppose he did? He was strong enough to crawl to the wall. Maybe he fought off death to the very last second. Grabbed every moment of life available. Does that sound like something the prior would do?”

“I didn’t think the hour and time of our death was our choice,” said Frère Simon, and Gamache smiled. “If it was,” the monk continued, “I suspect the prior would’ve chosen not to die at all.”

“I think Dom Clément would still be walking these familiar halls, if we really had a choice,” agreed Gamache. “I’m not saying force of will can fight off a clearly lethal blow. But I am saying, from personal experience, a strong will can hold off death, by moments, sometimes minutes. And sometimes, in my job, those moments and minutes are crucial.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s that golden time, between this world and whatever you believe is the next. When the person knows they’re dying. And if they’ve been murdered, what do they do?”

Frère Simon said nothing.

“They tell us who killed them, if at all possible.”

The monk’s cheeks reddened and his eyes narrowed slightly. “You think Frère Mathieu told me who killed him? And I’ve said nothing?”

Now it was Gamache’s turn to be silent. He examined the monk. Taking in the full, round face. Not fat, but cheeks like chipmunks’. The shaved head. The short, pug nose. The near permanent scowl of disapproval. And hazel eyes, like the bark of a tree. Mottled. And rough. And unyielding.

And yet, the voice of an archangel. Not simply a member of the celestial choir, but one of the Chosen. A favorite of God. Gifted beyond all others.

Except the other men in this monastery. Two dozen of them.

Was this place, Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, a golden moment? Between two worlds. It felt like it. Out of time, and place. A netherworld. Between the vibrant life of Québec. The bistros and brasseries, the festivals. The hardworking farmers and brilliant academics.

Between the mortal world, and Heaven. Or Hell. There was here.

Where quiet was king. And calm reigned. And the only sounds were the birds in the trees and plainchant.

And where, a day ago, a monk was killed.

Did the prior, at the very end, his back to the wall, break his vow of silence?

Jean-Guy Beauvoir propped the broken chair against the door into the prior’s office.

It wouldn’t stop anyone, but it would slow them down just enough. And it would certainly give Beauvoir warning.

Then he walked around the desk and sat in the chair Francoeur had just left. It was still warm from the Superintendent. The thought made Beauvoir slightly queasy, but he ignored it and pulled the laptop toward him.

It too was warm. Francoeur had been on it, but had closed it down when Beauvoir entered.

After he’d rebooted the laptop, Beauvoir tried to connect to the Internet.

It wouldn’t. There was still no satellite hookup.

So what was the Superintendent doing? And why had he shut it down so quickly?

Jean-Guy Beauvoir settled in to find the answer.

“Shall I tell you my thinking?” asked Gamache.

Frère Simon’s face screamed no. Gamache, of course, ignored it.

“It’s unorthodox,” admitted the Chief. “We generally like the people we’re talking to to do all the talking. But I think it might be sensible to be flexible, in this case.”

He looked, with some amusement, at the mule-like monk. Then his face grew solemn.

“This is what I think happened. I think Frère Mathieu was still alive when you went into the garden. He was curled against the wall, and it probably took you a minute or so to see him.”

As Gamache spoke an image sprang up between the two men, a vision of Frère Simon entering the garden with his gardening gear. More bright autumn leaves had fallen since he’d last raked, and some of the flowers were in need of deadheading. The sun was out and the day was crisp and fresh and filled with the scent of wild crab apple trees in the forest, their fruit baking in the late-season sun.

Frère Simon walked down the lawn, scanning the flower beds, looking at what needed to be cut down and put to bed for the harsh winter so obviously approaching.

And then he stopped. The grass at the far end of the garden had been mussed up. Disturbed. It wasn’t obvious. A casual visitor would have probably missed it. But the abbot’s secretary was not a casual visitor. He knew every leaf, every blade of grass. He tended it as he would a child in his care.

Something was wrong.

He looked around. Was the abbot here? But he knew the abbot was going to the basement, to look at the geothermal.

Frère Simon stood very still in the late September sunlight, his eyes sharp, his senses alert.

“Am I right so far?” Gamache asked.

The Chief Inspector’s voice had been so mesmerizing, his words so descriptive that Frère Simon had forgotten he was still sitting inside, in the office. He could almost feel the chill autumn air on his cheeks.

He looked at the Chief Inspector, sitting so composed across from him, and thought, not for the first time, that this was a very dangerous man.

“I’ll take your silence as assent,” said Gamache with a small smile, “though I realize that’s often a mistake.”

He continued his story, and once again the image between the men sprang up and began to move.

“You walked a few steps, trying to make out the lump at the far end of the garden, not yet concerned, but curious. Then you noticed the grass wasn’t just disturbed, but there was blood.”

Both men saw Frère Simon bending over, looking at the bent blades, and here and there a smear of red, as though the fallen leaves had sprung a stigmata.

Then he stopped and looked ahead of him, in the direction of the trail.

At the end of the path lay a figure. Curled into a tight, black ball. With just a crest of distinctive white. Only it wasn’t all white. There was deep red there too.

Frère Simon threw his gardening tools to the ground and leapt forward, wading through the bushes to get there. Stomping on his precious perennials. Killing the cheerful black-eyed Susans standing in his way.

A monk, one of his brothers, was hurt. Badly hurt.

“I thought,” said Frère Simon, not looking into Gamache’s eyes, but down at the rosary in his hands. His voice was low, not above a whisper, and the Chief leaned forward to grasp each rare word. “I thought…”

Now Frère Simon did look up. The memory alone was enough to frighten him.

Gamache said nothing. He kept his face neutral, interested. But his deep brown eyes never left the monk’s.

“I thought it was Dom Philippe.”

His eyes fell to the simple cross swinging from his rosary. Then Frère Simon brought his hands up, and dropped his head and held it there, so that the cross knocked softly against the monk’s forehead. And then stopped.

“Oh, God, I thought he was dead. I thought something had happened to him.” Frère Simon’s voice was muffled. But while his words were obscured, his feelings couldn’t have been clearer.

“What did you do?” asked Gamache, softly.

His head still in his hands, the monk spoke to the floor. “I hesitated. God help me, I hesitated.”

He lifted his head to look at Gamache. His confessor. Hoping for understanding, if not absolution.

“Go on,” said Gamache, his eyes never wavering.

“I didn’t want to see. I was afraid.”

“Of course you were. Anyone would be. But you did go to him, finally,” said the Chief. “You didn’t run away.”

“No.”

“What happened?”

Now Frère Simon held on to Gamache’s eyes as though they were a rope and he was dangling from a cliff.

“I knelt and turned him a little. I thought maybe he’d fallen from the wall or the tree. I know, it’s ridiculous, but I couldn’t see how else it could’ve happened. And if he’d broken his neck I didn’t want to…”

“Oui,” said Gamache. “Go on.”

“Then I saw who it was.” The monk’s voice had changed. It was still filled with stress, with anxiety, reliving those terrible moments. But the degree had changed. “It wasn’t the abbot.”

There was clearly relief.

“It was the prior.”

And even more relief. What had started as a dreadful tragedy had ended as almost good news. Frère Simon couldn’t hide it. Or chose not to.

Still, he held the Chief’s gaze. Searching it for disapproval.

He found none. Only acceptance, that what he was hearing was almost certainly, finally, the truth.

“Was he alive?” Gamache asked.

“Oui. His eyes were open. He stared at me, and grabbed my hand. You’re right. He knew he was dying. And I knew. I couldn’t tell you how I knew, but I did. I couldn’t just leave him.”

“How long did it take?”

Frère Simon paused. It had obviously taken an eternity. Kneeling in the earth, holding the bloody hand of a dying man. A fellow monk. A man this man despised.

“I don’t know. A minute, maybe slightly more. I gave him last rites, and it calmed him a bit.”

“What are the last rites, can you repeat them for me?”

“Surely you’ve heard them?”

Gamache had heard them, and knew them. Had given them himself, swiftly, urgently, while holding one dying agent after another. But he wanted Frère Simon to say them now.

Simon closed his eyes. His right hand reached out just a little, and cupped just a little. Holding an invisible hand.

“O Lord Jesus Christ, most merciful lord of earth, we ask that you receive this child into your arms, that he might pass in safety from this crisis, as thou hast told us with infinite compassion.”

His eyes still closed, Frère Simon lifted his other hand and with his thumb he sketched a cross. On the dying monk’s forehead.

Infinite compassion, thought Gamache, looking down at the young agent, his own specter in his own arms. In the heat of the moment, Gamache hadn’t had time to give the full last rites, so he’d simply bent down and whispered, “Take this child.”

But the agent was already gone. And Gamache himself had to go.

“This is where,” the Chief said, “a dying man, if he’s able, gives his confession.”

Frère Simon was silent.

“What did he say?” Gamache asked.

“He made a noise,” said Frère Simon, as though in a trance. “Trying to clear his throat and then he said ‘homo.’”

Now Simon focused. He came back from far away. The two men stared at each other.

“Homo?” asked the Chief.

Frère Simon nodded. “You can see why I didn’t say anything. It has nothing to do with his death.”

But, thought Gamache, perhaps a lot to do with his life. The Chief considered for a moment.

“What do you think he meant?” he finally asked.

“I think we both know what he meant.”

“Was he gay? Homosexual?”

For a moment Frère Simon tried on his disapproving look, then abandoned it. They were far beyond that.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Frère Simon. “We’re two dozen men here alone. Our goal, our prayer, is to find divine love. Compassion. To be consumed by the love of God.”

“That’s the ideal,” said Gamache. “But in the meantime, you’re also human.”

The need for physical comfort was, he knew, powerful and primal and didn’t necessarily go away with a vow of chastity.

“But what we need isn’t physical love,” said Frère Simon, correctly interpreting Gamache’s thoughts, and correcting him. The monk didn’t sound at all defensive. He was simply struggling to find the right words. “I think most, if not all of us, have left that far behind. We’re not highly sexed or sexual.”

“What do you need then?”

“Kindness. Intimacy. Not sexual. But companionship. God should replace man in our affections, but the reality is, we all want a friend.”

“Is that how you feel, with the abbot?” Gamache asked the question baldly, but his voice and his manner were gentle. “I saw how you reacted when you thought he was the one hurt and dying.”

“I love him, it’s true. But I have no desire for physical relations. It’s hard to explain a love that goes so far beyond that.”

“And the prior? Did he love another?”

Frère Simon was silent. Not a mulish silence, but a contemplative one.

After a minute or so he spoke. “I wondered if he and the abbot…”

It was as far as he could go, for the moment. There was another pause.

“There were many years when they were inseparable. Besides myself, the prior was the only other person ever invited into the abbot’s garden.”

For the first time, Gamache began to wonder if the garden existed on different planes. It was both a place of grass and earth and flowers. But also an allegory. For that most private place inside each one of them. For some it was a dark, locked room. For others, a garden.

The secretary had been admitted. And so had the prior.

And the prior had died there.

“What do you think the prior meant?” asked Gamache.

“I think there’s only one possible interpretation. He knew he was dying and he wanted absolution.”

“For being a homosexual? I thought you just said he probably wasn’t.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore. His relationships might’ve been platonic, but he might’ve privately yearned for more. He knew it. And God knew it.”

“Is it the sort of thing God would condemn him for?” Gamache asked.

“For being gay? Maybe not. For breaking his vow of chastity, probably. It’s the sort of thing that would need to be confessed.”

“By saying ‘homo’?” Gamache was far from convinced, though when a person was dying reason played a very small part, if any. When the end came and there was time for only one word, what would that be?

The Chief Inspector had no doubt what his last words would be. And were. When he’d thought he was dying he’d said two words, over and over until he could speak no more.

Reine-Marie.

It would never occur to him to say “hetero.” But then, he carried no guilt about his relationships. And maybe the prior did.

“Do you have his personal records I might see?” asked Gamache.

“No.”

“‘No,’ you don’t want to show me, or ‘no,’ you really don’t have files.”

“We really don’t have files.”

On seeing the Chief Inspector’s expression, Frère Simon explained. “When we enter the religious life we’re rigorously tested and screened. And our first abbey would’ve kept records. But not Dom Philippe, not here at Saint-Gilbert.”

“Why not?”

“Because it can’t possibly matter. We’re like the French Foreign Legion. We leave the past behind.”

Gamache stared at this religieux. Was he really that naïve?

“Just because you want to leave your past at the gate doesn’t mean it stays there,” said the Chief. “It has a way of creeping through the cracks.”

“If it comes all this way, then I suppose it was meant to find us again,” said Frère Simon.

By this logic, thought Gamache, the prior’s death was also God’s will. Meant to happen. God clearly had his hands full with the Gilbertines. The French Foreign Legion of religious orders.

It fit, Gamache thought. No retreat was possible. There was no past to go back to. Nothing outside the walls but wilderness.

“Speaking of cracks, do you know about the foundations?” Gamache asked.

“The foundations of what?”

“The abbey.”

Frère Simon looked confused. “You need to speak to Frère Raymond about them. But give yourself half a day and be prepared to come away knowing more about our septic system than is probably healthy.”

“So the abbot didn’t say anything to you about the foundations of the abbey? And the prior didn’t either?”

Now it dawned on Frère Simon. “Is there something wrong with them?”

“I was asking if you’d heard anything.”

“No, nothing. Should I have?”

So the abbot had kept it to himself, as Gamache had suspected. Only the abbot and Frère Raymond knew that Saint-Gilbert was crumbling. Had, at best, a decade of life left.

And maybe the prior also knew. Maybe Frère Raymond, in desperation, had told him. If so, the prior had died before he could tell anyone else. Was that the motive? To shut him up?

Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?

“You knew the prior had been murdered, didn’t you?”

Frère Simon nodded.

“When did you realize?”

“When I saw his head. And…”

The monk’s voice petered out. Gamache stayed completely quiet. Waiting.

“… and then I saw something in the flower bed. Something that shouldn’t be there.”

Gamache stopped breathing. The two men became a tableau vivant, frozen in time. Gamache waited. And waited. His breathing now was shallow, quiet, not wanting to even disturb the air around them.

“It wasn’t a stone, you know.”

“I know,” said the Chief. “What did you do with it?”

He almost closed his eyes to pray that this monk hadn’t picked it up and thrown it over the wall. To disappear back into the world.

Frère Simon got up, opened the main door into the abbot’s office, and stepped into the corridor. Gamache followed, presuming the monk was leading him to some hiding place.

But instead, Frère Simon stopped at the threshold and reached over, then presented Chief Inspector Gamache with the murder weapon. It was the old iron rod, used for hundreds of years to gain admittance to the abbot’s most private rooms.

And used, yesterday, to crush the skull of the prior of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.