The Beautiful Mystery

TWENTY-NINE

“I need to speak to you, Père Abbot,” said Frère Antoine.

From inside his office, Dom Philippe heard the request. Or demand. Normally he’d have heard the old iron knocker against wood. But these were far from normal times. The rod had been declared the weapon that had killed Frère Mathieu, and taken away.

And word had spread that the prior had been alive when Simon had found him. Had received last rites, while alive. It gave Dom Philippe immense peace of mind to know that. Though he wondered why Simon hadn’t mentioned it before.

And then he found out.

Mathieu had not only been alive, but he’d spoken. Said one word. To Simon.

Homo.

Dom Philippe was as baffled as anyone by that. With one word left to say in this world, why would Mathieu say “homo”?

He knew what the congregation suspected. That Mathieu was referring to his sexuality. Asking for some sort of forgiveness. Some extreme unction. But the abbot didn’t believe that was true.

Not that Mathieu wasn’t a homosexual. He might well have been. But Dom Philippe had been his confessor for many years, and Mathieu had never mentioned it. It might, of course, have been latent. Deeply buried, and only came roaring to the surface with the blow to his head.

Homo.

Mathieu had cleared his throat, struggled to get the word out, Simon had said, and finally rasped, “Homo.”

The abbot tried it. Clearing his throat. Saying the word.

He repeated it. Over and over.

Until he thought he had it. What Mathieu had done. What Mathieu had said. What Mathieu had meant.

But then Frère Antoine had entered and bowed slightly to the abbot.

“Yes, my son, what is it?” Dom Philippe rose to his feet.

“It’s about Frère Sébastien, the visitor. He says he was sent from Rome, when they heard about the death of the prior.”

“Yes?” The abbot indicated a seat next to him and Frère Antoine took it.

The choirmaster looked worried and had dropped his voice. “I don’t see how that can be.”

“Why do you say that?” Though the abbot had himself already worked it out.

“Well, when did you inform the Vatican?”

“I didn’t. I called Monsignor Ducette at the archdiocese in Montréal. He informed the archbishop of Québec, and presumably the archbishop told Rome.”

“But, when did you call?”

“Right after we called the police.”

Frère Antoine thought about that for a moment. “That would make it about nine thirty yesterday morning.”

It was, thought the abbot, the first civil exchange he’d had with Frère Antoine in months. And the abbot realized how much he missed this monk in his life. His creativity of thought, his passion, the debates over scripture and literature. Not to mention hockey.

But now it seemed restored, their common ground the death of Mathieu. And the arrival of the Dominican.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Dom Philippe admitted, and looked into the small fire in his small rooms. With the new geothermal they had central heating. But the abbot was a man of traditions, and preferred an open window and the warmth of the hearth.

“It was six hours later in Rome,” said the abbot. “Even if they reacted immediately it seems unlikely Frère Sébastien could make it here this quickly.”

“Exactly, mon père,” said Antoine. It had been a long time since he’d called Dom Philippe that, having used the more stilted, more formal, colder “Père Abbé” for the past few months. “And we both know the archdiocese moves like continental drift, and Rome as fast as evolution.”

The abbot smiled then grew serious again.

“So, why is he here?” Frère Antoine asked.

“If not because of Frère Mathieu’s death?” Dom Philippe held Antoine’s anxious eyes. “I don’t know.”

But for the first time in a long time the abbot felt his heart calm. Felt the crack that had caused him so much pain, closing.

“I’d like your thoughts on something, Antoine.”

“Certainly.”

“Frère Simon says that Mathieu said one word before he died. I’m sure you’ve heard that by now.”

“I have.”

“He said ‘homo.’” The abbot watched for the choirmaster’s reaction, but there was none. The monks were trained, and accustomed, to keeping their feelings and their thoughts to themselves. “Do you know what he might have meant?”

Antoine didn’t speak for a few moments, and broke eye contact. In a place with few words, the eyes became key. To break contact was significant. But his eyes found their way back to the abbot.

“The brothers are wondering if he was talking about his sexuality…”

There was clearly more Frère Antoine wanted to say, and so the abbot folded his hands in his lap and waited.

“And they’re wondering if he was referring specifically to his relationship with you.”

The abbot’s eyes widened just a little, to have heard it expressed so boldly. After a moment, he nodded. “I can see how they might think that. Mathieu and I were very close for many years. I loved him very much. I always will. And you, Antoine? What do you think?”

“I loved him too. Like a brother. I’ve personally never seen any reason to believe he felt any differently, about you or anyone.”

“I think I know what Mathieu might have said. Simon mentioned that he cleared his throat before speaking, then said ‘homo.’ I tried it a few times…”

Frère Antoine looked both surprised and impressed.

“… and this is, finally, what I came to. What Mathieu might have been trying to say.”

The abbot cleared his throat, or appeared to, then said, “Homo.”

Antoine stared, shocked. Then he nodded. “Bon Dieu, I think you’re right.”

He himself tried it, clearing his throat and saying, “Homo.”

“But why would Frère Mathieu say that?” he asked the abbot.

“I don’t know.”

Dom Philippe held out his right hand, palm up. And Frère Antoine, after the slightest of hesitations, took it. The abbot laid his left hand on top of that and held the young hand as though it might be a bird.

“But I do know it will be all right, Antoine. All manner of thing shall be well.”

“Oui, mon père.”

Gamache held the Dominican’s eyes.

Frère Sébastien looked curious. In fact, he looked deeply curious. But not anxious, thought Gamache. He seemed like a man who knew the answer would come, and he could wait.

The Chief liked this monk. In fact, he liked most of them. Or, at least, he didn’t dislike them. But this young Dominican had a quality that was disarming. Gamache knew it was a powerful and dangerous quality and it would be folly in the extreme to allow himself to be disarmed.

The Dominican exuded calm and invited confidences.

And then the Chief Inspector realized why he was at once attracted and guarded. Those were, he knew, the qualities he used in an investigation. While the Chief was busy investigating the monks, this monk was investigating him. And he knew the only defense against it was, perversely, complete honesty.

“The tune I hummed at dinner comes from this.”

Gamache opened the volume of mystical writing he’d carried with him since the murder, and handed the yellowed vellum to Frère Sébastien.

The monk took it. His young eyes needed no help reading it, even in the weak light. Gamache looked away for an instant, to catch Beauvoir’s eyes.

Jean-Guy was also watching the monk, but his eyes seemed almost glazed. Though that might have been the light. All their eyes looked odd in this secret little room. The Chief turned back to Frère Sébastien. The Dominican’s lips were moving, without sound.

“Where did you find this?” the monk finally asked, looking up briefly from the page before his eyes dropped, yanked back to the paper.

“It was on Frère Mathieu when we found him. He was curled around it.”

The monk crossed himself. It was rote, and yet he managed to invest it with meaning. Then Frère Sébastien took a huge, deep breath. And nodded.

“Do you know what this is, Chief Inspector?”

“I know those are neumes,” he moved his index finger over the ancient musical notes. “And the words are Latin, though they seem to be nonsense.”

“They are nonsense.”

“Some of the Gilbertines seem to think the words are deliberately insulting,” said Gamache. “And the neumes a travesty of a chant. As though someone took the form of Gregorian chant and deliberately made it grotesque.”

“The words are silly, but not an insult. If this,” Frère Sébastien held up the page, “belittled the faith then I’d agree, but it doesn’t. In fact, I find it interesting that the words never once mention God or the Church or devotion. It’s as though whoever wrote this deliberately stayed away from that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but I do know it isn’t heresy. Murder might be your specialty, Chief Inspector, but heresy is mine. It’s what the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith does, among other things. We track down heresy and heretics.”

“And did the track lead you here?”

The Dominican considered the question, or more likely, he considered his answer.

“It’s a long trail, covering tens of thousands of miles and hundreds of years. Dom Clément was right to leave. In the archives of the Inquisition there’s a proclamation signed by the Grand Inquisitor himself, ordering an investigation into the Gilbertines.”

“But why?” asked Beauvoir, focusing his attention. It seemed akin to investigating bunnies, or kittens.

“Because of who they sprang from. Gilbert of Sempringham.”

“They were going to be investigated for extreme dullness?” asked Beauvoir.

Frère Sébastien laughed, but not long. “No. For extreme loyalty. It was one of the paradoxes of the Inquisition, that things like extreme devotion and loyalty became suspicious.”

“Why?” asked Beauvoir.

“Because they can’t be controlled. Men who believed strongly in God and were loyal to their abbots and their orders wouldn’t bend to the will of the Inquisition or the inquisitors. They were too strong.”

“So Gilbert’s defense of his archbishop was seen as suspicious?” asked Gamache, trying to follow the labyrinthine logic. “But that was six hundred years before the Inquisition. And he was defending the Church against a secular authority. I’d have thought the Church would consider him a hero, not a suspect. Even centuries later.”

“Six hundred years is nothing to an organization built on events millennia old,” said Sébastien. “And anyone who stands up becomes a target. You should know that, Chief Inspector.”

Gamache gave him a sharp look, but the monk’s face was placid. There seemed no hidden meaning. Or warning.

“If the Gilbertines hadn’t left,” said the Dominican, “they’d have gone the way of the Cathars.”

“And what was that?” asked Beauvoir. But one look at the Chief’s face told him it probably wasn’t to Club Med.

“They were burned alive,” said Frère Sébastien.

“All of them?” asked Beauvoir, his face gray in the dim light.

The monk nodded. “Every man, woman and child.”

“Why?”

“The Church considered them free thinkers, too independent. And gaining in influence. The Cathars became known as the ‘good men.’ And good men are very threatening to not good men.”

“So the Church killed them?”

“After first trying to bring them back into the fold,” said Frère Sébastien.

“Wasn’t Saint Dominic, your founder, the one who insisted the Cathars weren’t real Catholics?” asked Gamache.

Sébastien nodded. “But the order to wipe them out didn’t come until centuries later.” The monk hesitated and when he spoke again his voice was low, but clear. “Many were mutilated first, and sent back to frighten the others, but it only hardened the Cathar resolve. The leaders gave themselves up, in an effort to appease the Church, but it didn’t work. Everyone was killed, even people who just happened to be in the area. Innocents. When one of the soldiers asked how he was supposed to tell them from the Cathars, he was told to kill them all, and let God sort them out.”

Frère Sébastien looked as though he could see it. As though he’d been there. And Gamache wondered which side of the monastery walls this monk from the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith would have been on.

“The Inquisition would’ve done that to the Gilbertines?” Beauvoir asked. He no longer looked dazed. The monk had hauled him back from whatever reverie he’d found.

“It’s not a certainty,” said Sébastien, though that seemed more wishful than real. “But Dom Clément was wise to leave. And wise to hide.”

Sébastien took another deep breath.

“This isn’t heresy,” he looked down at the paper in his hands. “It speaks of bananas and the refrain is Non sum pisces.”

Gamache and Beauvoir looked blank.

“I am not a fish,” said the Dominican.

Gamache smiled and Beauvoir looked simply confused.

“So if it isn’t heresy,” said the Chief, “what is it?”

“It’s a singularly beautiful tune. A chant, I think, though not Gregorian and not a plainchant. It uses all the rules, but then adjusts them slightly, as though the old chant was the foundation, and this,” he tapped the page, “a whole new structure.”

He looked up, first at Beauvoir then over to Gamache. His eyes were excited. The smile on his face back to its radiance.

“I think far from being a mockery of Gregorian chant, it’s actually a homage, a tribute. A celebration, even. The composer used the neumes, but in a way I’ve never seen before. There’re so many of them.”

“Frère Simon made copies so that he and the other monks could transcribe the neumes into notes,” Gamache explained. “He seemed to think the neumes were for different voices. Layers of voices. Harmonizing.”

“Hmmm,” said Frère Sébastien, again lost in the music. His finger rested, awkwardly it seemed to Gamache, on one place on the page. When the monk finally moved it, Gamache saw that the finger had covered a small dot at the very beginning of the music. Before the first neume.

“Is it old?” asked Gamache.

“Oh, no. Not at all. It’s made to look old, of course, but I’d be surprised if this was written more than a few months ago.”

“By whom?”

“Now that I can’t possibly say. But I can tell you, it would have to be by someone who knows a lot about Gregorian chant. About the structure of them. About neumes, of course. But not a great deal of Latin.” He looked at Gamache with barely disguised wonder. “You may have been one of the first people on earth to hear a whole new musical form, Chief Inspector,” said Frère Sébastien. “It must have been thrilling.”

“You know, it was,” admitted Gamache. “Though I had no idea what I was hearing. But after he sang, Frère Simon pointed out something about the Latin. He said that while it’s pretty much just a string of funny phrases, it actually makes sense musically.”

“He’s right.” The monk nodded agreement.

“What do you mean?” asked Beauvoir.

“The words, the syllables, match the notes. Like lyrics, or the words of a poem. The meter has to fit. These words fit the music, but make no sense otherwise.”

“So why’re they there?” Beauvoir asked. “They have to mean something.”

All three stared down at the sheet of music. But it told them nothing.

“Now it’s your turn, mon frère,” said Gamache. “We’ve told you about the music. It’s your turn to tell us the truth.”

“About why I’m here?”

“Exactly.”

“You think it’s not about the murder of the prior?” the Dominican asked.

“I do. The timing’s off. You couldn’t have come all the way from the Vatican this quickly,” said Gamache. “And even if you could, your reaction when you arrived wasn’t grief shared with fellow monks. It was delight. You greeted these monks as though you’d been looking for them a long time.”

“And I have. The Church has been looking. I mentioned the archives of the Inquisition and finding the warrant ordering the Gilbertines to be investigated.”

“Oui,” said Gamache, growing guarded.

“Well, the investigation never ended. I have scores of predecessors in the Congregation who spent their lifetimes trying to find the Gilbertines. When they died another took over. Not a year, not a day, not an hour has gone by since they disappeared that we haven’t been looking for them.”

“The hounds of the Lord,” said Gamache.

“C’est ça. Bloodhounds. We never gave up.”

“But it’s been centuries,” said Beauvoir. “Why would you keep looking? Why would it matter?”

“Because the Church doesn’t like mysteries, except those of its own making.”

“Or God’s?” asked Gamache.

“Those the Church tolerates,” admitted the monk, again with a disarming smile.

“Then how’d you finally find them?” asked Beauvoir.

“Can you guess?”

“If I wanted to guess I would have,” snapped Beauvoir. The confined space was getting to him. He felt the walls closing in. Felt oppressed, by the monastery, by the monk, by the Church. All he wanted was to get out. Get some air. He felt he was suffocating.

“The recording,” said Gamache after a moment’s thought.

Frère Sébastien nodded. “That’s it. The image on the cover of the CD. It was a stylized monk in profile. Almost a cartoon.”

“The robes,” said Gamache.

“Oui. The robes were black, with a small bit of white for the hood and chest, and draping over the shoulders. It’s unique.”

“Some malady is coming upon us,” quoted Gamache. “Maybe that’s the malady.”

“The music?” asked Beauvoir.

“Modern times,” said Frère Sébastien. “That’s what came upon the Gilbertines.”

The Chief nodded. “For centuries they’ve sung their chants, in anonymity. But now technology allowed them to transmit it to the world.”

“And to the Vatican,” said Frère Sébastien. “And the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.”

The Inquisition, thought Gamache. The Gilbertines were finally found. Betrayed by their chants.

The bells rang out and the peals penetrated into the Chapter House.

“I need to hit the toilet,” said Beauvoir, as the three men left the small room. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Fine,” said Gamache and watched Jean-Guy walk back across the Blessed Chapel.

“There you are.”

Chief Superintendent Francoeur walked decisively toward them. He smiled at the monk and nodded, briefly, at Gamache.

“I thought perhaps we could sit together,” said Francoeur.

“With pleasure,” said the monk. He turned to Gamache. “Will you join us?”

“I think I’ll sit over here, quietly.”

Francoeur and Frère Sébastien took a pew near the front and Gamache sat a few rows back and across from them.

It was almost certainly discourteous, he knew. But he also knew he didn’t care. Gamache glared at the back of Francoeur’s head. His eyes drilling into it. He was grateful Jean-Guy had decided to pee instead of pray. One less contact with Francoeur.

God help me, Gamache prayed. Even in this peaceful place he could feel his rage grow at the very sight of Sylvain Francoeur.

He continued to stare, and Francoeur rolled his shoulders, as though feeling the scrutiny. Francoeur didn’t turn around. But the Dominican did.

Frère Sébastien turned his head and looked directly at Gamache. The Chief shifted his eyes from Francoeur to the monk. The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then Gamache returned to the Superintendent. Undeterred by the gentle inquiry of the monk.

Eventually, Gamache closed his eyes, and took deep breaths in. Deep breaths out. He smelled, again, the scent of Saint-Gilbert which was so familiar, but slightly different. A marriage of traditional incense, and something else. Thyme and monarda.

The natural and the manufactured, come together here, in this far-flung monastery. Peace and rage, silence and singing. The Gilbertines and the Inquisition. The good men and the not-so-good.

Hearing the bells had made Beauvoir almost giddy. Almost sick with anticipation.

Finally. Finally.

He’d hurried to les toilettes, peed, washed his hands then poured a glass of water. From his pocket he drew the small pill bottle and snapped off the top, no child-proof caps here, and shook two pills into his palm.

In one practiced move Beauvoir brought his hand to his mouth, and felt the tiny pills land on his tongue. One gulp of the water, and they were down.

Leaving the pissoire, he paused in the hallway. The bells were still sounding, but instead of returning to the Blessed Chapel, Beauvoir walked swiftly back to the prior’s office. He closed the door and leaned the new chair against the handle.

He could still hear the bells.

Sitting at the desk he dragged the laptop toward him and rebooted.

The bells had stopped, and there was silence now.

The DVD in the machine started up. Beauvoir turned down the sound. No need to draw attention. Besides he had the soundtrack in his mind. Always.

The images appeared.

Gamache opened his eyes as the first notes arrived in the Blessed Chapel, along with the first monk.

Frère Antoine carried the simple wooden cross ahead of him and placed it in the holder on the altar. Then he bowed and took his place. Behind him the rest of the monks filed in, bowing to the cross and taking their places. Singing all the time. All the live-long day.

Gamache glanced at Frère Sébastien in profile. He was staring at the monks. At the long-lost Gilbertines. Then Frère Sébastien closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He seemed to go into a trance. A fugue. As the Gregorian chants and the Gilbertines filled the chapel.

Beauvoir could hear the music, but softly, from very far away.

Men’s voices, all singing together. Growing more powerful as more voices joined in. While on the screen he watched his co-workers, his friends, his fellow agents, gunned down.

To the tune of the chants, Beauvoir watched himself gunned down.

The monks sang as the Chief dragged him to safety. Then left him. Dumping him there like—how had Francoeur described it? No longer useful.

And, to add to the injury, before leaving the Chief had kissed him.

Kissed him. On his forehead. No wonder they called him Gamache’s bitch. Everyone had seen that kiss. All his colleagues. And now they laughed at him, behind his back.

As the Gregorian chants were sung in the Blessed Chapel, Chief Inspector Gamache kissed him. Then left.

Gamache glanced again at the Dominican. Frère Sébastien seemed to have moved from a fugue to a sort of ecstasy.

And then Frère Luc entered the chapel, and the Dominican’s eyes sprang open. He was almost jolted forward in his seat. Drawn to the very young man with the divine voice.

Here was a voice in a million. A voice in a millennium.

The dead prior had known it. The current choirmaster knew it. The abbot knew it. Even Gamache, with his appreciation but limited knowledge, could hear it.

And now, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith knew it too.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir hit play, then pause. Then play again. Over and over he watched.

On the screen, time and again, over and over like a litany, a liturgy, Beauvoir saw himself fall. Saw himself dragged, like a sack of potatoes, across the factory floor. By Gamache.

In the background the monks chanted.

The Kyrie. The Alleluia. The Gloria.

While in the prior’s office Beauvoir was dying. Alone.