The Beautiful Mystery

THIRTY-FOUR

Armand Gamache sat in a front pew and watched the monks at their eleven A.M. mass. Every now and then he closed his eyes and prayed that this would work.

Less than an hour now, he thought. In fact, the boatman might already be at the dock. Gamache watched the abbot leave his spot on the bench and walk to the altar, where he genuflected and sang a few lines of Latin prayer.

Then, one by one, the rest of the community joined in.

Call, response. Call. Response.

And then there was a moment when all sound was suspended and seemed to hang in mid-air. Not a silence, but a deep and collective inhale.

And then all their voices came in together in a chorus that could only be described as glorious. Armand Gamache felt it resonate in his core. Despite what had happened to Beauvoir. Despite what had happened to Frère Mathieu. Despite what was about to happen.

Unseen behind him, Jean-Guy Beauvoir arrived in the chapel. He’d drifted in and out of sleep since the Chief had left, then had finally surfaced. He’d ached all over, and far from getting better, it seemed to be getting worse. He’d walked down the long corridor as though he was an elderly man. Shuffling. Joints creaking. Breath shallow. But every step took him closer to where he knew he belonged.

Not in the Blessed Chapel necessarily. But beside Gamache.

Once in the chapel, he saw the Chief at the very front.

But Jean-Guy Beauvoir’s body had taken him as far as it could, and he slumped into the pew at the very back. He leaned forward, his hands hanging loosely on the pew in front. Not quite in prayer. But in a sort of netherworld.

The world seemed very far away. But the music didn’t. It was all around him. Inside and out. Supporting him. The music was plain and simple. The voices in unison. One voice, one song. The very simplicity of the chants both calmed and energized Beauvoir.

There was no chaos here. Nothing unexpected. Except their effect on him. That was completely unexpected.

Something strange seemed to come over him. He felt out of sorts.

And then he realized what it was.

Peace. Complete and utter peace.

He closed his eyes and let the neumes lift him, out of himself, out of the pew, out of the Blessed Chapel. They took him out of the abbey and out over the lake and the forest. He flew with them, free, unbound.

This was better than Percocet, better than OxyContin. There was no pain, no anxiety, no worry. There was no “us” and no “them,” no boundaries and no limits.

And then the music stopped, and Beauvoir descended, softly, to the earth.

He opened his eyes and looked around, wondering if anyone had noticed what had just happened to him. He saw Chief Inspector Gamache in one of the front pews, and across from him sat Superintendent Francoeur.

Beauvoir looked around the chapel. Someone was missing.

The Dominican. What had become of the man from the Inquisition?

Beauvoir turned to the altar and as he did he intercepted a brief glance from Gamache to Superintendent Francoeur.

Christ, thought Beauvoir. He really does despise the man.

Armand Gamache brought his gaze back to the monks. The chanting had stopped and the abbot was again standing front and center in the quiet church.

Then, into the silence, there came a single voice. A tenor. Singing.

The abbot looked at his monks. The monks looked at their abbot, then at each other. Their eyes wide, but their mouths shut.

And yet, the clear voice continued.

The abbot stood over the host and the goblet of wine. The body and blood of Christ. A wafer frozen in mid-blessing, offered to the air.

The beautiful voice was all around them, as though it had glided down the shafts of thin light and taken possession of the chapel.

The abbot turned to face the tiny congregation. To see if one of them had lost his wits and found his voice. But all he saw were the three officers. Scattered. Watching. Silent.

Then, from behind the plaque to Saint-Gilbert, the Dominican appeared. Frère Sébastien walked slowly, solemnly, to the center of the Blessed Chapel. There he paused.

“I can’t hear you,” he sang in an upbeat tempo, much faster, lighter, than any Gregorian chant ever heard in the chapel. The Latin words filled the air. “I have a banana in my ear.”

The music the prior died with had come to life.

“I am not a fish,” the Dominican chanted, as he walked down the center aisle. “I am not a fish.”

The monks, and the abbot, were paralyzed. Little rainbows danced around them as the morning sun burned through more mist. Frère Sébastien approached the altar, his head up, his arms thrust into his sleeves, his voice filling the void.

“Stop it.”

It wasn’t so much a command as a howl. A baying.

But the Dominican stopped neither his singing nor his progress. He continued, unhurried and unrelenting, toward the altar. And the monks.

Armand Gamache slowly rose to his feet, his eyes on the one monk who had finally separated himself from the rest.

The lone voice.

“Nooo!” the monk cried in pain. It was as though the music was sizzling his skin, as though the Inquisition had one final monk to burn.

Frère Sébastien came to a halt just below the abbot, and looked up.

“Dies irae,” Frère Sébastien sang. Day of wrath.

“Stop,” the monk pleaded. He’d stepped toward the Dominican and sank to his knees. “Pleeease.”

And the Dominican stopped. All that filled the chapel was sobbing. And giddy light.

“You killed your prior,” said Gamache quietly. “Ecce homo. He is man. And you killed him for it.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The abbot crossed himself.

“Go on, my son.”

There was a long pause. Dom Philippe knew this old confessional had heard many, many things over the centuries. But none as disgraceful as was about to come out.

God, of course, already knew. Had probably known before the blow was struck. Probably even knew before the thought was formed. This confession wasn’t for the Lord, but for the sinner, the sheep who’d wandered too far from the fold. And been lost in a land of wolves.

“I have committed murder. I killed the prior.”

Bugs were crawling all over Jean-Guy Beauvoir’s skin and he wondered if the infirmary might’ve been infested with bedbugs or cockroaches.

He wiped his hand over his arms and tried to get at the ones crawling down his spine. He and the Chief were in the prior’s office, doing the paperwork, making notes. Packing up. The final preparations before leaving with the boatman.

Superintendent Francoeur had officially made the arrest, taken possession of the prisoner, and called for the floatplane to pick them up. Francoeur was now sitting in the Blessed Chapel while the murderer monk made his confession. Not to the police, but to his confessor.

Beauvoir’s discomfort came in waves. Getting closer and closer, until now he was barely able to sit still. Bugs crawled under his clothing, and waves of anxiety cascaded over him until he found he could barely breathe.

And the pain was back. In his gut, in his marrow. His hair, his eyeballs, his dry lips hurt.

“I need a pill,” he said, barely able to focus on the man across from him. He saw Gamache raise his head from the notes he was making, and stare at him.

“Please. Just one more, and then I’ll stop. Just one to get me home.”

“The doctor said to give you Extra Strength Tylenol—”

“I don’t want a Tylenol,” shouted Beauvoir, his hand slapping the desk. “For God’s sake, please. It’ll be the last one, I swear.”

The Chief Inspector calmly shook two pills into his hand and walked around the desk with a glass of water. He offered his palm to Beauvoir. Jean-Guy grabbed the pills then tossed them onto the floor.

“Not those, not the Tylenol. I need the others.”

He could see them in Gamache’s jacket pocket.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew he shouldn’t. Knew this would be crossing a line which could never be uncrossed. But finally there was no “knowing” about it. Only the pain. And the crawling, and the anxiety. And the need.

He pushed himself off the chair with all the strength he had and grabbed at Gamache’s pocket, thrusting the two of them against the stone wall.

“I killed the prior.”

“Go on, my son,” said the abbot.

There was a silence. But it wasn’t complete. Dom Philippe heard gasping as the man in the other half of the confessional tried to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to. Not really.”

The voice was growing hysterical and the abbot knew that wouldn’t help.

“Slowly,” he advised. “Slowly. Tell me what happened.”

There was another pause as the monk gathered himself.

“Frère Mathieu wanted to talk about the chant he’d written.”

“Mathieu wrote the chant?” The abbot knew he shouldn’t be asking questions during a confession, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“Yes.”

“The words and the music?” the abbot asked, and promised himself that would be the last interruption. And then silently begged God’s forgiveness for lying.

He knew there’d be more.

“Yes. Well, he’d written the music and then put in just any Latin words to fit the meter of the music. He wanted me to write the real words.”

“He wanted you to write a prayer?”

“Sort of. Not that I’m so great at Latin, but anyone was better than him. And I think he wanted an ally. He wanted to make the chants even more popular and he thought if we could modernize them just a little, we’d reach more people. I tried to talk him out of it. It wasn’t right. It was blasphemy.”

The abbot sat in silence and waited for more. And finally it came.

“The prior gave me the new chant about a week ago. He said if I helped him I could sing it on the new recording. Be the soloist. He was excited and so was I at first, until I looked more closely. I could see then what he was doing. It had nothing to do with the glory of God and everything to do with his own ego. He expected I’d just say yes. He couldn’t believe it when I refused.”

“What did Frère Mathieu do?”

“He tried to bribe me. And then he got angry. Said he’d drop me from the choir completely.”

Dom Philippe tried to imagine what that would be like. To be the only monk not singing the chants. To be excluded from that Glory. To be excluded from the community. Left out. His silence complete.

It would be no life at all.

“I had to stop him. He’d have destroyed everything. The chants, the monastery. Me.” The disembodied voice paused, to gather himself. And when he spoke again it was so quietly the abbot had to lean his ear against the grille to hear.

“It was a profanity. You heard it, mon père. You see that something had to be done to stop him.”

Yes, thought the abbot, he’d heard it. Hardly believing his eyes, and ears, he’d watched the Dominican walk down the central aisle of the Blessed Chapel. The abbot had been at first shocked, angered even. And then, God help him, all the anger had disappeared and he’d been seduced.

Mathieu had created a plainchant with a complex rhythm. The music had swarmed over the abbot’s final defenses. Walls he didn’t realize he still had. And the notes, the neumes, the lovely voice had found the chord at Dom Philippe’s core.

And for a few moments the abbot had known complete and utter bliss. Had resonated with love. Of God, of man. Of himself. Of all people and all things.

But now all he heard was the sobbing in the stall beside him.

Frère Luc had finally made his choice. He’d left the porterie and killed the prior.

Gamache felt himself propelled backward and braced himself. His back connected with the stone wall and the breath was knocked out of him.

But by far the biggest shock came in that split second before impact, when he realized who was doing this.

He gasped for air and felt Jean-Guy’s hand go to his pocket. After the pills.

Gamache grabbed the hand and twisted. Beauvoir howled and fought harder, thrashing and wailing. Knocking Gamache in the face and chest. Knocking him backward again in a desperate, single-minded drive to get at what was in Gamache’s pocket.

Nothing else mattered. Beauvoir twisted and shoved and would have clawed his way through concrete to get at that pill bottle.

“Stop, Jean-Guy, stop,” Gamache shouted, but knew it was no use. Beauvoir was out of his mind. The Chief brought his forearm up and held it to Beauvoir’s throat, just as he saw something that almost stopped his heart.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir went for his gun.

“All those neumes,” Frère Luc slobbered, his voice wet and messy. There was a snuffle, and the abbot imagined the long black sleeve of the robe drawn across the runny nose. “I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was a joke, but the prior said it was his masterpiece. The result of a lifetime studying chants. The voices would be sung in plainchant. Together. The other neumes were for instruments. An organ and violins and flute. He’d been working on it for years, Père Abbé. And you didn’t even know.”

The young voice was accusatory. As though it was the prior who had sinned and the abbot who had failed.

Dom Philippe looked through the grillwork of the confessional, trying to glimpse the other side. To see the young man he’d followed since the seminary. Had watched, from a distance, as he’d grown and matured, and chosen holy orders. As his voice had begun the long drop, from his head to his heart.

But, unknown to the abbot or the prior, that drop had never been completed. The lovely voice had gotten stuck behind a lump in the young man’s throat.

After the success of their first recording, but before the rift, Mathieu and the abbot had met for one of their talks in the garden. And Mathieu had said the time had come. The choir needed the young man. Mathieu wanted to work with him, to help shape the extraordinary voice before some less gifted choirmaster got hold of him.

One of the elderly brothers had just died, and the abbot had agreed, with some reluctance. Frère Luc was still so young, and this was such a remote monastery.

But Mathieu had been convincing.

And now, peering through the grille at Mathieu’s killer, the abbot wondered whether it was the voice Mathieu hoped to influence, or the monk.

Did Mathieu realize that the other brothers might be reluctant to sing such a revolutionary chant? But if he could recruit the young, lonely monk to the abbey, he could get him to do it. And to not only sing the chant, but write the words.

Mathieu was magnetic, and Luc was impressionable. Or so the prior had thought.

“What happened?” the abbot asked.

There was a pause and more ragged inhales.

The abbot didn’t press anymore. He tried to tell himself it was patience that guided him. But he knew it was fear. He didn’t want to hear what came next. His rosary hung from his hands and his lips moved. And he waited.

Gamache grabbed at Beauvoir’s hand, trying to loosen the gun. From Jean-Guy’s throat came a wail, a cry of desperation. He fought wildly, flailing and kicking and bucking but finally Gamache twisted Beauvoir’s arm behind his back and the firearm clattered to the floor.

Both men were gasping for breath. Gamache held Jean-Guy’s face against the rough stone wall. Beauvoir bucked and sidled but Gamache held firm.

“Let go,” Beauvoir screamed into the stone. “Those pills are mine. My property.”

The Chief held him there until his twisting and bucking slowed, and stopped. And all that was left was a panting young man. Exhausted.

Gamache took the holster from Beauvoir’s belt then reached into Jean-Guy’s pocket and took his Sûreté ID. Then he stooped for the gun and turned Beauvoir around.

The younger man was bleeding from scrapes to the side of his face.

“We’re going to leave here, Jean-Guy. We’re going to get in that boat and when we get to Montréal I’m taking you straight to rehab.”

“Fuck you. I won’t go back there. And you think holding on to those pills will do any good? I can get more, without even leaving headquarters.”

“You won’t be in headquarters. You’re suspended. You don’t think I’m going to let you walk around with pills and a gun? You’ll go on sick leave, and when your doctor says you’re well, we’ll discuss reinstating you.”

“Fuck you,” spat Beauvoir, the drool sticking to his chin.

“If you don’t go willingly I’ll arrest you for assault and have the judge sentence you to rehab. I’ll do it, you know.”

Beauvoir held Gamache’s eyes, and knew he’d do it.

Gamache put Beauvoir’s badge and ID card into his own pocket. Beauvoir’s mouth was open, a thin line of spittle dripped onto his sweater. His eyes were glassy and wide, and he swayed on his feet. “You can’t suspend me.”

Gamache took a deep breath and stepped back. “I know this isn’t you. It’s the goddamned pills. They’re killing you, Jean-Guy. But we’ll get you to treatment and it’ll be all right. Trust me.”

“Like I trusted you in the factory? Like the others trusted you?”

And Beauvoir, even through his haze, could see he’d scored a direct hit. He saw the Chief flinch as the words struck.

And he was glad.

Beauvoir watched as the Chief slowly put Beauvoir’s gun into the holster and attached it to his own belt.

“Who gave you the pills?”

“I told you. I found them in my room, with the note from the doctor.”

“They’re not from the doctor.”

But Beauvoir was right about one thing. He could get more OxyContin anytime he wanted. Québec was swimming in the stuff. The Sûreté evidence locker was swimming in it. Some of it even made it to trial.

Gamache stood still.

He knew who’d given Beauvoir the drugs.

“Ecce homo,” said the abbot. “Why did Mathieu say that when he was dying?”

“It’s what I said when I hit him.”

“Why?”

There was another pause and another ragged breath. “He wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

“You mean, he was just a man,” suggested the abbot. “He wasn’t the saint you thought he was. He was a world expert on Gregorian chants. A genius even. But he was just a man. You expected him to be more.”

“I loved him. I’d have done anything for him. But he asked me to help him ruin the chants, and I couldn’t do that.”

“You went to the garden knowing you might kill him?” asked the abbot, trying to keep his voice neutral. “You took the iron door knocker with you.”

“I had to stop him. When we met in the garden I tried to reason with him, to get him to change his mind. I tore up the sheet he gave to me. I thought it was the only copy.” The voice stopped. But the breathing continued. Rapid and shallow now. “Frère Mathieu was in a rage. Said he’d kick me out of the choir. Make me sit in the pews.”

The abbot listened to Frère Luc, but he saw Mathieu. Not the loving, kind, godly friend, but the man overcome with rage. Stymied. Denied. The abbot could barely stand up to the force of that personality. He could begin to see how young Frère Luc might break. And lash out.

“All I wanted was to sing the chants. I came here to study with the prior and sing the chants. That’s all. Why wasn’t that enough?”

The voice became a squeak, unintelligible. The abbot tried to make out the words. Frère Luc cried and begged him to understand. And the abbot found that he did.

Mathieu was human, and so was this young man.

And so was he.

Dom Philippe lowered his head to his hands as the young man’s sobs surrounded him.

Armand Gamache left Beauvoir in the prior’s office and headed for the Blessed Chapel. With each step he felt his rage growing.

The drugs would kill Jean-Guy. A long, slow slide to the grave. Gamache knew that. The man who did this knew it. And had done it anyway.

The Chief Inspector yanked open the door to the Blessed Chapel so forcefully it banged against the wall behind it. He saw the monks turn at the sound.

He saw Sylvain Francoeur turn. And Gamache, as he approached with steely, steady calm, saw the smile fade from Francoeur’s handsome face.

“We need to talk, Sylvain,” said Gamache.

Francoeur backed away, up the steps and onto the altar. “Now’s not the time, Armand. The plane will be arriving any moment.”

“Now is the time.” Gamache kept walking forward, his eyes never straying from Francoeur. In his hand he held a handkerchief.

As his long, steady strides brought him closer to the Superintendent, Gamache opened his fist to reveal a pill bottle.

The Superintendent turned to run but Gamache was faster, and caught him against the choir stall. The monks scattered. Only the Dominican stood his ground. But said and did nothing.

Gamache put his face against Francoeur’s.

“You could’ve killed him,” Gamache snarled. “You almost killed him. How can you do this to one of your own?”

Gamache had Francoeur’s shirt in his fist, yanking it. He felt the man’s warm breath on his face, in short, terrified puffs.

And Gamache knew. Just a little more pressure. Just a few moments more, and this problem would disappear. This man would disappear. One more twist.

And who would blame him?

In that instant, Gamache let go. And stepped back, glaring at the Superintendent. Gamache’s breathing was shallow, rapid. With an effort he brought himself under control.

“You’re fucked, Gamache,” said Francoeur in a hoarse whisper.

“What’s happened?”

Both men turned to see Jean-Guy Beauvoir clutching the back of a pew, staring at them. His face pale and shiny.

“Nothing,” said Gamache, straightening his disheveled jacket. “The boat must be here. We’ll pack up and leave.”

Gamache stepped off the altar and made for the door back to the prior’s office. Then he noticed he was alone. He turned.

Francoeur hadn’t moved. But neither had Beauvoir.

Gamache walked back down the aisle slowly, looking at Beauvoir the whole time.

“Did you hear me, Jean-Guy?” he asked. “We need to get going.”

“Inspector Beauvoir is, I believe, of two minds,” said Francoeur, straightening his clothes.

“You suspended me,” said Beauvoir. “I don’t need rehab. If I go with you, promise you won’t take me.”

“I can’t do that,” said Gamache, holding Jean-Guy’s bloodshot eyes. “You need help.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Francoeur. “There’s nothing wrong with you. What you need is a decent boss who doesn’t treat you like a child. You think you’re in trouble now. Wait ’til he finds out about you and Annie.”

Beauvoir spun around to Francoeur. Then back to Gamache.

“We already know about you and Annie,” said the Chief. His eyes hadn’t left Jean-Guy. “Have for months.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” asked Francoeur. “Are you ashamed? Hoping it’ll be short lived? That your daughter’ll come to her senses? Maybe that’s why he wants to humiliate you, Inspector Beauvoir. Maybe that’s why he’s suspended you and wants to ship you off to rehab. In one coup-de-grâce he’ll end your career, and your relationship. Do you think she’ll want an addict for a husband?”

“We respected your privacy.” Gamache ignored Francoeur and continued to speak only to Beauvoir. “We knew you’d tell us when you were ready. We couldn’t be happier. For both of you.”

“He’s not happy,” said Francoeur. “Look at him. You can see it in his face.”

Gamache took a cautious step forward as though approaching a skittish deer.

“Yes, look at me, Jean-Guy. I knew about you and Annie because of the lilacs. The flowers we picked together and you gave her. Remember?”

His voice was gentle. Kindly.

Gamache offered his right hand to Beauvoir. A helping hand. Jean-Guy saw the slight quiver in the familiar hand.

“Come back with me,” said Gamache.

There was complete silence in the Blessed Chapel.

“He left you to die on the factory floor,” the reasonable voice floated toward them. “He went to help the others, and left you. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t even like you. And he sure doesn’t respect you. If he did he’d never suspend you. He wants to humiliate you. Castrate you. Give him back his weapon, Armand. And his warrant card.”

But Gamache didn’t move. His hand remained outstretched toward Beauvoir. His eyes resting on the young man.

“Chief Superintendent Francoeur read your files. The ones from your therapy,” said Gamache. “That’s how he knows about your relationships. That’s how he knows all about you. Everything you thought was confidential, everything you told the therapist, Francoeur knows. He’s using that to manipulate you.”

“Again, he’s treating you like a child. As though you can be so easily manipulated. If you don’t trust him with a weapon, Armand, I do.” Francoeur unclipped his own holster and approached Beauvoir. “Take it, Inspector. I know you’re not an addict. Never were. You were in pain and needed the medication. I understand.”

Gamache turned to Francoeur and fought the urge to take out the gun now clipped to his belt and finish what he started.

Deep breath in, he told himself. Deep breath out.

When he felt it was safe to speak he turned back to Beauvoir.

“You need to choose.”

Beauvoir looked from Gamache to Francoeur. Both stretched out their hands to him. One offered a slight tremble, the other a gun.

“Are you going to take me to rehab?”

Gamache stared for a moment. Then nodded.

There was a long, long silence. And finally Beauvoir broke it. Not with a word, but with an action. He stepped away from Gamache.

Armand Gamache stood on the shore and watched the float plane leave the dock with Francoeur, Frère Luc and Beauvoir on board.

“He’ll come to his senses,” the Dominican said, as he joined the Chief Inspector.

Gamache said nothing, but just watched as the plane bounced over the waves. Then he turned to his companion.

“I suppose you’ll be leaving soon too,” said Gamache.

“I’m in no rush.”

“Is that right? Not even to get the Book of Chants back to Rome? It’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

“True, but I’ve been thinking. It’s very old. Might be too fragile to travel. I’ll give it a good, hard think before doing anything. Might even pray on it. A decision could take awhile. And ‘awhile’ in Church time is a very long time indeed.”

“Don’t wait too long,” said Gamache. “I hate to remind you, but the foundations are collapsing.”

“Yes, well, about that. I’ve had a conversation with the head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. He was impressed by the abbot’s insistence on keeping their vows of silence and humility. Even in the face of great pressure, including the possible collapse of the monastery.”

Gamache nodded. “A steady hand on the tiller.”

“Exactly what the Holy Father said. He was also impressed.”

Gamache raised his brows.

“So much so that the Vatican is considering paying for the restoration of Saint-Gilbert. We lost them once. It would be a shame to lose the Gilbertines again.”

Gamache smiled and nodded. Dom Philippe had his miracle.

“When you asked me to sing Frère Mathieu’s new chant, did you know it was Frère Luc who’d react?” the Dominican asked. “Or was that a surprise?”

“Well, I suspected it might be him, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Why’d you suspect Frère Luc?”

“For one thing, the murder happened after Lauds. When I watched where everyone went after the service, it was clear only Frère Luc was alone. No one visited him in the porter’s office. No one went down that corridor. Only Frère Luc could’ve gone to the garden unseen because everyone else worked in groups.”

“Except the abbot.”

“True, and I suspected him for a while too. In fact, right up until the end I suspected almost everyone. I realized while Dom Philippe wasn’t confessing to the crime, neither was he completely exonerating himself. He told a lie he knew we’d uncover. Said he was in the basement looking at the geothermal. He wanted us to know he was alone.”

“But he must have known that would make him a suspect,” said Frère Sébastien.

“That’s what he wanted. He knew one of his monks had committed the crime, and he felt some measure of responsibility. So he deliberately left himself open to take the blame. But that was another reason I suspected Frère Luc.”

“How so?”

The plane was just skimming the waves. Beginning to get airborne. Gamache spoke to the monk, but had eyes only for the small plane.

“The abbot kept wondering how he could have missed it. How he didn’t see it coming. Dom Philippe struck me from the beginning as an unusually observant man. Very little got by him. So I began to wonder the same thing. How could the abbot have missed it? And there seemed two possible answers. That he hadn’t missed anything because he himself was the killer. Or, he had missed it only because the killer was the one monk the abbot didn’t know very well. The newest among them. Who chose to spend all his time in the porter’s office. No one knew him. Not even the prior, as it turns out.”

The plane cleared the lake. The fog was gone and Gamache shielded his eyes from the bright sun. And watched the plane.

“Ecce homo,” said Frère Sébastien, watching Gamache. Then his gaze shifted to the monastery, where the abbot had left the gate and was walking toward them.

“Dom Philippe heard Frère Luc’s confession, you know,” said the Dominican.

“Which is more than I’ve done,” Gamache glanced at the monk before returning his gaze to the sky.

“I suspect Frère Luc will tell you everything. That’ll be part of his penance. Plus Hail Marys for the rest of his life.”

“And will that do it? Will he be forgiven?”

“I hope so.” The Dominican studied Chief Inspector Gamache. “You took a risk, getting me to sing the prior’s chant. Suppose Frère Luc hadn’t reacted?”

Gamache nodded. “It was a risk. But I needed a quick resolution. I hoped if just seeing the new chant was enough to drive Frère Luc to murder, hearing it sung in the Blessed Chapel would also bring on some violent reaction.”

“And if Luc hadn’t reacted? Hadn’t given himself away? What would you have done?”

Gamache turned to look him full in the face. “I think you know.”

“You’d have left with your Inspector? To take him to treatment? You’d have left us with a murderer?”

“I’d have come back, but yes. I’d have left with Beauvoir.”

Now they both looked at the plane. “You’d do anything to save his life, wouldn’t you?”

When Gamache didn’t answer, the Dominican walked back toward the abbey.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir looked out the window, onto the sparkling lake.

“Here.” Francoeur tossed something at Beauvoir. “This’s for you.”

Beauvoir bobbled then caught the pill bottle. He closed his hand over it.

“Merci.” He quickly twisted off the cap and took two pills. Then he leaned his head against the cool window.

The plane turned and flew toward the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

Jean-Guy looked down as they banked. A few monks were outside the walls, picking wild blueberries. He realized he didn’t have any of the chocolates to take back to Annie. But Beauvoir had a sick feeling that it no longer mattered.

As his head lolled against the window, he saw monks bowing down in the garden. And one monk outside with the chickens. The Chanteclers. Saved from extinction. As the Gilbertines had been. As the chants had been.

And he saw Gamache on the shore. Looking up. He’d been joined by the abbot, and the Dominican was walking away.

Beauvoir felt the pills take hold. Felt the pain finally recede, the hole heal. He sighed with relief. To his surprise, Beauvoir realized why Gilbert of Sempringham had chosen that unique design for their robes. Long black robes, with the white top.

From above, Heaven, or an airplane, the Gilbertines looked like crosses. Living crosses.

But there was one other thing for God, and Beauvoir, to see.

The monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups wasn’t itself a cross. On paper Dom Clément had drawn it to look like a crucifix, but that was another medieval architect’s lie.

The abbey was, in fact, a neume. Its wings curved, like wings.

It looked as though the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups was about to take flight.

At that moment, Chief Inspector Gamache looked up. And Beauvoir looked away.

Gamache watched the plane until it disappeared from sight, then he turned to the abbot, who’d just joined him.

“I know how horrendous this has been for you.”

“For all of us,” the abbot agreed. “I hope we learn from it.”

Gamache paused. “And what’s the lesson?”

The abbot thought about that for a few moments. “Do you know why we’re called Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups? Why our emblem is two wolves intertwined?”

Gamache shook his head. “I assumed it dated back to when the first monks arrived. That it was symbolic of taming the wilderness, or making friends with it. Something like that.”

“You’re right, it is from when Dom Clément and the others came here,” said the abbot. “It’s a story one of the Montagnais told them.”

“A native story?” asked Gamache, surprised the old Gilbertines were inspired by anything they’d have considered pagan.

“Dom Clément relates it in his diaries. One of the elders told him that when he was a boy his grandfather came to him one day and said he had two wolves fighting inside him. One was gray, the other black. The gray one wanted his grandfather to be courageous, and patient, and kind. The other, the black one, wanted his grandfather to be fearful and cruel. This upset the boy and he thought about it for a few days then returned to his grandfather. He asked, ‘Grandfather, which of the wolves will win?’”

The abbot smiled slightly and examined the Chief Inspector. “Do you know what his grandfather said?”

Gamache shook his head. There was a look of such sadness on the Chief Inspector’s face, it almost broke the abbot’s heart.

“The one I feed,” said Dom Philippe.

Gamache looked back at the monastery that would now stand for many generations to come. Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. He’d mistranslated it. Not Saint Gilbert among the wolves, but between them. In that place of perpetual choice.

The abbot noted the gun in Gamache’s belt and the grim expression on his face. “Would you like me to hear your confession?”

The Chief Inspector looked into the sky and felt the north wind on his upturned face. Some malady is coming upon us.

Armand Gamache thought he could just hear the sound of a plane, way far off. And then that too disappeared. And he was left with a great silence.

“Not just yet, I think, mon père.”