The Beautiful Mystery

  It felt as though the Gregorian chants entered people’s bodies and rearranged their DNA, so that they were part of everything around them. There was no anger, no competition, no winners or losers. Everything was splendid and everything was equal.

  And everyone was at peace.

  No wonder people wanted more. Cried for more. Demanded more. Showed up at the monastery, and pounded on the door, almost hysterical to be let in. And given more.

  And the monks had refused.

  Bernard had been quiet for a few moments, walking slowly around the perimeter of the enclosure.

  “Tell me,” said Gamache. There was more, he knew. There was always more. Bernard had followed him into the showers, with one purpose. To tell Gamache something, and so far while interesting, this wasn’t it.

  There was more.

  “It was the vow of silence.”

  Gamache waited, then finally prodded. “Go on.”

  Frère Bernard hesitated, trying to find the words to explain something that didn’t exist in the outside world. “Our vow of silence isn’t absolute. It’s also known as a rule of silence. We’re allowed to talk to each other sometimes, but it disturbs the peace of the abbey, and the peace of the monk. Silence is seen as both voluntary and deeply spiritual.”

  “But you are allowed to talk?”

  “Our tongues aren’t cut out when we sign up,” said the monk with a smile. “But it isn’t encouraged. A chatty man would never make a monk. There’re times of the day where quiet is more important. Night, for instance. That’s called the Great Silence. Some monasteries have relaxed the vow of silence, but here at Saint-Gilbert we try to maintain a great silence most of the day.”

  Great silence, thought Gamache. That was what he’d experienced a few hours ago, when he’d risen and walked into the corridor. It had felt like a void into which he might fall. And if he had, what would he have met there?

  “The greater the silence the louder the voice of God?” asked Gamache.

  “Well, the better chance we have of hearing it. Some of the monks wanted the vow lifted so that we could go into the world and speak to people about the music. Maybe do concerts. We were getting all sorts of invitations. There was even a rumor that we’d been invited to the Vatican, but the abbot had declined.”

  “How did people feel about that?”

  “Some were angry. Some were relieved.”

  “Some supported the abbot, and some didn’t?”

  Bernard nodded. “You have to understand, an abbot is more than a boss. Our allegiance isn’t to the bishop or archbishop. It’s to the abbot. And the abbey. We elect him and he keeps that job until he either dies or steps down. He’s our pope.”

  “And is he considered infallible?”

  Bernard stopped walking and crossed his arms, laying his free hand protectively and instinctively on the eggs.

  “No. But the happiest abbeys are where the monks don’t question their abbot. And the best abbots are open to suggestions. Discuss everything in Chapter. Then they make a decision. And everyone accepts. It’s seen as an act of humility and of grace. It’s not about winning or losing, but voicing your opinion. And letting God and the community decide.”

  “But that stopped happening here.”

  Bernard nodded.

  “Was there someone who started this campaign to end the vow of silence? A voice for the dissenters?”

  Again, Bernard nodded. This was what he’d wanted to say.

  “Frère Mathieu,” said Bernard, at last. He looked miserable. “The prior wanted the vow of silence lifted. It led to terrible rows. He was a forceful man. Used to getting what he wanted. Up until then what he wanted and what the abbot wanted were the same thing. But not anymore.”

  “And Frère Mathieu didn’t submit?” asked Gamache.

  “Not at all. And slowly other monks saw that the walls didn’t crumble if they too didn’t submit. If they continued to fight, and even disobeyed. The arguments escalated, became more vocal.”

  “In a silent community?”

  Bernard smiled. “You’d be surprised how many ways there are to get your message across. Far more powerful, and insulting, than words. A turned back in a monastery is like dropping the f-bomb. A rolled eye is a nuclear attack.”

  “And by yesterday morning?” asked Gamache.

  “By yesterday morning the monastery had been laid to waste. Except that the bodies were still walking and the walls still standing. But Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups was dead in every other way.”

  Gamache thought about that for a moment, then thanking Frère Bernard he handed him his basket of eggs and left the enclosure, returning to the dim monastery.

  The peace had been not simply shattered, but murdered. Something precious had been destroyed. And then a rock had landed on Frère Mathieu’s head. Shattering it too.

  As he’d left Frère Bernard, Gamache had paused at the door to ask one last question.

  “And you, mon frère? Where did you stand?”

  “With Dom Philippe,” he said without hesitation. “I’m one of the abbot’s men.”

  The abbot’s men, thought the Chief as he and Beauvoir entered the silent breakfast hall a few minutes later. Many of the monks were already there, but none looked in their direction.

  The abbot’s men. The prior’s men.

  A civil war, fought with glances and small gestures. And silence.

  FOURTEEN

  After a breakfast of eggs and fruit, fresh bread and cheese the monks left and the Chief and Beauvoir lingered over their herbal teas.

  “This is disgusting.” Beauvoir took a sip and made a face. “It’s dirt tea. I’m drinking mud.”

  “It’s mint. I think,” said Gamache.

  “Mint mud,” said Beauvoir, putting his tea down and pushing the mug away. “So, who do you think did it?”

  Gamache shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. It seems likely to be someone who sided with the abbot.”

  “Or the abbot himself.”

  Gamache nodded. “If the prior was killed over the power struggle.”

  “Whoever won the struggle got to control a monastery that was suddenly extremely rich, and powerful. And not just because of the money.”

  “Go on,” said Gamache. He always preferred to listen than to talk.

  “Well, think about it. These Gilbertines disappear for four centuries, then suddenly, and apparently miraculously, walk out of the wilderness. And as though that wasn’t biblical enough, they come bearing a gift. Sacred music. A New York marketing guru couldn’t have come up with a better gimmick.”

  “Only it isn’t a gimmick.”

  “Are you so sure, patron?”

  Gamache put his mug on the table and leaned toward his second in command, his deep brown eyes thoughtful.

  “Are you saying this was all manipulated? By these monks? Four hundred years of silence, then a recording of obscure Gregorian chants? All to put themselves in a position of wealth and influence. Quite a long-range plan. A good thing they didn’t have shareholders.”

  Beauvoir laughed. “But it worked.”

  “But it was hardly a slam-dunk. The chances that this remote monastery filled with singing monks would become a sensation is minuscule.”

  “I agree. A bunch of things had to come together. The music had to grab people. But that probably wasn’t enough. What really ignited it was when everyone found out who they were. A supposedly extinct order of monks who’ve taken a vow of silence. That’s what grabbed people.”

  The Chief nodded. It added to the mystery of the music, and the monks.

  But was it manipulated? It was all true, after all. But wasn’t that what good marketing was? Not lying, but choosing what truths to tell?

  “These humble monks become superstars,” said Beauvoir. “Not only rich, but way more than that. They’re powerful. People love them. If the abbot of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups got on CNN tomorrow and announced he was the second coming, you can’t tell me millio
ns wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Millions will believe anything,” said Gamache. “They see Christ in a pancake and start worshipping it.”

  “But this is different, patron, and you know it. You even felt it yourself. The music does nothing for me, but I can see that it does something to you.”

  “True again, mon vieux,” Gamache smiled. “But it doesn’t drive me to murder. Just the opposite. It’s very calming. Like the tea.” He picked up his mug again, and toasted Beauvoir, then relaxed back into his chair. “What are you saying, Jean-Guy?”

  “I’m saying there was more at stake than another recording. And there was way more at stake than petty squabbles and the right to boss around two dozen singing monks. Whether the monks like it or not, they’re very influential now. People want to hear what they have to say. That must be pretty intoxicating.”

  “Or sobering.”

  “And all they have to do is get rid of an inconvenient vow of silence,” said Beauvoir, his voice low and intense. “Go on tour. Do concerts. Do interviews. People would hang on their every word. They’d be more powerful than the pope.”

  “And the only one standing in the way is the abbot,” said the Chief, then shook his head. “But if that was true then the wrong man was killed. Your argument would make sense, Jean-Guy, if Dom Philippe was dead, but he isn’t.”

  “Ahhh, but you’re wrong. Sir. I’m not saying that the murder happened to lift the vow of silence, I’m just saying there’s a whole lot at stake. For the prior’s camp it’s power and influence, but for the other? There’s a motive just as potent.”

  Now Gamache smiled, and nodded.

  “To keep their peaceful, quiet life. To protect their home.”

  “And who wouldn’t kill to protect their home?” asked Beauvoir.

  Gamache thought about that, and remembered collecting the eggs that morning, in the soft light of dawn, with Frère Bernard. And the monk’s description of the planes overhead, and the pilgrims pounding on the door.

  And the abbey laid to waste.

  “If Frère Mathieu had won the battle he’d have made another recording, ended the vow of silence and changed the monastery forever,” said the Chief. He smiled at Beauvoir and got to his feet. “Well done. Though there’s one thing you’re forgetting.”

  “I can’t see how that can possibly be true,” said Beauvoir, also getting up.

  The two men left the dining hall and walked down the deserted corridor. Gamache opened the book he’d carried everywhere. The slim volume of Christian meditations. From it he drew the piece of yellowed paper found on the body, and handed it to his second in command.

  “How do you explain this?”

  “Maybe it’s meaningless.”

  The Chief made a not very encouraging face. “The prior died curled around it. It sure meant something to him.”

  Beauvoir opened the large door for the Chief and both men entered the Blessed Chapel. They stopped while Beauvoir studied the page.

  He’d glanced at it when it was first found, but hadn’t spent the time with it the Chief had. Gamache waited, hoping maybe fresh, young, cynical eyes might see something he’d missed.

  “We don’t know anything about it, do we,” said Beauvoir, concentrating on the script and the strange markings above the words. “We don’t know if it’s old, or who wrote it. And we sure don’t know what it means.”

  “Or why the prior had it. Was he trying to protect it when he died, or was he trying to hide it? Was it precious to him, or was it blasphemy?”

  “That’s interesting,” said Beauvoir, examining the page. “I think I’ve figured out what one of the words is. I think this,” he pointed to a Latin word written in script and Gamache leaned toward it, “means ‘ass.’”

  Beauvoir handed the page back.

  “Merci.” Gamache returned it for safekeeping, and snapped the book shut. “Very enlightening.”

  “Frankly, patron, if you have a monastery full of monks and you come to me for enlightenment, you deserve what you get.”

  Gamache laughed. “C’est vrai. Well, I’m off to find Dom Philippe and see if there’s a plan of the abbey.”

  “And I want a word with the soloist, Frère Antoine.”

  “The one who challenged the abbot?”

  “That’s him,” said Beauvoir. “Must be one of the prior’s men. What is it?”

  Gamache had grown very still. Listening. The monastery, always quiet, seemed to be holding its breath.

  But with the first notes of the chant, it breathed.

  “Not again,” sighed Beauvoir. “Didn’t we just have one? Honestly, they’re worse than crackheads.”

  * * *

  Up and down. Bow. Sit. Stand.

  The postbreakfast service called Lauds went on and on. But now Beauvoir found himself less bored. Probably, he told himself, because he knew some members of the band. He was also paying more attention. Seeing it as more than just a waste of time between interrogations and collecting evidence.

  The prayer service itself was evidence.

  The Gregorian chants. All the suspects lined up, facing each other.

  Was the rift obvious? Could he see it, now that he knew? Beauvoir found himself fascinated by the ritual. And the monks.

  “This was the prior’s last service,” whispered Gamache, as they bowed then straightened. Beauvoir noticed the Chief’s right hand was steady, no tremor today. “He was killed almost immediately after Lauds, yesterday.”

  “We still don’t know for sure where he went after Lauds,” whispered Beauvoir as they briefly sat. It was, he’d grown to realize, a tease. Within moments they were back on their feet.

  “True. When this is over we need to watch which monks go where.”

  The Chief kept his eyes on the rows of monks. The sun was rising and, as Lauds went on, more and more light descended from the windows high up in the central tower. It hit the imperfect old glass and refracted. Split. Into all the colors ever created. And those tumbled to the altar and lit the monks and their music. So that it seemed that the notes and the cheerful light mixed and merged. Playing together on the altar.

  Most of Gamache’s experience with the Church had been fairly grim, so he’d sought, and found, his God elsewhere.

  But this was different. There was delight here. And not by pure chance. Gamache took his eyes off the monks for a moment and looked to the ceiling. The beams and buttresses. And the windows. The original architect of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups had deliberately created an abbey that was a vessel for light and sound.

  Perfect acoustics married playful light.

  He lowered his gaze. The monks’ voices seemed even more beautiful than yesterday. Tinged with sorrow now, but there was also a levity to the notes, a lift. The chants were both solemn and joyous. Grounded and winged.

  And Gamache thought again about the page with the old neumes that he’d slipped for safekeeping into the book of meditations. The neumes looked, at times, like wings in flight. Was that what the composer of the ancient chants had tried to get across? That this music wasn’t really of this earth?

  Beauvoir had been right, of course. The music both touched Gamache and transported him. He was tempted to lose himself in the gentle, calming voices. So in tune with each other. To drop the worries he carried and drift away. To forget why he was there.

  It was infectious, insidious.

  Gamache smiled and realized to blame the music was ludicrous. If he drifted away, lost focus, it was his fault. Not the monks’. Not the music’s.

  He doubled his efforts and scanned the rows. Like a game, but not a game.

  Find the leader.

  With the prior gone, who now led this world-famous choir? Because someone did. As he’d said to Beauvoir, choirs don’t direct themselves. One of the monks, with movements so subtle as to be lost on even a trained investigator, had taken charge.

  * * *

  When Lauds ended the Chief and Beauvoir stood in their pew, watching.
r />   It was, thought Beauvoir, a bit like taking the break in a game of pool. Balls heading off in all different directions. That’s what this looked like. Monks going here, there and everywhere. Scattering, though not actually bouncing off the walls.

  Beauvoir turned to say something sarcastic to Gamache, but changed his mind when he saw the Chief’s face. It was stern, thoughtful.

  Jean-Guy followed the Chief’s gaze and saw Frère Luc walking slowly, perhaps reluctantly, toward the wooden door that would take him down the long, long corridor. To the locked door. The gate. And the tiny room marked “Porterie.”

  He was all alone, and looked it.

  Beauvoir turned back to the Chief and saw in his eyes a look that was both sharp, and concerned. And he wondered if the Chief was seeing Frère Luc, but thinking about other young men. Who’d gone through a door. And not returned.

  Who’d followed Gamache’s orders. Followed Gamache. But while the Chief had come back, with a deep scar near his temple and a tremor in his hand, they hadn’t.

  Was the Chief looking at Frère Luc, but thinking about them?

  Gamache seemed worried.

  “OK, patron?” whispered Beauvoir.

  The acoustics in the Blessed Chapel picked up the words and magnified them. Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t answer. Instead he continued to stare. At the now-closed door. Where Frère Luc had gone, and disappeared.

  Alone.

  The other black-robed monks went through all the other doors.

  Finally they were alone in the Blessed Chapel and Gamache turned back to Beauvoir.

  “I know you want to speak with Frère Antoine—”

  “The soloist,” said Beauvoir. “Yes.”

  “That’s a good idea, but I wonder if you’d mind joining Frère Luc first?”

  “Sure, but what’ll I ask him? You’ve already spoken to him. So have I, in the shower this morning.”

  “Find out if Frère Antoine knew he was about to be replaced as soloist on the next album. Just keep Frère Luc company for a while. See if anyone else shows up at the porter’s door in the next half hour.”