“Free choice?” asked Beauvoir, and saw the monk smile again.
“Might as well make use of it.”
“Has anyone ever left?”
“Lots. More leave than stay.”
“And Brother Luc? He’s been here almost a year now. When’s his test over?”
“When he decides it’s over. When he asks to be taken out of the porter’s room and comes to join the rest of us. Or he uses the key and leaves.”
Another heavy gourd landed in Beauvoir’s basket.
Frère Antoine moved down the row.
“He’s in a sort of purgatory there,” said the monk, searching among the huge leaves for more squash. “Of his own making. It must be very painful. He seems paralyzed.”
“By what?”
“You tell me, Inspector. What generally paralyzes people?”
Beauvoir knew that answer. “Fear.”
Frère Antoine nodded. “Frère Luc is gifted. By far the best voice we have here, and that’s saying something. But he’s frozen with fear.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything. Of belonging. And not belonging. He’s afraid of the sun and afraid of shadows. He’s afraid of creaks in the night and afraid of the morning dew. That’s why I know Frère Mathieu wouldn’t have chosen him to be the soloist. Because his voice, while beautiful, is full of fear. When that fear is replaced by faith he’ll be the soloist. But not before.”
Beauvoir thought about that as they inched down the row, his basket growing heavy with produce.
“But suppose the prior had chosen him? Suppose he decided most people wouldn’t hear the fear, or care. Maybe it even made the music more attractive, richer, more human. I don’t know. But suppose Frère Mathieu had chosen Luc. How would you’ve felt?”
The monk took the straw hat from his head and wiped his brow. “You think I’d care?”
Beauvoir met the stare. It really was like looking into a mirror. “I think you’d care very deeply.”
“Would you? If a man you admired, respected, revered even passed you up in favor of someone else, what would you do?”
“Is that how you felt about the prior? You revered him?”
“I did. He was a great man. He saved the monastery. And if he wanted a monkey to sing solo I’d happily plant bananas.”
Beauvoir found himself wanting to believe this man. Perhaps because he wanted to believe he’d react the same way himself.
But he had his doubts.
And Jean-Guy Beauvoir also doubted this monk. Beneath that robe, beneath that ridiculous hat, wasn’t the son of God but the son of man. And the son of man, Beauvoir knew, was capable of almost anything. If pushed. If betrayed. Especially by a man he revered.
Beauvoir knew that the root of all evil wasn’t money. No, what created and drove evil was fear. Fear of not having enough money, enough food, enough land, enough power, enough security, enough love. Fear of not getting what you want, or losing what you have.
Beauvoir watched Brother Antoine collect hidden squash. What drove a healthy, smart young man to become a monk? Was it faith or was it fear?
* * *
“Who’s leading the choir now that the prior is gone?” Gamache asked. They’d walked to the end of the garden and were wandering back. Their cheeks were red from the cold morning air.
“I’ve asked Brother Antoine to take over the choir.”
“The soloist? The one who challenged you last night?”
“The one who is by far the most accomplished musician, after Mathieu.”
“You weren’t tempted to take over?”
“I was tempted, and still am,” said the abbot with a smile. “But I passed up that fruit. Antoine is the man for the job. Not me.”
“And yet, he was one of the prior’s men.”
“What do you mean by that?” The abbot’s smile faded.
Gamache cocked his head slightly and examined his companion. “I mean that this abbey, this order, is divided. The prior’s men on one side, the abbot’s men on the other.”
“That’s preposterous,” the abbot snapped. Then snapped back into place. But it was too late. Gamache had had a glimpse of what hid beneath the face. A serpent’s tongue had lashed out, and retreated just as quickly.
“It’s the truth, mon père,” said Gamache.
“You’re mistaking dissent for dissension,” said the abbot.
“I’m not. I do know the difference. What’s happening here, and has probably been going on for quite a while, is far more than healthy disagreement. And you know it.”
The two men had stopped walking and now stared at each other.
“I don’t know what you mean, Monsieur Gamache. There’s no such creature as an abbot’s man. Or a prior’s man. Mathieu and I worked together for decades. He looked after the music, I looked after their spiritual life—”
“But weren’t they one and the same? Frère Luc described the chants as both a bridge to God and God himself.”
“Frère Luc is young and tends to simplify.”
“Frère Luc is one of the prior’s men.”
The abbot bristled. “The chants are important, but only one aspect of our spiritual lives here at Saint-Gilbert.”
“Does the split cut along those lines?” asked Gamache. His voice was calm but unrelenting. “Those for whom the music was paramount joined with the prior. Those whose faith came first joined with you?”
“There was no joining,” said the abbot, his voice raised in exasperation. Desperation, even, thought Gamache. “We’re united. We can sometimes disagree, but that’s all.”
“And did you disagree about the direction of the abbey? Did you disagree about something as fundamental as the vow of silence?”
“I lifted that.”
“Yes, but only after the prior was dead, and only to answer our questions, not to allow the monks to go into the world. Do concerts, give interviews.”
“The vow of silence will never be permanently lifted. Never.”
* * *
“Do you think the second recording’ll go ahead?” Beauvoir asked.
Now, finally, he saw a reaction in Frère Antoine. A flash of anger, then suppressed. Like the root vegetables beneath their feet. Buried, but still growing.
“I have no idea. If the prior was alive I’m sure it would have. The abbot was against it, of course. But Frère Mathieu would’ve won.”
There was no uncertainty in the monk’s voice. And Beauvoir finally had his button. It had taken him awhile to find it. He could push and insult and harangue Frère Antoine all day, and he’d remain composed, good-humored even. But mention the abbot?
Kaboom.
“Why do you say, ‘of course’? Why would the abbot be against it?”
As long as he could keep pushing the “abbot button” this monk would be off-balance. And there was a better chance something unexpected would come out of that mouth.
“Because it wasn’t under his control.”
The monk leaned closer to Beauvoir. Jean-Guy felt the force of this monk’s personality. And his physical vitality. Here was a strong man, in every way.
Why are you a monk? was really the question Beauvoir was longing to ask. But didn’t. And he knew, deep down, why not. He too was afraid. Of the answer.
“Look, the abbot decides everything within these walls. In a monastic life the abbot is all-powerful,” said Frère Antoine, his hazel eyes focused on Beauvoir. “But he let something slip through his fingers. The music. In allowing the first recording he let the music out into the world and lost control of it. The chants took on a life of their own. He’s spent the past year trying to undo all that. To contain them again.” A malicious smile appeared on that handsome face. “But he can’t. It’s God’s will. And he hates it. And he hated the prior. We all knew that.”
“Why would he hate the prior? I thought they were friends.”
“Because the prior was everything he isn’t. Brilliant, gifted, passionate. The abbot’s a dry o
ld stick. A decent enough administrator, but no leader. He could quote the bible front and back, in English and French and Latin. But with the Gregorian chants? The center of our life here? Well, some know it and some feel it. The abbot knows the chants. The prior felt them. And that made Frère Mathieu a far more powerful man in the monastery. And the abbot knew it.”
“But it must have always been like that, why would the recording change anything?”
“Because as long as it was just us, they worked it out. Made a good team, in fact. But with the success of the recording, the power shifted. Suddenly the prior was getting recognition from the outside.”
“And with that came influence,” said Beauvoir.
“The abbot felt threatened. Then Frère Mathieu decided we should not only do another recording but go out into the world. Respond to the invitations. He felt strongly that those invitations came as much from God as from the people. It was, in essence, a literal ‘calling.’ Suppose Moses had kept the tablets? Or Jesus had remained a carpenter, privately communing with God? No. These gifts are meant to be shared. The prior wanted to share them. But the abbot didn’t.”
The words tumbled over themselves to leave Frère Antoine’s body. He couldn’t condemn Dom Philippe fast enough.
“The prior wanted the vow of silence lifted, so that we could go into the world.”
“And the abbot refused,” said Beauvoir. “Did he have much support?”
“Some of the brothers were loyal to him, more out of habit than anything. Habit and training. We’re taught to always bend our will to the abbot.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because Dom Philippe would’ve destroyed Saint-Gilbert. Taken it back to the Dark Ages. He wanted nothing to change. But it was too late. The recording changed everything. It was a gift of God. But the abbot refused to see it that way. He said the recording was like the serpent in the garden, trying to lure us away, seduce us with promises of power and money.”
“Maybe he was right,” Beauvoir suggested and was rewarded with a look of fury.
“He’s a frightened old man, clinging to the past.”
Frère Antoine was leaning toward Beauvoir, practically spitting the words. Then he paused, and a perplexed look crossed his face. The monk cocked his head to one side.
Beauvoir also paused to listen.
Something was coming.
* * *
Armand Gamache looked into the sky.
Something was coming.
He and the abbot had been discussing the garden. He wanted to bring the interview back to a more conversational tone. It was like fishing. Reel in, let go. Reel in, let go. Give the suspect the impression of freedom. That they were off the hook. Then reel them in again.
It was exhausting. For everyone. But mostly, Gamache knew, for whoever was on the hook and writhing.
The abbot had clearly interpreted this shift of tone and subject as Gamache relenting.
“Why do you think Dom Clément built this garden?” the Chief had asked.
“What do people who live close together value most?”
Gamache thought about that. Was it companionship? Peace and quiet? Tolerance?
“Privacy?”
The abbot nodded. “Oui. C’est ça. Dom Clément gave himself the one thing no one else in Saint-Gilbert had. Privacy.”
“Another division,” said Gamache, and the abbot looked at him. Dom Philippe had felt the slight tug on the line and realized what he’d taken for freedom wasn’t that at all.
Gamache considered what the abbot had just said. Maybe their legendary treasure wasn’t a thing, but nothing. An empty room no one knew about. And a lock.
Privacy. And with privacy, of course, came something else.
Safety.
That was, Gamache knew, what people valued most of all.
Then he heard it.
He scanned the clear blue sky. Nothing.
But something was there. And it was getting closer.
* * *
A roar shattered the peace. It seemed to be coming from all around them, as though the sky had opened its mouth and was shrieking at them.
All the mushroom monks, and Beauvoir, looked up.
Then, as a man, they ducked.
* * *
Gamache ducked and pulled Dom Philippe down with him.
The plane zoomed overhead and was gone in an instant. But Gamache heard it bank, and turn back.
Both men stood stock-still, staring into the sky, Gamache still clasping the abbot’s robes.
“It’s coming back,” Dom Philippe shouted.
* * *
“Shit,” yelled Beauvoir, above the straining engines.
“Christ,” yelled Frère Antoine.
The straw hats had been blown from the monks’ heads and lay on the plants, breaking some of the vines.
“It’s coming back,” shouted Frère Antoine.
Beauvoir stared into the sky. It was maddening, only being able to see the patch of blue directly over their heads. They could hear the plane banking, straining, approaching. But couldn’t see it.
And then it was upon them again, even lower this time. Apparently heading straight for the bell tower.
“Oh, shit,” said Frère Antoine.
* * *
Dom Philippe grabbed at Gamache’s jacket and the two men ducked again.
“Damn.”
Gamache heard the abbot, even above the straining engines.
“They almost hit the monastery,” screamed Dom Philippe. “It’s the press. I’d hoped we’d have more time.”
* * *
Beauvoir slowly stood but remained alert, listening.
The sound grew momentarily louder, disappeared, then there was a mighty splash.
“Christ,” said Beauvoir.
“Merde,” said Frère Antoine.
The monks and Beavoir ran to the door, back into the monastery. Their floppy hats abandoned in the garden.
* * *
Damn, thought Gamache, leaving the garden with the abbot.
He’d scanned the plane as it zoomed over the garden within feet, it seemed, of their heads. At the last moment it banked to miss the bell tower.
In that moment, before it disappeared again, he’d seen an insignia on the door of the plane.
They joined the parade of monks walking quickly down the corridors, picking up more monks and more speed as they progressed through the halls, across the Blessed Chapel, and into the final corridor. Gamache could see Beauvoir just ahead, walking rapidly beside Frère Antoine.
Young Frère Luc stood in front of the locked door holding the wrought-iron key in his hand. He stared at them.
Gamache, alone among the men, knew exactly what was on the other side of that door. He’d recognized the insignia on the plane. It wasn’t the press. Nor was it curiosity seekers, come to gawk at the famous monastery, made infamous by a terrible crime.
No, this was another creature entirely.
Smelling blood.
SEVENTEEN
At a nod from the abbot, Frère Luc put the key in the lock. It turned easily and the door opened, letting in a breeze of pine-scented air, and sunshine, and the sound of a float plane taxiing to the dock.
The monks clustered around the open door. Then the abbot stepped forward.
“I’ll ask them to leave,” he said, his voice determined.
“Perhaps I should come along,” said Gamache.
Dom Philippe studied the Chief, then nodded.
Beauvoir made to join them but was stopped by a subtle wave of Gamache’s hand. “It would be better if you stayed here.”
“What is it?” Beauvoir asked, seeing the look on the Chief’s face.
“I’m not really sure.”
Gamache turned back to the abbot and motioned toward the wharf. “Shall we?”
The plane had almost reached the dock. The pilot cut power, the props slowed, and the plane, on its pontoons, drifted the last few feet to the dock. Gamach
e and the abbot grabbed the struts and steadied the plane. Then the Chief reached for the ropes dangling in the cold lake.
“I wouldn’t bother,” said the abbot. “They won’t be staying long.”
The Chief turned, the wet line in his hand. “I think they might.”
“You forget who’s in charge here.”
Gamache knelt and made a couple of quick knots, securing the float plane to the dock, then he stood back up.
“I don’t forget. It’s just that I think I know who’s in the plane. It’s not the press, you know.”
“No?”
“I wasn’t completely sure I’d seen it right, when the plane flew over. That’s why I wanted to come with you.”
The Chief pointed to the crest on the door. It showed four fleurs-de-lys. And above them was stenciled MJQ.
“MJQ?” asked the abbot.
The small door opened.
“Ministère de la Justice du Québec,” said Gamache and stepped forward, offering his hand to steady the visitor as he squeezed out of the float plane.
The Chief Inspector’s offer was either not noticed or ignored. A fine black leather shoe appeared, then a second, and a man stood for a moment on the pontoon, then strolled casually onto the dock, as though into an opera house or an art gallery.
He looked around, taking in his surroundings.
Not an explorer, landed in a new world, but a conqueror.
He was in late middle age, sixty perhaps. His hair was gray, his face was clean-shaven, handsome and assured. No weakness there. Neither was it the face of a bully. He appeared to be completely at home, composed and comfortable. While most men would look slightly ridiculous arriving in the wilderness in a fine suit and tie, this man made it seem perfectly natural. Even enviable.
And Gamache suspected, if the visitor stayed long enough, the monks would eventually be in suits and ties themselves. And thanking the visitor.
He had that effect on people. Not adjusting to the world, but having the world adjust to him. Which it did. With few, but notable, exceptions.
The man stood on the dock and looked around, his eyes sweeping over Gamache. Over and through and by him. And came to rest on the abbot.
“Dom Philippe?”
The abbot bowed, but didn’t take his blue eyes off the stranger.