The Beautiful Mystery

  “Arrested him for what?”

  “Murder. Sedition. It came out that Arnot was encouraging officers on reserves to kill any native who made trouble. Or, at the very least, when a young native was shot or beaten to death, Arnot didn’t discipline the officers who did it. It was a short step from turning a blind eye, to actively encouraging the killings. It became, apparently—” Beauvoir spoke haltingly, finding it difficult to talk about something so shameful. “—almost a sport. An elderly Cree woman asked Gamache for help finding her missing son. That’s when he discovered what was going on.”

  “And the rest of the Sûreté leadership wanted your boss to stay quiet about it?”

  Beauvoir nodded. “They agreed to fire Arnot and the other officers, but they didn’t want a scandal. Didn’t want to lose the trust of the public.”

  Frère Bernard didn’t drop his eyes, but Beauvoir had the impression they wavered.

  “Chief Inspector Gamache arrested Arnot anyway,” said Frère Bernard. “He disobeyed orders.”

  “It never occurred to him not to. He thought the mothers and fathers and loved ones of those who were killed deserved an answer. And a public trial. And an apology. It all came out. It was a mess.”

  Bernard nodded. The Church knew from scandals, and knew from cover-ups and knew from messes.

  “What happened?” the monk asked.

  “Arnot and the others were convicted. They’re serving life sentences.”

  “And the Chief Inspector?”

  Beauvoir smiled. “He’s still Chief. But he’ll never make Superintendent and he knows it.”

  “But he kept his job.”

  “They couldn’t fire him. Even before this happened he was one of the most respected officers in the Sûreté. The trial made him hated by the big bosses, but adored by the rank and file. He restored their pride. And, ironically, the public trust. Francoeur couldn’t fire him. Though he wanted to. He and Arnot were friends. Good friends.”

  Frère Bernard thought about that for a moment. “So did this Francoeur know what his friend was doing? They were both superintendents.”

  “The Chief could never prove it.”

  “But he tried?”

  “He wanted to get all the rot out,” said Beauvoir.

  “And did he?”

  “I hope so.”

  Both men thought back to that moment on the dock. Gamache’s extended hand, to help Francoeur from the plane. And Francoeur’s look. A glance.

  There wasn’t just enmity there. There was hatred.

  “Why’s the Chief Superintendent here?” asked Frère Bernard.

  “I don’t know.” Beauvoir tried to keep his voice light. And it was the truth. He really didn’t know. But again he felt the worry in his stomach roll over and scrape his insides.

  Frère Bernard frowned as he thought. “Must be difficult for them to work together. Do they have to often?”

  “Not often.”

  He’d go no further. He certainly wouldn’t tell this monk about the last time Gamache and Francoeur had been thrown together on a case. The raid on the factory. Almost a year ago now. And the disastrous results.

  He saw again the Chief gripping the sides of his desk and leaning toward Francoeur in a manner so threatening the Chief Superintendent had paled and stepped back. Beauvoir could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard Gamache yell. But he’d yelled that day. Right into Francoeur’s face.

  The ferocity of it had frightened even Beauvoir.

  And the Chief Superintendent had shouted back.

  Gamache had prevailed. But only by stepping back. By apologizing. By begging Francoeur to see reason. Gamache had begged. That was the price he’d paid, to get Francoeur to act.

  Beauvoir had never seen the Chief beg before. But he’d done it that day.

  Gamache and Francoeur had barely spoken since. Perhaps a word at the state funeral for the officers killed in that raid on the factory, though Beauvoir doubted it. And maybe something at the ceremony, when Francoeur had pinned a medal of bravery on Gamache’s chest. Against Gamache’s wishes.

  But Francoeur had insisted. Knowing that to the rest of the world it would appear he was rewarding the Chief Inspector. But the two men, privately, knew the truth.

  Beauvoir had been in the audience for that ceremony. Had seen his Chief’s face when the medal had been placed on his chest. It might as well have pierced his heart.

  It was the right deed. For the wrong reason.

  Beauvoir knew his Chief deserved that medal, but Francoeur had done it to humiliate. Publicly rewarding Gamache for an action that had left so many Sûreté agents dead and wounded. Francoeur had given it to him not as recognition for all the lives Gamache had saved that terrible day, but as an accusation. A permanent reminder. Of all the young lives lost.

  Beauvoir could have killed Francoeur at that moment.

  Again he felt a clawing in the pit of his stomach. Something was trying to rip its way out. He wanted desperately to change the subject. To wipe away the memories. Of the ceremony, but mostly of that horrific day. In the factory.

  When one of the lives lost had almost been his own.

  When one of the lives lost had almost been the Chief’s.

  Beauvoir thought about the tiny pills the size of wild blueberries. The ones still hidden in his apartment. And the burst they brought. Not of musky flavor, but of blessed oblivion.

  Numbing what hid in Beauvoir’s secret room.

  He hadn’t had an OxyContin or a Percocet in months, not since the Chief had confronted him. Taken the pills away. Gotten him help.

  He might make a good Gilbertine after all. Like them, he lived in fear. Not of what would come at him from the outside, but what was patiently lying in wait inside his own walls.

  “Are you all right?”

  Beauvoir followed the soft voice back. Like candies along a path. Leading him out of the forest.

  “Can I help?”

  Frère Bernard had put out his rough hand and was touching Beauvoir’s arm.

  “No, I’m fine. Just thinking about the case.”

  The monk continued to examine his companion. Far from convinced he was hearing the truth.

  Beauvoir scrambled around in his memory, picking up bits and pieces, desperate to find something useful. The case. The case. The prior. The murder. The scene. The garden.

  The garden.

  “We were talking about the abbot’s garden,” said Beauvoir. His voice was gruff, not inviting any more confidences. He’d already gone too far.

  “Were we?” asked Frère Bernard.

  “You said everyone knows about it. But you haven’t actually been in the garden yourself.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who had?”

  “Anyone Dom Philippe invited.”

  Beauvoir realized he wasn’t listening as closely as he should. He was still distracted by his memories, and the feelings they awakened.

  Had there been resentment in Frère Bernard’s voice just now?

  Beauvoir didn’t think so, but with his attention frayed he couldn’t be sure. And again he cursed Francoeur. For being where he wasn’t wanted. In the monastery. And in Beauvoir’s head. Rattling around in there. Poking awake things better left sleeping.

  He remembered what one of his counselors had advised when he felt anxious.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  “What do you think of the abbot?” he asked. He was feeling light-headed.

  “What do you mean?”

  Beauvoir wasn’t sure what he meant.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  “You’re one of the abbot’s men, aren’t you?” he asked. Grabbing at whatever questions surfaced.

  “I am.”

  “Why? Why not join with the prior?”

  The monk starting kicking a stone and Beauvoir focused on that as it danced and jumped along the dirt path. The door into the monastery seemed a lo
ng way off. And suddenly he wished he was back in the Blessed Chapel. Where it was calm and peaceful. Listening to the monotone chants. Clinging to the chants.

  No chaos there. No thoughts, no decisions. No raw emotions.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  “Frère Mathieu was a gifted musician,” Frère Bernard was saying. “He turned our vocation of singing chants into something sublime. He was a great teacher and a natural leader. He gave our lives new meaning and purpose. He breathed life into the abbey.”

  “Then why wasn’t he abbot?”

  It was working. Beauvoir followed his breath, and the monk’s quiet voice, back into his own body.

  “Perhaps he should have been. But Dom Philippe was elected.”

  “Over Frère Mathieu?”

  “No. Frère Mathieu didn’t run.”

  “Did Dom Philippe get in by acclamation?”

  “No. The prior at the time ran. Most expected him to win since it was a natural progression. The prior almost always became the abbot.”

  “And who was the prior at the time?” Beauvoir’s mind was working again. Taking things in, and churning rational questions back out. But the fist in his belly remained.

  “I was.”

  Beauvoir wasn’t sure he heard right. “You were the prior?”

  “Yes. And Dom Philippe was just plain old Frère Philippe. A regular monk.”

  “It must have been humiliating.”

  Frère Bernard smiled. “We try not to personalize these things. It was God’s will.”

  “And that makes it better? I’d rather be humiliated by men than God himself.”

  Bernard chose not to answer.

  “So you go back to being a regular monk, and the abbot appoints his friend as prior. Frère Mathieu.”

  Bernard nodded, and absently took a handful of blueberries from his basket.

  “Did you resent the new prior?” asked Beauvoir, helping himself to some of the berries.

  “Not at all. It turned out to be an inspired choice. The former abbot and I were a good team. But I wouldn’t have been as good a prior to Dom Philippe as Frère Mathieu proved. It worked well for many years.”

  “So you had to suck it up.”

  “You have a singular way of putting things.”

  “You should hear what I’m not saying,” Beauvoir said and saw Frère Bernard smile. “Have you heard that the prior was considering replacing Frère Antoine as soloist?”

  “With Frère Luc? Yes. It was a rumor spread by Frère Luc, and apparently believed by him, but no one else.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t true?”

  “The prior could be difficult. I think,” Frère Bernard shot Beauvoir a glance, “you might call him an asshole.”

  “I’m hurt.”

  “But he knew music. Gregorian chant was more than just music to him. It was his path to the Divine. He would rather die than do anything to undermine the choir or the chants.”

  Frère Bernard walked on, apparently unaware of what he’d said. But Beauvoir tucked it away.

  “Frère Antoine should be soloist,” said the monk, nibbling at more berries. “He has a magnificent voice.”

  “Better than Luc’s?”

  “Far better. Frère Luc’s is better technically. He can control it. It has a beautiful tone but there’s nothing divine there. It’s like seeing a painting of a person, instead of the real thing. It’s missing a dimension.”

  Frère Bernard’s opinion of Luc’s voice was almost exactly the same as Frère Antoine’s.

  Still, the young monk had been convinced and convincing.

  “If Luc was right,” ventured Beauvoir, “what would the reaction have been?”

  Bernard thought about that for a moment.

  “I think people would have wondered.”

  “Wondered what?”

  Now Frère Bernard was distinctly uncomfortable. He popped more berries into his mouth. The basket, once overflowing, had been reduced to a puddle of blueberries.

  “Just wondered.”

  “You’re not telling me everything, Frère Bernard.”

  Bernard remained silent. Swallowing his thoughts and opinions and words along with the berries.

  But Beauvoir had a pretty good idea what he meant.

  “You’d have wondered at their relationship.”

  Bernard’s mouth clamped shut, the muscles around his jaw bulging with the effort of keeping the words in.

  “You’d have wondered,” Beauvoir pressed, “what was going on between the older prior and the new recruit.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Of course it is. You and the other monks would have wondered what happened after choir practice. When the rest of you went back to your cells.”

  “No. You’re wrong.”

  “Is that how Antoine got his job? Was he more than just a soloist, and Frère Mathieu more than just the choirmaster?”

  “Stop,” snapped Frère Bernard. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Then what was it like?”

  “You’re making the chants, the choir, sordid. Mathieu was a deeply unpleasant man. I didn’t like him at all. But even I know that never,” Bernard hissed the words, “never would he have chosen a soloist in exchange for sex. Frère Mathieu loved the chants. Above all else.”

  “But still,” said Beauvoir, his voice very quiet now. “You would have wondered.”

  Frère Bernard stared at Beauvoir, his eyes wide. His hand around the handle of the basket showed a strip of white knuckles.

  “Did you know that the abbot has made Frère Antoine the new choirmaster?”

  Beauvoir’s voice was friendly. Conversational. As though the confrontation hadn’t just happened. It was a trick he’d learned from Gamache. Don’t keep attacking. Move forward, back, sideways. Stand still.

  Be unpredictable.

  Slowly Frère Bernard gathered himself. And took a deep breath in.

  A deep breath out.

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” he finally said. “It’s the sort of thing the abbot would do.”

  “Go on.”

  “A few minutes ago you asked why I’m the abbot’s man. This is why. Only a saint or a fool would promote an adversary. Dom Philippe’s no fool.”

  “You think he’s a saint?”

  Frère Bernard shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think he’s the closest we have. Why do you think he was elected abbot? What did he have to offer? He was just a quiet little monk going about his day. He wasn’t a leader. He wasn’t a great administrator. He wasn’t a fine musician. He brought almost no actual skills to the community. He wasn’t a plumber or carpenter or stonemason.”

  “Then what is he?”

  “He’s a man of God. The real deal. He believes with all his heart and soul. And he inspires that in others. If people hear the Divine when we sing, Dom Philippe put it there. He makes us better men and better monks. He believes in God and he believes in the power of love and forgiveness. And not just a faith of convenience. If you ever needed proof, look at what he just did. He made Frère Antoine choirmaster. Because it was the right thing to do. For the choir, for the chants and for the peace of the community.”

  “That just makes him a savvy politician, not a saint.”

  “You’re a skeptic, Monsieur Beauvoir.”

  “And for good reason, Frère Bernard. Someone killed your prior. Bashed his head in in the abbot’s pretty little garden. You talk of saints. Where was the saint then? Where was God then?”

  Bernard said nothing.

  “Oui,” snapped Beauvoir. “I’m a skeptic.”

  Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?

  Someone had.

  “And your precious abbot wasn’t simply elected out of the blue,” Beauvoir reminded him. “He chose to run. He wanted the job. Does a saint seek power? I thought they were supposed to be humble.”

  They were within sight of the gate now. Inside were the long, light hallways. And small cel
ls. And silent, gliding monks. And Chief Inspector Gamache. And Francoeur. Together. Beauvoir was a little surprised the walls and foundations of the monastery weren’t shaking.

  They approached the door, made of thick wood, cut from this forest four hundred years ago. And then hinges were forged. And a deadbolt. And a lock.

  On the rolled paper in Beauvoir’s hand Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups looked like a crucifix. But in reality?

  It looked like a prison.

  Beauvoir stopped.

  “Why is the door locked?” he asked Frère Bernard.

  “Tradition, nothing more. I expect lots of what we do seems senseless, but our rules and traditions make sense to us.”

  Still Beauvoir stared.

  “A door is locked as protection,” he finally said. “But who’s being protected?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You said your slogan could be ‘Just in case.’”

  “Exsisto paratus, yes. It was a joke.”

  Beauvoir nodded. “Lots of truth is said in jest, or so I’ve heard. Just in case of what, mon frère? What’re the locked doors for? To keep the world out, or the monks in? To protect you, or protect us?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Frère Bernard. But Beauvoir could see by his expression that he understood perfectly well. He could also see that the monk’s basket, with its mother lode of berries, was now empty. The perfect offering gone.

  “Maybe your precious abbot was neither a savvy politician nor a saint. But a jailer. Maybe that’s why he was so against another recording. So adamant about keeping the vow of silence. Was he just enforcing a long tradition of silence? Or was the abbot afraid of loosing some monster into the world?”

  “I can’t believe you just said that,” said Bernard, trembling with the effort to contain himself. “Are you talking about pedophilia? Do you think we’re here because we violated little boys? Do you think Brother Charles, Brother Simon, the abbot—” he sputtered. “—I … You can’t possibly…”

  He could go no further. His face was red with rage and Beauvoir wondered if his head might explode.

  But still, the homicide inspector said nothing. He waited. And waited.

  Finally silence was his friend. And this monk’s enemy. Because in that silence sat a specter. Fully grown. Fully fleshed. Of all the little boys. All the choirboys. The schoolboys. The altar boys. The trusting boys. And their parents.