“Like him?” It was as though he’d never considered it before, and Gamache realized, a bit surprised himself, that Frère Simon probably hadn’t. “It’s not a matter of like or dislike here. It’s a matter of accepting. Like can turn to dislike fairly easily in a closed environment. We learn here not to even think in those terms, but to accept as God’s will that the monks who are here are meant to be. If it’s good enough for God, it’s good enough for us.”
“But you just called him pompous.”
“And he is. And he probably calls me morose, and I am. We all have flaws we’re working on. Denying them doesn’t help.”
Gamache again held up the page. “Is it possible Frère Luc wrote this?”
“I doubt it. Frère Luc doesn’t like to make mistakes, or to be wrong. If he wrote a hymn in Latin it would be perfect.”
“And might not have a lot of humor,” said Gamache.
Frère Simon smiled a little. “Unlike the hilarity of the rest of us.”
Gamache recognized the sarcasm, but thought Simon was wrong. The monks he’d met here seemed to have a good sense of humor and to be able to laugh at themselves and their world. It was quiet, and gentle, and fairly well hidden behind a solemn visage, but it was there.
Gamache studied the paper in his hand. He agreed with Simon, Frère Luc could not possibly have written this. But one of them had.
More than ever, Chief Inspector Gamache was convinced this slim paper in his hand was the key to the killing.
And Gamache knew he’d figure it out, if it took millennia.
“The neumes,” he began, trying to work out what he wanted from Frère Simon. “You say you haven’t started transcribing them into notes, but can you still read them?”
“Oh, yes. They’re confused.” Frère Simon picked up his own copy. “No, that’s the wrong word. They’re complex. Most neumes for chants look confusing but once you know what you’re looking at, they’re really quite simple. That was the point of them. Simple directions for plainchants.”
“But these aren’t simple,” said Gamache.
“Far from it.”
“Can you give me an idea what it sounds like?”
Frère Simon looked up from the page, his face extremely stern, severe even. But Gamache didn’t back down. The two men stared at each other for a moment until Simon finally broke contact and looked back down at the page.
After a minute or so of silence, Gamache heard a sound. It seemed quite far off, and he wondered if a plane was approaching again. It was a haunting sort of hum.
Then he realized it wasn’t coming from outside at all. But inside.
The sound was coming from Frère Simon.
What started as a drone, a hum, a note hanging in the air, turned into something else. With a swoop, the note descended and seemed to play in the lower registers before leaping back up. Not a jagged leap, but a soft soar.
It seemed to sweep into Gamache’s chest and surround his heart, then take it along for the ride. Higher and higher. But never precipitous, never dangerous. Never did Gamache feel the music, or his heart, were about to come crashing down.
There was a certainty, a confidence. A lilting joy.
Words had replaced the hum, and now Frère Simon was singing. Gamache, of course, couldn’t understand the Latin, and yet, he felt he understood completely.
Frère Simon’s clear, calm, rich tenor held the notes, the nonsensical words, like a lover. There was no judgment there, just acceptance, in the voice and in the music.
And then, the final note descended to the earth. Softly, gently. A tender landing.
And the voice stopped. But the music stayed with Gamache. More a feeling than a memory. He wanted that feeling back. That levity. Wanted to ask Frère Simon to please keep going, to never stop.
The Chief realized there was no sign of “Camptown Races.” It had been replaced by this brief, but glorious, burst of song.
Even Frère Simon seemed surprised by what he’d just produced.
Gamache knew he’d be humming this beautiful tune for a long time to come. The doo-dahs had been replaced with I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear.
* * *
Beauvoir tossed a rock into the water, as far from the shore as he could heave it.
No skipping of flat stones. He chose another heavy rock, hefted it in his hand, then cocked his arm back and threw.
The rock arched away and landed in the water with a plop.
Beauvoir stood on the shore, strewn with water-rounded pebbles and stones and clamshells, and looked into the clear, clean lake. The waves he’d created washed ashore, breaking over the pebbles in tiny white caps. Like a miniature world, inundated by an unexpected tidal wave. Of Beauvoir’s making.
After his encounter with Francoeur he needed fresh air.
Frère Bernard, the wild blueberry monk, had mentioned a path. Beauvoir found it and started walking, though he didn’t take in much of his surroundings. Instead he was squirreling away in his head. Going over the few words he’d had with Francoeur.
And what he should have said. Could have said. The clever, cutting remarks he might have made.
But after a few minutes his furious thinking and his furious pace slowed, and he realized this path hugged the coastline. The shore here was strewn with boulders. And blueberry bushes.
He slowed to a normal walk, then a stroll, then finally he stopped on a small, stony peninsula that jutted into the remote lake. Huge birds swooped and glided overhead, never seeming to flap their wings.
Beauvoir removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs and put his big toe into the lake. Then quickly brought it out again. It was so cold it scalded. He tried again, until, millimeter by millimeter, both his feet were in the freezing water. They’d grown used to it. It constantly amazed him what you could get used to. Especially if you went numb.
He sat quietly for a minute, picking and eating tiny wild blueberries from a nearby bush, and trying not to think.
And when he did think, what came to mind was Annie. He took out his BlackBerry. There was a message from her. He read it, smiling.
It talked about her day at the law office. A funny little story about an Internet mix-up. Trivial, but Beauvoir read every word twice. Imagining her bafflement, the crossed communications, the happy resolution. She told him how much she missed him. And loved him.
Then he wrote back, describing where he was. Telling her they were making progress. He hesitated before hitting send, knowing while he hadn’t exactly lied, neither had he told her the complete truth. Of how he was feeling. His confusion, his anger. It seemed both directed at Francoeur and undirected. He was mad at Frère Raymond, mad at the monks, mad at being in the monastery instead of with Annie. Mad at the silence, broken by interminable masses.
Mad at himself for letting Francoeur get under his skin.
Mostly he was mad at Superintendent Francoeur.
But he told Annie none of that. Instead, he ended his message with a smiley face and hit send.
Wiping his feet off with his sweater, he put his socks and shoes back on.
He should be heading back. But instead, he picked up another stone and threw it, watching the rings disturb the calm waters.
* * *
“The funny thing is,” said Frère Simon, after he’d stopped singing. “The words actually fit.”
“I thought you said they were ridiculous. Nonsense,” said Gamache.
“They are. What I mean is, they fit the meter of the music. Like lyrics, they have to fit with the rhythm.”
“And these do?” Gamache looked back down at the yellowed page, though he didn’t know what he expected. That some magic would have worked, and he’d suddenly understand? But he understood nothing. Not the words, not the neumes.
“I think whoever wrote this knew music,” said Frère Simon. “But didn’t know how to write lyrics.”
“Like Lerner and Loewe” said Gamache.
“Simon and Garfunkel,” sa
id Frère Simon.
“Gilbert and Sullivan,” said Gamache, smiling.
Simon actually laughed. “I heard they despised each other. Wouldn’t be in the same room.”
“So,” said Gamache, working his way through his thoughts, “the music is beautiful, we agree on that. And the words are ridiculous. We agree on that.”
Frère Simon nodded.
“You’re thinking there was a writing team involved. Not one monk but two?”
“One wrote the music,” said Simon, “and the other wrote the words.”
They looked down at the papers in their hands. Then looked up into each other’s eyes.
“But that doesn’t explain why the words are so stupid,” said Frère Simon.
“Unless whoever wrote the neumes didn’t understand the Latin. Maybe he assumed his partner wrote lyrics as beautiful as the music deserved.”
“And when he found out what the words really meant…” said Frère Simon.
“Oui,” said Gamache. “It led to murder.”
“Do people really kill over something like this?” Simon asked.
“The Church castrated men to keep them sopranos,” Gamache reminded the monk. “Emotions run high when it comes to sacred music. It might not be such a big step from maiming to killing.”
Frère Simon thrust out his lower lip, thinking. It made him look suddenly quite young. A boy, working on a puzzle.
“The prior,” said Gamache. “Which is he likely to have written? The words or the music?”
“The music, without a doubt. He was a world authority on neumes and Gregorian chants.”
“But could he write original music using neumes?” asked the Chief.
“He certainly knew his neumes, so I suppose it’s possible.”
“Something’s bothering you,” said Gamache.
“It just seems unlikely, that’s all. Frère Mathieu loved Gregorian chants. He didn’t just like them, it was a form of adoration for him. A great religious passion.”
Gamache understood what the monk was saying. If he adored the plainchants so much, had made them his life’s work, why would he suddenly diverge from them, and create what the Chief held in his hands?
“Unless…” said Frère Simon.
“Unless he didn’t write this,” said Gamache, lifting the page slightly. “But found it in someone else’s possession and confronted him. In the one place they wouldn’t be seen.”
Which brought the Chief Inspector to his next question. “When you found the prior, was he still alive?”
TWENTY-FOUR
The door to the prior’s office was closed.
The last time Beauvoir had been in this position he’d walked in on what was clearly an argument between Gamache and Francoeur.
He leaned in and listened.
The wood was thick and dense. A hard wood, making it hard to hear. But he could just make out the Chief. The words were muffled, but he recognized the voice.
Beauvoir stood back, wondering what to do. That didn’t take long. If the Chief was again arguing with that fuck-head Francoeur, Beauvoir wasn’t going to let him fight it out alone.
He rapped twice and opened the door.
The sound inside abruptly stopped.
Beauvoir looked around. There was no Gamache.
Superintendent Francoeur sat behind the desk. Alone.
“What is it?” the Superintendent demanded.
It was one of the few times Beauvoir had seen Francoeur rattled. Then Beauvoir noticed the computer. The laptop had been facing in the other direction, toward the visitor’s chair. Now it was turned around, facing Francoeur. He appeared to have been using it when Beauvoir interrupted him.
Was he downloading something? Beauvoir couldn’t see how. The satellite connection hadn’t worked since they arrived. Unless Francoeur had gotten it to work, but Beauvoir doubted it. He wasn’t that smart.
Francoeur had the guilty look of a teenager interrupted by Mom.
“Well?” The Superintendent glared at Beauvoir.
“I heard voices,” he said and immediately regretted it.
Francoeur gave him a dismissive look and picking up a dossier he started to read. Ignoring Beauvoir completely. As though a hole in the atmosphere had just walked in. Nothing. No one. Beauvoir was empty air as far as the Superintendent was concerned.
“What did you mean earlier?” Beauvoir shut the door hard and Francoeur looked up.
Jean-Guy hadn’t meant to ask, had promised himself not to. And had Gamache been there he certainly would never have asked. But the Chief wasn’t there, and Francoeur was, and the question shot out, like lightning from a storm cloud.
Francoeur ignored him.
“Tell me,” Beauvoir kicked the chair, then grabbed it from behind and leaned over it, toward the Superintendent.
“Or what?” asked Francoeur. He was amused, not afraid at all, and Beauvoir felt his cheeks burning. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the wooden chair.
“You going to beat me up?” the Superintendent asked. “Threaten me? That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re Gamache’s dog.” Now Francoeur put the dossier down and leaned toward Beauvoir. “You want to know what I meant when I said I thought you had no balls? That’s what I meant. It’s what all your colleagues say, Jean-Guy. Is it true?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“That your only use is as Armand Gamache’s puppy. They call you his bitch, because while you growl and sometimes bite, they don’t think you actually have balls.”
Francoeur looked at Beauvoir as if he was something soft and smelly real men wiped from the bottom of their shoes. The chair squeaked as the Superintendent leaned back, comfortably. His suit jacket opened and Beauvoir saw his gun there.
Through the howl of rage in his head Beauvoir had enough presence of mind to wonder why the Chief Superintendent, a bureaucrat, wore a gun.
And why he had brought it into the abbey.
Not even Gamache wore a gun, though Beauvoir did. And now he was glad.
“That’s what I meant earlier,” said Francoeur. “I went with you when you interviewed that monk not because you invited me, but because I was curious. How would this man who was the laughingstock of the Sûreté handle an interrogation? But you surprised me. I was actually impressed.”
And Beauvoir surprised himself. Some small part of him was relieved to hear that. But it was deeply buried under the wrath, the rage, the near apocalyptic fury of the insult.
He opened his mouth but only stuttering came out. No words formed. Just empty air.
“You can’t tell me you didn’t know.” Francoeur actually looked surprised. “Come on, man, only an idiot could miss that. You strut through headquarters, half a pace behind your master, practically sniveling, and you think the other agents and inspectors admire you? They admire the Chief Inspector, and fear him a little. If he could cut your balls off, maybe he could do it to them too. Look, no one blames you. You were this little agent in a little Sûreté outpost. You were about to be fired because no one wanted to work with you, and Gamache hired you. Right?”
Beauvoir stared at Francoeur, dumbfounded.
“Right,” Francoeur leaned forward. “And why do you think he did that? Why do you think he’s surrounded himself with agents no one else wanted? He just promoted Isabelle Lacoste to inspector. Your rank—” Francoeur gave Beauvoir a sharp look, “—I’d watch that if I were you. Not good when you’re supposed to be the second in command but she’s the one left at headquarters, in charge. What was I saying? Oui, the Chief Inspector’s hiring practices. Have you looked around the homicide department? He’s created a division of losers. He’s taken the dregs. Why?”
Now Beauvoir’s anger finally erupted. He lifted the chair and brought it down so hard the two back legs broke off. But he didn’t care. He only had eyes for the man in front of him. He had Superintendent Francoeur in his sights.
“Losers?” Beauvoir rasped. “The Chief Inspector surr
ounds himself with agents who think for themselves, who can act on their own. The rest of you shits are afraid of us. You toss us out, demote us, treat us like crap until we quit. And why?”
He was actually, literally, spitting his words across the desk.
“Because you’re threatened by us. We won’t play your corrupt little games. Chief Inspector Gamache picked up your garbage and gave us a chance. He believed in us when no one else did. And you, you fuck-head, you think I’m going to believe any of your crap? Let your weasels laugh at me. That’s the biggest compliment I can think of. We have the best arrest record of the force. That’s what matters. And if you and your assholes think that’s laughable, then laugh.”
“The best arrest record?” Francoeur was on his feet now. His voice glacial. “Like the Brulé case? Your Chief arrested him. Cost the province a fortune to try him, for murder. He was even convicted, the poor shit, and what happens? It turns out he didn’t kill that guy. And what did your Gamache do? Did he go and clean up his own mess? No. He sent you to find the real murderer. And you did. That’s when I began to think you might not be the complete waste of space you appear to be.”
Francoeur gathered up some papers but paused at the desk. “You’re wondering why I came here, aren’t you?”
Beauvoir said nothing.
“Of course you are. Gamache is too. He even asked. I didn’t tell him the truth, but I’ll tell you. I had to catch him and you away from headquarters. Away from where he has some influence. So I could talk to you. I didn’t need to come all this way to bring you some reports. I’m the Chief Superintendent, for chrissake. A homicide agent could’ve done that. But I saw the chance and I took it. I came here to save you. From him.”
“You’re insane.”
“Think about what I said. Put it together. You’re smarter than that. Think. And while you’re at it, you might wonder why he promoted Isabelle Lacoste to inspector.”
“Because she’s a fine investigator. She earned it.”
Francoeur gave him that look again, as though Beauvoir was spectacularly stupid. Then he walked to the door.
“What?” demanded Beauvoir. “What’re you trying to say?”