Everything would be fine.
And then, the music stopped. The last note died away. And there was silence.
The abbot stepped forward, made the sign of the cross, opened his mouth.
And stood there.
Stunned by another sound. One never heard during Vespers. Never before heard during any prayer service at Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.
It was a rod on wood.
Pounding.
Someone was at the door. Someone wanted in.
Or out.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Dom Philippe tried not to notice.
He intoned a blessing. Heard the response. Gave the next call.
He’d become quite good, he realized, at not noticing. At shutting out unpleasantness.
His vow of silence had been expanded to include a vow of deafness. Much longer and he’d be completely senseless.
Standing perfectly still, he surrendered to God.
Then Dom Philippe sang, in a voice no longer young and vigorous but still filled with adoration, the next line of the prayer.
And heard the pounding on the gate, as though in response.
“Lord have mercy,” he sang.
Pounding.
“Christ have mercy.”
Pounding.
“Holy Trinity, have mercy on him.”
Pounding.
The abbot’s mind went blank. For the first time in decades, after hundreds, thousands of services, his mind went blank.
The peace of Christ, the grace of God had been replaced. By pounding.
Pounding.
Like a giant metronome.
Pounding at the gate.
The monks, lined up on either side of him, looked. At him.
For guidance.
Oh, God, help me, he prayed. What should I do?
The pounding wouldn’t stop, he realized. It had taken on a rhythm. A dead, repetitive thumping. As though a machine was doing it.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
It would go on forever. Until …
Until it was answered.
The abbot did something he’d never, ever done before. Not as a novice, not in all his years as a monk, and now as abbot. The thousands of services he’d celebrated. He’d never once left.
But he did now. He bowed to the cross, then turning his back on his congregation, he walked off the altar.
His heart was pounding too, but much faster than the banging at the gate. He could feel perspiration beneath his robes. They felt heavy as he walked down the long aisle.
Past that Superintendent of the Sûreté, with his clever eyes and clever face.
Past the young Inspector, who seemed so anxious to be anywhere other than where he was.
Past the Chief Inspector, who listened so closely, as though trying to find answers not just for the crime, but for himself.
Dom Philippe walked past them all. He tried not to rush. Told himself to be measured. To walk with purpose, but with containment.
The pounding continued. Not louder, not softer. Not faster, but neither did it slow. It kept an almost inhuman consistency.
And the abbot found himself rushing. Toward it. Desperate to make it stop. The noise that had shattered Vespers. And finally blown a hole through his determined calm.
Behind Dom Philippe the monks followed, in a long, thin line. Hands up sleeves, heads bowed. Feet hurrying along. Trying to keep up, while not appearing to run.
As the last monk left the altar, the Sûreté officers joined them, Gamache and Beauvoir a step behind Francoeur.
Dom Philippe exited the Blessed Chapel and turned down the long, long corridor. With the door at the very end. He knew it was a trick of his imagination, but the wood seemed to strain forward with each thump.
Lord have mercy, he prayed as he approached the door. It was the last prayer he’d said on the altar and the only one that had stayed with him, clinging on when everything else had fled. Lord have mercy. Oh, dear God, have mercy.
At the door, the abbot stopped. Should he look through the slat, to see who was there? But would it matter? Whoever was there wouldn’t stop, the abbot knew, until the heavy door had been opened.
He realized he didn’t have a key.
Where was the frère portier? Would he have to go all the way back to the Blessed Chapel, to get the key?
The abbot turned and was surprised to see the other monks, in a semi-circle, behind him. Like a choir about to sing Christmas carols. All ye faithful had come, but they were hardly joyful and triumphant. They looked more glum and distressed.
But they were there. The abbot was not alone. God did have mercy.
Frère Luc appeared beside him, the key shaking slightly in his slender hand.
“Give it to me, my son,” said the abbot.
“But it’s my job, mon père.”
Bang.
Bang.
Bang on the door.
Dom Philippe kept his hand out. “This job falls to me,” he said and smiled at the alarmed young monk. With trembling hands Frère Luc unclipped the heavy metal key and gave it to the abbot, then stepped back.
Dom Philippe, his own hand unsteady, thrust back the deadbolt. Then he tried to get the key in the lock.
Bang.
Bang.
He brought his other hand up, to steady the key, to help guide it.
Bang.
It slid into place, and he turned it.
The banging stopped. Whoever was on the other side had heard, through the banging, the thin metallic click as the door unlocked.
The gate opened.
It was twilight, the sun almost set. The mist was thicker now. Some light spilled out of the monastery, from the crack in the door, but no light came in.
“Oui?” said the abbot, wishing his voice sounded firmer, more authoritative.
“Dom Philippe?”
The voice was polite, respectful. Disembodied.
“Oui,” said the abbot, his voice still not his own.
“May I come in? I’ve come a long way.”
“Who are you?” asked the abbot. It seemed a reasonable question.
“Does it matter? Would you really turn a person away on a night like this?”
It seemed a reasonable answer.
But reason wasn’t the Gilbertines’ long suit. Passion, commitment, loyalty. Music. But not, perhaps, reason.
Still, Dom Philippe realized the voice was right. He couldn’t possibly shut the door now. It was far too late. Once opened, whatever was out there had to come in.
He stepped back. Behind him he heard, as one, the rest of the congregation step back. But out of his peripheral vision he noticed two people holding their ground.
Chief Inspector Gamache and his Inspector, Beauvoir.
A foot stepped in. Well shod, in black leather, with mud and a piece of bright, dead leaf stuck to it. And then the man was in.
He was slender and of medium height, slightly shorter than the abbot. His eyes were light brown, as was his hair, and his skin was pale, except for a slight flush from the cold.
“Merci, mon père.” He hauled in a duffel bag and turned to look at his hosts. He smiled then, fully and completely. Not with amusement, but with wonderment. “At last,” he said. “I found you.”
He wasn’t handsome, nor was he hideous. He was unremarkable, except for one thing.
What he wore.
He was also in a monk’s robes, but while the Gilbertines wore a white surplice on black, his robes were black on white.
“The hound of the Lord,” one of the monks whispered.
When Gamache turned to see which of them had spoken he saw they all had their mouths slightly open.
“We don’t use that term anymore,” said the new arrival, scanning the men in front of him, his smile widening. “Puts people off.”
His voice was pleasant as he continued to stare at them.
The Gilbertines stared back, not smiling.
Finally the stranger turned to Dom Philippe,
and offered his hand. The abbot, silently, took it. The young man bowed, then straightened up.
“My name is Brother Sébastien. I’ve come from Rome.”
“Tonight?” asked the abbot and immediately regretted the stupidity of the question. But he’d heard no plane, nor had he heard the motorboat.
“I flew in from Rome this morning, and made my way here.”
“But how?” the abbot asked.
“I paddled.”
Now it was Dom Philippe’s turn to stare, his mouth slightly open.
Frère Sébastien laughed. It was, like the rest of him, pleasant.
“I know. Not my most brilliant idea. A small plane got me to the local airfield but the fog was getting too thick and no one wanted to take me the rest of the way, so I decided to take myself.” He turned to look at Gamache, paused, perplexed, then looked back at the abbot. “You were much farther away than I realized.”
“You paddled all this way? From the village?”
“I did.”
“But that’s miles. How’d you even know where to go?” The abbot willed himself to be quiet, but he couldn’t seem to stop the questions.
“The boatman directed me. Said to keep going past three bays and to turn right at the fourth.” He seemed delighted by the directions. “But the mist got really heavy and I was afraid I’d made my last mistake. But then I heard your bells and followed the sound. When I got to the head of the bay I saw your lights. You have no idea how happy I am to find you.”
And he looked happy, thought Gamache. In fact, he looked ecstatic. He kept staring at the monks as though he wasn’t one himself. As though he’d never met a religieux.
“Have you come because of the prior?” asked Dom Philippe.
And Gamache had a sudden insight. He stepped forward, but it was too late.
“About his murder?” the abbot asked.
The abbot, a man who longed for great silence, had said too much.
Gamache took a deep breath and Frère Sébastien looked over at him, then his gaze shifted to Beauvoir, before finally resting on Superintendent Francoeur.
The smile slid from the young monk’s face, to be replaced by a look of great sympathy. He crossed himself and kissed his thumb, then folded his long hands in front of himself, and bowed slightly, his eyes grave.
“That’s why I was in such a rush. I came as soon as I heard. God rest his soul.”
Now all the monks crossed themselves, while Chief Inspector Gamache studied the newcomer. The man who’d paddled through the gathering darkness, through the gathering mist. Across an unfamiliar lake. And finally found the abbey by following the sound. And the light.
He’d traveled all the way from Rome.
Desperate, it would seem, to reach Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. So desperate, he’d taken his life in his hands. This young man, while making a joke about his foolish decision making, looked extremely competent to Gamache. So why had he taken such a risk? What couldn’t wait until morning?
It wasn’t the prior’s murder, Gamache was sure of that. He’d known in the instant Dom Philippe had asked that this stranger knew nothing about it. It was news to Frère Sébastien.
If he’d really come all the way from Rome because of the prior’s death he’d have been more solemn. Would have offered his sympathies right away.
Instead he’d laughed at his own folly, talked of his travels, said how happy he was to see them. Marveled at the monks. But hadn’t once mentioned Frère Mathieu.
No. Frère Sébastien had a reason to be there. And an important one. But it had nothing to do with Frère Mathieu’s death.
“Were those the Vesper bells?” Frère Sébastien asked. “I’m so sorry, mon père, to have interrupted. Please, continue.”
The abbot hesitated then turned and walked back down the long corridor, the newcomer behind him, looking this way and that.
Gamache watched him closely. It was as though the visitor had never been in a monastery before.
The Chief signaled Brother Charles to stay at the back of the procession, with him. He waited until the others were a good distance ahead, then turned to the doctor.
“Was it you who called Frère Sébastien the hound of the Lord?”
“Well, I didn’t mean him personally.”
The doctor looked pale, shaken. Not his jovial self. In fact, he looked considerably more upset about the live stranger than the dead prior.
“Then what did you mean?” insisted Gamache.
They were almost in the Blessed Chapel, and he wanted to finish this conversation before entering the church. Not out of some sense of religious propriety, but because of the astonishing acoustics.
This conversation must remain private.
“He’s a Dominican,” said Brother Charles, his voice also low, his eyes never leaving the head of the procession. Frère Sébastien and the abbot.
“How’d you know?”
“His robes and belt. Dominican.”
“But how does that make him the hound of the Lord?”
The head of the procession, like the head of a snake, had entered the Blessed Chapel and the rest were following.
“Dominican,” Brother Charles repeated. “Domini canis. Hound of the Lord.”
Then they too entered the Blessed Chapel and all conversation ended. Brother Charles gave Gamache a small nod and followed his fellow monks back onto the altar, where they took their places.
Frère Sébastien genuflected, crossed himself, then sat in a pew, craning his neck. Looking this way and that.
Beauvoir had returned to the pew and Gamache frowned as Superintendent Francoeur joined Jean-Guy. Gamache walked around and slid into the seat on the other side of Beauvoir, so that the Inspector was bracketed by his bosses.
But Beauvoir didn’t care. As Vespers began again he closed his eyes and imagined himself in Annie’s apartment. Lying together on the sofa in front of the fireplace.
She’d be in the crook of his arm. He’d be holding her secure.
Every other woman he’d dated, and Enid, whom he’d married, had been tiny. Slender, petite.
Annie Gamache was not. She was athletic, full bodied. Strong. And when she lay with him, clothed or not, they fit together perfectly.
“I never want this to end,” Annie would whisper.
“It won’t,” he’d assure her. “Never ever.”
“It’ll change, though, when people find out.”
“It’ll be even better,” he’d say.
“Oui,” Annie would agree. “But I like it like this. Just us.”
And he liked it like that too.
Now, in the Blessed Chapel, with its scent of incense and candles, he imagined he heard the murmur of the fireplace. Smelled the sweet maple logs. Tasted the red wine. And could feel Annie on his chest.
* * *
The music began. At once, from some signal invisible to Gamache, the monks went from still and silent to full voice.
Their voices filled the chapel like air in lungs. It seemed to emanate from the rocks of the walls. As though the Gregorian chants were as much a part of the abbey as the stones and slate and wooden beams.
In front of Gamache, Frère Sébastien stared. Transfixed. Unmoving.
His mouth was open slightly, and there was a glistening down his pale cheek.
Frère Sébastien listened to the Gilbertines sing their service, and wept, as though he’d never heard the voice of God before.
* * *
Dinner that night was an almost silent affair.
Since Vespers ended late, the brothers and their guests had gone directly to the dining hall. Tureens filled with brilliant pea and mint soup sat on the table, next to baskets of fresh, warm baguette.
A brother sang the prayer of thanksgiving for the meal, the monks crossed themselves, and then the only sound was of the soup being served and spoons against earthenware bowls.
And then, a low hum was heard. In any other environment it would’ve been inaudible, but here,
in the silence, it sounded as loud as the boatman’s engine.
And it got louder. And louder.
The monks, one by one, stopped eating and soon the only sound in the long dining hall was the humming. Every head turned to see where it was coming from.
It came from Chief Inspector Gamache.
He sipped his soup, and he hummed. Looking down at his plate, apparently engrossed in the delicious meal. Then, perhaps sensing scrutiny, he looked up.
But the humming didn’t stop.
Gamache smiled a little as he hummed, and looked at the faces of the monks.
Some looked scandalized. Some looked worried, as though a madman had appeared. Some looked angry, to have their peace disturbed.
Beauvoir looked blank, his soup untouched in front of him, his appetite gone. Francoeur shook his head slightly, as though ashamed.
One monk looked frightened. Frère Simon.
“What’s that you’re humming?”
The question came from the head of the table. But not from Dom Philippe. It was the Dominican who’d asked the question. His young face was interested, good-natured. Not angry, not pained, not scandalized.
In fact, Frère Sébastien seemed sincerely interested.
“I’m sorry,” said Gamache, “I didn’t realize I was humming so loud. Désolé.”
But the Chief Inspector didn’t look at all desolate.
“I think it’s a Canadian folk song,” said Frère Simon, his voice slightly higher than usual.
“Is that right? It’s very pretty.”
“Actually, mon frère,” said Gamache, and beside him Frère Simon was squirming and knocking his knee against Gamache beneath the table, “it’s a chant. I have it stuck in my head. Can’t seem to get it out.”
“It’s not a chant,” said Simon quickly. “He thinks it is but I was trying to explain that a chant is much simpler.”
“Whatever it is, it’s very beautiful,” said Frère Sébastien.
“Much better than the song it replaced in my head. ‘Camptown Races.’”
“Camptown racetrack’s five miles long. Doo-dah, doo-dah,” Frère Sébastien sang. “That one?”
All eyes swung from the Chief Inspector to the newcomer. Even Gamache was speechless for a moment.
Frère Sébastien had made the silly old song sound like a work of genius. As though Mozart or Handel or Beethoven had written it. If the works of da Vinci could turn themselves into music, they’d have sounded like that.