It was a rare admission by Francoeur that Gamache, for a moment, had actually bested Arnot. But then had stumbled. Hadn’t finished the job. Hadn’t realized there were more to be gotten.
And so the rot had remained, and grown.
Arnot was a powerful figure, Gamache knew. Had powerful friends. And a reach well beyond prison walls. Gamache had had a chance to kill him, but had chosen not to. And sometimes, sometimes, he wondered if that wasn’t also a mistake.
But now another thought struck him. Francoeur wasn’t texting Arnot. The name, while respected by Francoeur, didn’t evoke terror. It was someone else. Someone more powerful than the Superintendent. Someone more powerful even than Arnot.
“Who were you writing to, Sylvain?” Gamache asked for the third time. “It’s not too late. Tell me, and we can wrap this up together.” Gamache’s voice was even, reasonable. He held out his hand. “Give me that. Give me your codes. That’s all I need, and it’s over.”
And Francoeur seemed to hesitate. Moved his hand to his pocket. Then let it fall, empty, to his side.
“You’ve misunderstood again, Armand. There’s no grand conspiracy. It’s all in your head. I was texting my wife. As I suspect you write to your wife.”
“Give it to me, Sylvain.” Gamache ignored the lie. He kept his hand out and his eyes on his superior. “You must be tired. Exhausted. It’ll be over soon.”
The two men’s eyes locked.
“You love your children, Armand?”
It was as though the words had physically shoved him. Gamache felt himself momentarily off balance. Instead of answering he continued to stare.
“Of course you do.” Francoeur’s voice held no rancor now. It was almost as though they were old friends, chatting over a scotch at a brasserie on St-Denis.
“What’re you saying?” Gamache demanded, his voice no longer reasonable. He could feel all reason escaping him, disappearing into the thick, dark forest. “Leave my family out of this.” Gamache spoke in a low growl, and the part of his brain that could still reason realized the wild creature he thought was in the woods, wasn’t. It was in his skin. He’d become feral, at the very thought of his family threatened.
“Did you know that your daughter and your Inspector are having an affair? Maybe you’re not as in control of everything as you seem to think. What else don’t you know, if that could get by you?”
The rage Gamache had been trying to control died out completely with those words. To be replaced by something glacial. Ancient.
Armand Gamache felt himself grow very quiet. And he could sense a change in Francoeur as well. He knew he’d gone too far. Had stepped too far from the reeds.
Gamache knew about Jean-Guy and Annie. Had known for months. From the day he and Reine-Marie had visited Annie and seen the little jug of lilacs on her kitchen table.
They’d known, and been immeasurably happy for Annie, who’d loved Jean-Guy from the moment she’d met him more than a decade earlier. And for Jean-Guy, who so clearly loved their daughter.
And for themselves, who loved both young people.
The Gamaches had let them have their space. They knew Annie and Jean-Guy would tell them, when they were ready. He knew. But how did Francoeur? Someone must have told him. And if it wasn’t Jean-Guy and wasn’t Annie, then—
“The therapist’s notes,” said Gamache. “You read the files from Beauvoir’s therapy.”
They’d all been in therapy, since the raid. All the survivors. And now Gamache knew that Francoeur had violated not only Jean-Guy’s privacy, but his own as well. And all the others’. Everything they’d said in confidence this man knew. Their deepest thoughts, their insecurities. What they loved. And what they feared.
And all their secrets. Including Jean-Guy’s relationship with Annie.
“Don’t you bring my daughter into this,” said Gamache. With all his might he was restraining himself from thrusting out his hand. Not for Francoeur’s BlackBerry, but for his throat. Feeling the artery throb, then weaken. And stop.
He could, he knew. Kill this man. Leave his body for the wolves and bears. Walk back to the monastery and tell Frère Luc that the Superintendent went for a walk. He’d be back soon.
How easy it would be. How good it would feel. How much better the world would be if this man was dragged into the woods by wolves. And devoured.
Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?
The words of a king came back to him, and for the first time in his life he completely understood them. Understood how murder happened.
The malady was upon him. Cold, calculating, complete. It had overwhelmed Gamache, until he no longer cared about the consequences. He just wanted this man gone.
He stepped forward, then stopped himself. All the warnings he’d given to Beauvoir, he’d failed to heed himself. He’d let Francoeur under his skin. So that a man devoted to preventing murder had actually contemplated committing it.
Gamache closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again he spoke, leaning forward and whispering, perfectly calmly, into Francoeur’s face.
“You’ve gone too far, Sylvain. Exposed too much. Said too much. I might’ve had my doubts, but no longer.”
“You had your chance, Armand. Back when you arrested Arnot. But you hesitated. As you hesitated now. You might’ve gotten the BlackBerry out of my hand. You could’ve seen the message. Why do you think I’m here? For you?”
Gamache walked past Francoeur, away from the monastery and into the woods. He followed the path to the edge of the lake and stood facing the water and the suggestion of dawn in the distance. With the dawn would come the boatman, to take Jean-Guy back to Montréal. And then he’d be alone with Francoeur. And they could finally have it out.
Every sea has its shore, Gamache knew. He’d been at sea for a long time, but now he thought he could finally see the shore. The end of the journey.
“Bonjour.”
Gamache, lost in thought, hadn’t heard the man arrive. He turned quickly and saw Frère Sébastien wave.
“I came to apologize for storming out of the Blessed Chapel this morning.” The Dominican picked his way over the large rocks until he reached the Chief Inspector.
“No need to apologize,” said Gamache. “I was rude.”
Both men knew it was both true, and intentional. They stood quietly on the rocky shore for a few moments, hearing the far-off call of a loon, and in the near complete silence a fish jumped. The forest smelled sweet. Of evergreens, and fallen leaves.
Gamache had been thinking about his confrontation with Francoeur. Now he brought his mind back to the monastery and the murder of Frère Mathieu.
“You said you’d been assigned the task of finding the Gilbertines. To finally close that centuries-old dossier, opened by the Inquisition. You said the image on the cover of their Gregorian chants gave them away.”
“That’s true.”
The voice was flat. It would skim and skip forever across this lake. Making barely a mark.
“But I think there’s more you aren’t telling me. Even the Church wouldn’t hold a grudge that long.”
“It wasn’t a grudge, it was an interest.” Frère Sébastien indicated the flat rock Gamache had been standing on, and the two men sat. “The lost children. Brothers driven away during a lamentable time. It was an effort to make amends. To find them and tell them they’re safe.”
“But are they? No man in his right mind would paddle on an unfamiliar lake, in the wilderness, at dusk, in a dense fog. Unless he had to. Unless there was either a lash at his back or a treasure in front of him. Or both. Why are you here? What’re you really looking for?”
Light was filling the sky. A cold gray light, not doing much to penetrate the mist. Would the boatman make it?
“We talked about neumes yesterday, but do you know what they are?” the Dominican asked.
While unexpected, the question didn’t totally surprise Gamache.
“It’s the first musical notat
ion. Before there were notes there were neumes.”
“Oui. We tend to think the five-line staff was always there. Clefs, treble clefs, notes and half notes. Chords and keys. But they didn’t just spring into the world. They evolved. From neumes. They were meant to mimic hand movements. To show the shape of the sound.”
Frère Sébastien lifted his hand and moved it back and forth, up and down. It glided through the chilly autumn air, graceful. As he moved his hand he hummed.
It was a lovely voice. Clear. Pure. With a soulful quality. And despite himself, Gamache felt himself drifting along with it. Entranced by the movement of the hand, and the calming sound.
Then the voice, and the hand, stopped.
“The word ‘neume’ comes from the Greek for ‘breath.’ The monks who first wrote down the chants believed that the deeper we breathe the more we draw God into ourselves. And there’s no deeper breath than when we’re singing. Have you ever noticed that the deeper you breathe, the calmer you get?” the monk asked.
“I have. As have Hindus and Buddhists and pagans for millennia.”
“Exactly. Every culture, every spiritual belief, has some form of chanting, or meditation. And at their core is the breath.”
“So where do neumes come in?” Gamache asked. He was leaning toward the Dominican, holding his large hands together for warmth.
“The first plainchants were learned orally. But then, around the tenth century a monk decided to write them down. But to do that he needed to invent a way of writing music.”
“Neumes,” said the Chief, and the monk nodded.
“For three centuries, generations of monks wrote down all the Gregorian chants. To preserve them.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Gamache. “Many monasteries were given Books of Chants.”
“How’d you know?”
“They have one here. Apparently not one of the more remarkable.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t,” said Gamache. “The abbot told me. He says most are illuminated editions. Very fine. But he suspects since the Gilbertines were a minor order and very poor, they ended up with the tenth-century equivalent of a factory second.”
“Have you seen the book?”
Frère Sébastien leaned toward Gamache. The Chief Inspector opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again and examined the Dominican.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Gamache finally said. “Not to find the Gilbertines, but to find their book.”
“Have you seen it?” Frère Sébastien repeated.
“Oui. I held it.” There was no use denying it. The book wasn’t exactly a secret.
“My God,” Frère Sébastien exhaled. “Dear God.” He shook his head. “Can you show me? I’ve been looking all over for it.”
“All over the monastery?”
“All over the world.”
The Dominican rose and whacked the dirt and twigs off his white robes.
Gamache also got up. “Why didn’t you ask the abbot or any of the monks?”
“I thought they’d probably hidden it.”
“Well, they didn’t. It normally sits on the lecturn in the Blessed Chapel, for all the monks to consult.”
“I didn’t see it there.”
“That’s because one of the monks has been keeping it with him. Studying the chants.”
As they talked they’d made their way back to the monastery, and stopped in front of the thick wooden door. Gamache knocked and after a moment they heard the bolt slide back and the key turn in the lock. They stepped in. After the chill outside, the abbey felt almost warm. The Dominican was halfway down the hall before Gamache called him back.
“Frère Sébastien?”
The monk stopped and turned, impatient.
Gamache pointed to Frère Luc, standing in the porter’s room.
“What is it?” And then Frère Sébastien realized what Gamache was telling him. The Dominican began walking back, quickly at first, his pace slowing as he got closer to the porter’s room.
Frère Sébastien seemed reluctant to take that last step. For fear, perhaps, of disappointment, Gamache thought. Or perhaps he realized he didn’t really want the search to end. Because then what would he do?
If the mystery was solved, what would be his purpose?
Frère Sébastien stopped at the door to the porter’s room.
“Would you mind, mon frère,” the Dominican asked, suddenly formal, almost grave, “if I looked at your Book of Chants?”
It was not, Gamache knew, how the Inquisition of the past would have handled it. They’d have simply taken the book, and probably burned the young monk who had it in his possession.
Frère Luc stepped aside.
And the hound of the Lord took the last few steps in a journey that had begun hundreds of years and thousands of miles earlier. By brothers long dead.
He stepped into the dreary little room and looked at the large, plain bound book on the desk. His hand hovered over the cover and then he opened it and took a deep breath in.
Then a deep breath out.
A long, slow sigh.
“This is it.”
“How do you know?” Gamache asked.
“Because of this.” The monk picked up the book and held it in his arms.
Gamache put on his reading glasses and leaned over. Frère Sébastien was pointing to the very first word on the very first page. Above it was a neume. But where the finger was there was nothing, except a dot.
“That?” asked Gamache, also pointing. “That dot?”
“That dot,” said Frère Sébastien. There was a look of awe, of astonishment on his face. “This is it. The very first book of Gregorian chant. And this,” he lifted his finger a fraction, “is the very first musical note. It must’ve somehow come into the possession of Gilbert of Sempringham, in the twelfth century,” said the Dominican, speaking to the page and not the men around him. “Maybe as a gift, a thank-you from the Church, for his loyalty to Thomas à Becket. But Gilbert couldn’t have known how valuable it was. No one would, at the time. They couldn’t have known it was unique. Or would become unique.”
“But what makes it unique?” asked Gamache.
“That dot. It’s not a dot.”
“What is it?” It looked like a dot to Gamache. He’d rarely felt so stupid as he had since arriving in Saint-Gilbert.
“It’s the key.” Both men looked at the young portier who’d just spoken. “The starting point.”
“You knew?” Frère Sébastien asked Frère Luc.
“Not at first,” admitted Luc. “I just knew the chants here are different than any I’d ever heard or sung. But I didn’t know why. Then Frère Mathieu told me.”
“Did he know this book is priceless?” asked the Dominican.
“I don’t think he thought in those terms. But I think he knew it was unique. He knew enough about Gregorian chant to realize none of the others, in all the literature and collections, had that dot. And he knew what it meant.”
“What does it mean?” asked Gamache.
“That dot is the musical Rosetta stone,” said Frère Sébastien, then he turned to Luc. “You called it the key and that’s exactly what it is. All the other Gregorian chants are close. It’s like getting to this monastery but not being able to get in the door. The best you can do is wander around the outside. Close. But not quite there. This,” he nodded down at the page, “is the key that unlocks the door that gets us inside the chants. That gets us inside the minds and the voices of the earliest of monks. With this, we know what the original chants really sounded like. What the voice of God really sounds like.”
“How?” asked Gamache, trying not to sound exasperated.
“You tell him,” Frère Sébastien invited the young Gilbertine. “It’s your book.”
Frère Luc flushed with pride and looked at the Dominican with something close to adoration. For not only including him in this conversation, but treating him as an equal.
“It’s not just a dot.” Frère Luc turned to Gamache. “If you found a treasure map that had all the directions, but not the place to begin, it’d be useless. The dot is the starting point. It tells us what the first note should be.”
Gamache looked back down at the book, open in Frère Sébastien’s arms.
“But I thought the neume told us that,” he said, pointing to the first squiggle above the first faded word.
“No,” said Luc. Patient now. A born teacher, when working with something he knew and loved. “It only tells us to raise our voices. But from where? This dot is in the middle of the letter. The voice should start in the middle register, and go up.”
“Not exactly precise,” said Gamache.
“It’s an art, not a science,” said Frère Sébastien. “It’s as close as we need to come and can come.”
“If the dot is so important, why don’t all the Books of Chants have it?” the Chief asked.
“Good question,” admitted Frère Sébastien. “We think this,” he hefted the book, “was written by musician monks, but that it was then taken and copied. By scribes. Literary men who didn’t appreciate the importance of the dot. Might have even thought it was a flaw, a mistake.”
“So they left it out?” asked Gamache and the Dominican slowly nodded.
Centuries of searching, a near holy war, generations of monks dedicated to the hunt. All because of a missing dot, and monks who’d mistaken it for a flaw.
“The sheet of music we found on the prior’s body had a dot,” Gamache said.
Frère Sébastien looked at the Chief with interest. “You noticed?”
“I only noticed because you had your finger over it, as though trying to hide it.”
“I was,” admitted the monk. “I was afraid someone else would see the significance of it. Whoever wrote that piece of music knew about the original Book of Chants. And had written another chant in the same style exactly. Including the dot.”
“But that doesn’t narrow it down,” said Gamache. “All the Gilbertines know about this book. They copy out the chants. They must know about the dot and what it does.”
“But do they all know how valuable that makes this book?” asked the Dominican. “In fact, it has no value. It’s priceless.”