The Beautiful Mystery (16 page)

Gamache switched on his powerful flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness and rested on the altar, on the benches, on the stone columns. This wasn’t simply an early morning stroll by a sleepless man. There was a goal. And he found it easily, on the eastern wall of the chapel.

His light shone on the huge plaque, illuminating the story of Saint Gilbert.

Gamache smoothed his free hand over the plaque. Looking for the catch, the handle, into the Chapter House. Finally he found it by depressing the illustration of two sleeping wolves, etched into the top left corner of the plaque. The stone door opened and Gamache shone his flashlight in.

It was a small, rectangular room, with neither windows nor chairs, though a stone bench ran around the wall. The room was completely bare, barren.

After shining the flashlight into the corners to be certain, Gamache left and replaced the door. As the sleeping wolves popped back into place, the Chief put on his glasses and leaned forward, to read the inscription on the plaque. The life of Gilbert of Sempringham.

Saint Gilbert did not seem to be the patron saint of anything. Nor were any miracles mentioned. The only thing this man seemed to have done was create an order, name it after himself, and die at the staggering age of 106, in 1189.

One hundred and six years of age. Gamache wondered if that could possibly be true, but suspected it probably was. After all, if whoever made this plaque had wanted to lie, or exaggerate, surely they’d choose something more worthy than Gilbert’s age. His accomplishments, for example.

If anything was going to put the Chief Inspector to sleep it would be reading about the life of Saint Gilbert.

Why, he wondered, would anyone choose to join this order?

Then he remembered the music, the Gregorian chants. Frère Luc had described them as unique. And yet this plaque mentioned nothing at all about music or chanting. It didn’t appear to be a vocation of Saint Gilbert’s. In 106 years, not once did Gilbert of Sempringham feel a song coming on.

Gamache scanned the plaque again, for something subtle. Something he might have missed.

He moved the bright circle of light slowly over the engraved words, squinting, looking at the plaque this way and that. In case some symbol was etched lightly into the bronze. Or worn down over the centuries. A staff. A treble clef. A neume.

But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to suggest the Gilbertines were renowned for anything, including Gregorian chants.

But there was one illustration. The sleeping wolves, curled together, intertwined.

Wolves
, thought the Chief, stepping back from the wall and slipping his glasses back into his dressing gown pocket.
Wolves
. What did he know about wolves in the bible? What was their symbolism?

There were Romulus and Remus. They were saved by a she-wolf. Suckled. But that was Roman mythology, not the bible.

Wolves
.

Most biblical imagery was more benign. Sheep, fish. But, of course, “benign” depended on your perspective. The sheep and fish were generally killed. No, wolves were more aggressive. If anything, they did the killing.

It was a strange image to have not only on this plaque but in the very name of the monastery. Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. Saint Gilbert-Among-the-Wolves.

Especially odd given the banal, though interminable, life of Saint Gilbert. How could he possibly be associated with wolves?

The only thing that came to mind was “a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” But was that even from the bible? Gamache thought it was, but now he wondered.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing
.

Perhaps the monks of this abbey were sheep. A humble role. Just following the rules. Just following the shepherd. Working and praying and singing. Hoping for peace and quiet, to be left alone behind their locked door. To go about the business of praising God.

Except for one. Was there a wolf in the fold? Wearing a long black robe, with a white cowl and a rope around his middle. Was he the murderer, or the victim? Had the wolf killed the monk, or had the monk killed the wolf?

Gamache turned back to the plaque. He realized he hadn’t actually read it all. He’d skimmed over the footnote at the very bottom. How important, after all, could a footnote be, to a man whose entire life was a footnote? He’d read it quickly. Something about an archbishop. But now he knelt, almost getting onto his hands and knees, to get a better look at the words. Taking out his reading glasses once again, he leaned toward the bronze afterthought.

It explained that Gilbert had been a friend to the archbishop of Canterbury, and had come to his aid. Gamache stared at it, trying to find the significance. After all, why mention this?

Finally he got to his feet.

Gilbert of Sempringham had died in 1189. He’d been an active member of the Church for sixty years. Gamache did the math.

That meant …

Gamache looked back at the plaque and the words almost scraping the floor. That meant his friend, the archbishop, the one he’d helped, was Thomas Becket.

Thomas à Becket.

Gamache turned his back to the plaque, and faced the Blessed Chapel.

Thomas à Becket.

Gamache stepped forward, picking his way slowly between the pews, lost in thought. He stepped onto the altar, and swung the flashlight in a slow arc around him until it came back to where it began. And then he turned it off. And let the night, and the silence, close back in.

Saint Thomas Becket.

Who was murdered in his cathedral.

Wolf in sheep’s clothing. It was from the bible, but was famously quoted by Thomas à Becket, who’d called his killers “wolves in sheep’s clothing.”

T. S. Eliot had written a play about those events.
Murder in the Cathedral.

“
Some malady is coming upon us
,” Gamache quoted under his breath. “
We wait. We wait
.”

But the Chief Inspector didn’t have long to wait. Within moments the silence was broken.

Chanting. Getting closer.

The Chief took a few steps, but couldn’t get all the way off the altar before he saw the monks, hoods up, filing toward him. Each carrying a candle. They walked right by him as though he wasn’t there, and took their accustomed places at the benches.

Their chanting stopped and as a man they removed their hoods.

And twenty-three pairs of eyes stared at him. A man in pajamas and dressing gown, standing in the middle of their altar.

THIRTEEN

“What did you say?” asked Beauvoir, not even bothering to hide his amusement. They were in the prior’s office, before heading for breakfast.

“What could I say?” asked Gamache, looking up from making a few notes. “I said, ‘
Bonjour,
’ bowed to the abbot, and took a seat in one of the pews.”

“You stayed? In your pajamas?”

“It seemed a bit late to leave,” smiled Gamache. “Besides, I was wearing a robe. Like them.”

“You were wearing a bathrobe.”

“Still…” said the Chief.

“I think I’m going to need therapy,” mumbled Beauvoir.

Gamache went back to his reading. He had to admit, this wasn’t how anyone had expected to start the day. The monks by finding a man in pajamas on their altar at five
A.M.
Vigils, and Gamache by being that man.

And Beauvoir could not have expected such a gift of a story to land in his lap first thing in the morning. His only regret was not seeing it for himself. And possibly taking a picture. If the Chief cut up rough about his relationship with Annie that photo would surely silence him.

“You asked me to find out who that monk was who insulted the abbot at dinner last night,” said Beauvoir. “His name’s Frère Antoine. Been here since he was twenty-three. Fifteen years.”

Beauvoir had done the math. He and Frère Antoine were exactly the same age.

“And get this,” Beauvoir leaned across the desk, “he was the soloist on that recording.”

The Chief also leaned forward. “How d’you know?”

“Those bells woke me up early. I assumed it was some sort of alarm. Apparently the monks found a man in his pajamas on their altar this morning.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Anyway, once those damned bells woke me up, I headed to the showers. That young monk who stays in the porter’s office, Frère Luc, had the stall next to mine. We were alone, so I asked him who that monk was who’d challenged the abbot. Guess what else Frère Luc told me.”

“What?”

“He said the prior planned to replace Frère Antoine and make him the soloist on the new recording.” Beauvoir watched the Chief’s eyes widen.

“Him, Luc?”

“Him, Luc. Me, Beauvoir.”

Gamache leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. “Do you think Frère Antoine knew that was the plan?”

“I don’t know. More monks arrived and I didn’t have a chance to ask.”

Gamache glanced at his watch. It was almost seven. He and Beauvoir must have just missed each other in the showers.

If it was slightly unorthodox to eat at the same table with all the suspects, it was definitely unorthodox to shower with them. But there were private stalls, and no option.

Gamache had also had a shower conversation that morning, after Vigils. A few of the monks had come in while he was washing and shaving. Gamache had struck up polite, apparently pointless, conversation, asking each monk why he’d joined the Gilbertines. To a man they answered, “For the music.”

And everyone he’d spoken with had been recruited. Specially chosen. For their voices, primarily, but also for their expertise. As the Chief had discovered reading over their interviews the day before, each monk had a discipline. One was a plumber. Another a master electrician. One was an architect and another a stonemason. There were chefs and farmers and gardeners. A doctor, Frère Charles. An engineer.

They were like a Noah’s Ark, or a fallout shelter. Able to rebuild the world in case of disaster. Every major element present. With one exception.

No womb.

So, in the event of a catastrophe that only the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups survived, there’d be buildings and running water and electricity. But no life.

But there would be music. Glorious music. For a while.

“How were you recruited?” the Chief had asked his companion in the next stall, after all the other monks had dressed and left.

“By the abbot,” said the monk. “Dom Philippe goes out once a year, looking for new monks. We don’t always need one. But he keeps track of brothers with the qualities we need.”

“And what would those be?”

“Well, Frère Alexandre, for instance, is in charge of the animals, but he’s getting beyond it, so
Père Abbé
will keep an eye out for a monk from the outside who has an expertise in that area.”

“Another Gilbertine?”

The monk had laughed. “There are no other Gilbertines. We’re it. The last of our kind. All of us came from other orders, and were recruited here.”

“Is it a hard sell?” asked Gamache.

“A little, but when Dom Philippe explained that the vocation at Saint-Gilbert is Gregorian chant, well, that’s all we needed to hear.”

“The music is a fair exchange for all you give up? The isolation. You must never see your families or friends.”

The monk stared at Gamache. “We would give up everything for the music. It’s all that matters to us.” Then he smiled. “Gregorian chants aren’t just music and they’re not just prayer. They’re both, together. The word of God sung in the voice of God. We’d give up our lives for that.”

“And do,” said Gamache.

“Not at all. The lives we have here are richer, more meaningful, than anything we could ever have anywhere else. We love God and we love the chants. In Saint-Gilbert we get both. Like a fix.” He laughed.

“Did you ever regret your decision to come here?”

“That first day, those first moments, yes. It seemed a very long boat ride, down the bay. Approaching Saint-Gilbert. I was already missing my old monastery. My abbot and friends there. Then I heard the music. The plainchant.”

The monk seemed to leave Gamache, leave the shower room with its steam and fragrance of lavender and bee balm. Leave his body. And go to a better place. A blissful place.

“Within five or six notes I knew there was something different about it.” His voice was strong, but his eyes were glazed. It was the same expression Gamache had noticed on the faces of the monks at the services. When they sang.

Peaceful. Calm.

“What was different?” Gamache asked.

“I wish I knew. They’re just as simple as every chant I’ve ever sung, but there’s something else there. A depth. A richness. The way the voices blend. It felt whole. I felt whole.”

“You said Dom Philippe recruits new monks with the qualities you need here. That would obviously include a good singing voice.”

“It doesn’t just include,” said the monk. “It’s the first quality he looks for. Though not just any voice. Frère Mathieu would tell the abbot what kind of voice he needed, and the abbot would go to monasteries in search of it.”

“But the recruit would also have to be good with animals, or a chef, or whatever other expertise you need,” said Gamache.

“True, which is why it can take years to replace a monk and why the abbot goes out looking. He’s like a hockey scout, keeping tabs even on the young guys. The abbot knows about prospects even before they take their final vows, when they’re just entering the seminary.”

“Is personality important?” asked Gamache.

“Most monks learn to live in community,” explained the monk, putting on his robes. “That means accepting each other.”

“And the authority of the abbot.”

“
Oui
.”

It was, Gamache knew, the most curt answer he’d received so far. The monk bent down to put on his socks, breaking eye contact with the Chief, who was himself already dressed.

When the monk straightened up he smiled again. “We’re actually given very thorough personality tests. Evaluated.”

Gamache had thought his expression was neutral, but apparently his skepticism showed.