The Beautiful Mystery (30 page)

Had this been just a stunningly awkward social occasion, Gamache would have given up and probably turned to the monk on his other side, but this was a murder investigation. He didn’t have that option. So the Chief Inspector turned back to Brother Simon, determined to breach his defenses.

“Rhode Island Red.”

Frère Simon’s spoon lowered into the broth, and his head slowly turned. To look at Gamache.

“
Pardon?
” he asked. His voice was beautiful, even in that single word. Rich. Melodic. Like a full-bodied coffee, or aged cognac. With all sorts of subtleties and depth.

Gamache realized, with surprise, that he hadn’t heard more than a dozen words from the abbot’s secretary their whole visit.

“Rhode Island Red,” Gamache repeated. “A lovely breed.”

“What do you know about them?”

“Well, they have fantastic plumage. And are, in my opinion, dismissed far too easily.”

Gamache, of course, had no idea what he was saying except that it sounded good and might appeal to this man. For a small miracle had occurred. The Chief Inspector had remembered a single sentence from all the conversations he’d had with the abbot.

Frère Simon had a fondness for chickens.

Gamache, who did not have a fondness for chickens, could remember only one breed. He’d been about to say, “Foghorn Leghorn,” when the first miracle occurred and he remembered just in time that that was a cartoon character not a breed of chicken.

Camptown racetrack’s five miles long
. To the Chief’s horror the cartoon character’s favorite song had insinuated itself into his head.
Doo-dah
. He fought it off.
Doo-dah
.

He turned to Frère Simon, hoping this conversational sally had worked.
Doo-dah, doo-dah.

“It’s true that they have nice temperaments, but be careful. They can get aggressive when annoyed,” said Frère Simon. With those three magic words, “Rhode Island Red,” Gamache hadn’t simply breached the monk’s defenses, the gates were now thrown wide open. And the Chief Inspector was marching in.

Gamache, though, did pause long enough to wonder what could possibly annoy a chicken. Perhaps the same things that annoyed Frère Simon and the other monks, pressed together in their tiny cells. Not exactly free range. More like battery monks.

“You have them here?” Gamache asked.

“Rhode Island Reds? No. They’re hardy, but we find only one breed works well so far north.”

The abbot’s secretary had turned completely in his seat, toward Gamache. Far from being taciturn any longer, the monk was now almost begging Gamache to ask the question. The Chief, of course, obliged.

“And what breed is that?” Hoping, praying, Frère Simon wouldn’t ask him to guess.

“You’ll slap yourself for not knowing,” said Frère Simon, almost giddy.

“I’m sure I will.”

“It’s the Chantecler.”

Frère Simon said it with such triumph Gamache almost did slap himself for not guessing. Before realizing he’d never heard of the breed before.

“Of course,” he said, “the Chantecler. What a fool I am. A fabulous chicken.”

“You’re right.”

For the next ten minutes Gamache listened as Frère Simon gestured, drew pictures with his stubby finger on the wooden table, and spoke nonstop about the Chantecler. And his own prize rooster, Fernando.

“Fernando?” Gamache had to ask.

Simon actually laughed, to the surprise and near consternation of the monks directly around him. It was doubtful they’d ever heard that sound before.

“Truthfully?” asked Simon, leaning toward Gamache. “I had the Abba song in mind.”

The monk sang the familiar tune, a single phrase about drums and guns. Gamache felt his heart leap, as though it wanted to attach itself to this monk. Here was an extraordinarily beautiful voice. Where others were glorious for their clarity, Simon’s was beautiful for its tonality, its richness. It elevated the simple pop lyric into something splendid. The Chief found himself wishing Brother Simon also had a chicken named Mama Mia.

Here was a man filled with passion. Granted, it was for chickens. Whether he was passionate about music, or God, or monastic life was another question.

All the doo-dah day
.

*   *   *

“Your boss seems to have made a conquest,” said Frère Charles, leaning into Beauvoir.

“
Oui
. I wonder what they’re talking about.”

“I do too,” said the doctor. “I’ve never been able to get more than a grunt out of Frère Simon. Though that makes him a great gatekeeper.”

“I thought Frère Luc was the gatekeeper.”

“He’s the
portier
, the doorkeeper. Simon has another job. He’s the abbot’s guard dog. No one gets to Dom Philippe except through Frère Simon. He’s devoted to the abbot.”

“And you? Are you devoted?”

“He’s the abbot, our leader.”

“That’s not an answer,
mon frère
,” said Beauvoir. He’d managed to turn away from Frère Raymond toward the medical monk, when the maintenance monk had reached for more cider.

“Are you one of the abbot’s men, or the prior’s men?”

The doctor’s gaze, friendly before, now sharpened, examining Beauvoir. Then he smiled again.

“I’m neutral, Inspector. Like the Red Cross. I just tend to the wounded.”

“Are there many? Wounded, I mean.”

The smile left Frère Charles’s face. “Enough. A rift like that in a previously happy monastery hurts everyone.”

“Including yourself?”

“
Oui
,” the doctor admitted. “But I really don’t take sides. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Was it appropriate for anyone?”

“It wasn’t anyone’s first choice,” said the doctor, an edge of impatience in his friendly voice. “We didn’t wake up one morning and pick teams. Like a game of Red Rover. This was excruciating and slow. Like being eviscerated. Gutted. A civil war is never civil.”

Then the monk’s gaze left Beauvoir and looked first at Francoeur, beside the abbot, then across the table to Gamache.

“As perhaps you know.”

A denial was on Beauvoir’s lips, but he stopped it. The monk knew. They all knew.

“Is he all right?” Frère Charles asked.

“Who?”

“The Chief Inspector.”

“Why shouldn’t he be?”

Brother Charles hesitated, searching Beauvoir’s face. Then he looked down at his own steady hand. “The tremble. In his right hand.” He returned his eyes to Beauvoir. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I have and he’s fine.”

“I’m not asking just to be nosy, you know,” Frère Charles persisted. “A tremble like that can be a sign of something seriously wrong. It comes and goes, I notice. For instance, his hand seems steady right now.”

“It happens when the Chief is tired, or stressed.”

The doctor nodded. “Has he had it long?”

“Not long,” said Beauvoir, careful not to sound defensive. He knew the Chief didn’t seem to care who saw the occasional quiver in his right hand.

“So it’s not Parkinson’s?”

“Not at all,” said Beauvoir.

“Then what caused it?”

“An injury.”

“Ahh,” said Frère Charles, and again he looked across at the Chief Inspector. “The scar near his left temple.”

Beauvoir was silent. Regretting turning away from Frère Raymond and the long list of structural disasters, and other disasters, visited upon the abbey by incompetent abbots, Dom Philippe prominent among them. Now he wanted to turn back. To hear about artesian wells, and septic systems and load-bearing walls.

Anything was better than discussing the Chief’s injuries. And, by association, that terrible day in the abandoned factory.

“If you think he needs anything, I have some things that might be helpful in the infirmary.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure he will.” Frère Charles paused and his eyes held Beauvoir’s. “But we all need help sometimes. Including your Chief. I have relaxants and painkillers. Just let him know.”

“I will,” said Beauvoir. “
Merci
.”

Beauvoir turned his attention to his meal. But as he ate, the words drifted in through Beauvoir’s own wounds. Sinking deeper and deeper.

Relaxants.

Until they finally hit bottom, and came to rest in Beauvoir’s hidden room.

And painkillers.

TWENTY-ONE

When lunch was over Chief Inspector Gamache and Beauvoir walked back to the prior’s office, comparing notes.

Beauvoir on foundations and Gamache on chickens.

“These aren’t ordinary chickens, but the Chantecler,” said Gamache, with enthusiasm. Beauvoir was never sure if the Chief really was that interested, or just pretending, but he had his suspicions.

“Ahh, the noble Chantecler.”

Gamache smiled. “Don’t mock, Jean-Guy.”

“Me, mock a monk?”

“It seems our Frère Simon is a world expert on the Chantecler. It was bred right here in Québec. By a monk.”

“Really?” Despite himself, Beauvoir was interested. “Right here?”

“Well, no, not in Saint-Gilbert, but in a monastery just outside Montréal, about a hundred years ago. The climate was too harsh in Canada, he thought, for the regular chickens to survive, so he spent his lifetime developing a native Canadian breed. The Chantecler. They almost went extinct, but Frère Simon is bringing them back.”

“Just our luck,” said Beauvoir. “Every other monastery makes alcohol. Brandy and Bénédictine. Champagne. Cognac. Wines. Ours sings obscure chants and breeds near extinct chickens. No wonder they almost went the way of the dodo. But that brings me to my lunch table conversation with Frère Raymond. Thank you for that, by the way.”

Gamache grinned. “Talkative, was he?”

“You couldn’t get your monk started and I couldn’t get mine to stop. But wait ’til you hear what he had to say.”

They were in the Blessed Chapel now. The monks had dispersed, off to do more work, or read, or pray. The afternoons seemed less structured than the mornings.

“The foundations of Saint-Gilbert are crumbling,” said Beauvoir. “Frère Raymond says he discovered it a couple of months ago. The abbey won’t stand another ten years if something isn’t done right away. The first recording made them lots of money, but not enough. They need more.”

“You mean, the entire abbey might collapse?” asked Gamache, who stopped dead in his tracks.

“Boom, gone,” said Beauvoir. “And he blames the abbot.”

“How so? Surely the abbot hasn’t been undermining the abbey, at least not literally.”

“Frère Raymond says if they don’t get the money from a second recording and a concert tour they can’t save the monastery. And the abbot won’t allow either.”

“Dom Philippe knows about the foundations?”

Beauvoir nodded. “Frère Raymond says he told the abbot, but no one else. He’s been begging Dom Philippe to take it seriously. To raise the money to repair the foundations.”

“And no one else knows?” Gamache confirmed.

“Well, Brother Raymond didn’t tell anyone. The abbot might’ve.”

Gamache walked a few paces in silence, thinking. Then he stopped.

“The prior was the abbot’s right hand. I wonder if Dom Philippe told him.”

Beauvoir thought about that. “It seems the sort of thing you tell your second in command.”

“Unless you were at war with him,” said Gamache, lost in thought. Trying to see what might have happened. Did the abbot tell the prior that Saint-Gilbert was literally crumbling? But then continued to hold firm against another recording. And continued, even in the face of this news, to refuse to break the silence that would allow the monks to tour and give interviews. To make the millions and millions it would take to save the abbey.

Suddenly the second recording of Gregorian chants went from a possible vanity project on the part of the monks and Frère Mathieu, to something vital. It wouldn’t simply put Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups on the map, it would save the entire abbey.

This had become no mere philosophical difference between the abbot and the prior. The very survival of the abbey was in the balance.

What would Frère Mathieu have done had he known?

“Their relationship was already strained,” said Gamache, starting to walk again, but slowly. Thinking out loud. His voice low, to avoid being overheard. It gave them the appearance of conspirators in the Blessed Chapel.

“The prior would’ve been in a fff…” On seeing Gamache’s face, Beauvoir shifted his words. “In a rage.”

“He was already in an effin’ rage,” agreed the Chief. “This would’ve propelled him right over the edge.”

“And if, faced with all this, the abbot continued to refuse a second recording? I bet Frère Mathieu would’ve threatened to tell the other monks. And then the shhh … the…” But Beauvoir could think of no other way of putting it.

“It certainly would,” agreed Gamache. “So…”

The Chief stopped again and stared into space. Putting the pieces together to form a similar, but different, image.

“So,” he turned to Beauvoir, “maybe Dom Philippe didn’t tell his prior that the foundations were crumbling. He’s smart enough to know what Frère Mathieu would do with that. He’d be handing his adversary a nuclear bomb of information. The cracked and rotting foundations would be the last and most potent argument the prior and his men would need.”

“You think the abbot kept the information to himself?”

“I think it’s possible. And he swore Frère Raymond to secrecy.”

“But if he told me,” said Beauvoir, “wouldn’t he have told the other monks?”

“Perhaps he felt the promise he made to the abbot only extended to the community. Not to you.”

“And maybe he’s had enough of silence,” said Beauvoir.

“And maybe,” said Gamache, “maybe Frère Raymond lied to you, and he did tell one other person.”

Beauvoir considered that for a moment. They heard the soft shuffling of monk feet in the Blessed Chapel and saw monks walking here and there, hugging the old walls. As though afraid to show themselves.

Gamache and Beauvoir had kept their voices low. Low enough, Beauvoir hoped. But if not, it was too late now.

“The prior,” said Beauvoir. “If Frère Raymond was going to break his promise to the abbot, he’d have gone to Frère Mathieu. He’d have felt justified, if he thought the abbot wasn’t going to act.”