The Beautiful Mystery (35 page)

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 surrounds 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?”

“I’ve said far too much already, Inspector Beauvoir. Still, it’s out there now.” He gave Beauvoir an appraising look. “You’re actually a very good investigator. Use those skills. And feel free to tell Gamache exactly what I’ve just said. It’s about time he realized someone was on to him.”

The door closed and Beauvoir was alone with his anger. And the laptop.

*   *   *

Frère Simon gaped at Gamache.

“Do you think the prior was still alive when I found him?”

“I think it’s possible. I think you knew he was dying and instead of going to get help, which would almost certainly mean he’d die alone, you stayed with him for the final moments. To comfort him. Give him last rites. It was an act of kindness. Of compassion.”

“Then why wouldn’t I say anything? The rest of the congregation would’ve been relieved to hear that even in this terrible situation, at least the prior was given last rites.” He looked closely at the Chief Inspector. “You think I’d keep that quiet? Why?”

“Now, that was the question,” Gamache crossed his legs and got comfortable, to Frère Simon’s obvious discomfort. The Chief was prepared for a long visit.

“I haven’t had all that long to think about it,” the Chief admitted. “I only just read in the autopsy report that the coroner believes Frère Mathieu might have lived up to half an hour after the fatal blow.”

“Could have doesn’t mean he did.”

“Absolutely true. But suppose he did? He was strong enough to crawl to the wall. Maybe he fought off death to the very last second. Grabbed every moment of life available. Does that sound like something the prior would do?”

“I didn’t think the hour and time of our death was our choice,” said Frère Simon, and Gamache smiled. “If it was,” the monk continued, “I suspect the prior would’ve chosen not to die at all.”

“I think Dom Clément would still be walking these familiar halls, if we really had a choice,” agreed Gamache. “I’m not saying force of will can fight off a clearly lethal blow. But I am saying, from personal experience, a strong will can hold off death, by moments, sometimes minutes. And sometimes, in my job, those moments and minutes are crucial.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s that golden time, between this world and whatever you believe is the next. When the person knows they’re dying. And if they’ve been murdered, what do they do?”

Frère Simon said nothing.

“They tell us who killed them, if at all possible.”

The monk’s cheeks reddened and his eyes narrowed slightly. “You think Frère Mathieu told me who killed him? And I’ve said nothing?”

Now it was Gamache’s turn to be silent. He examined the monk. Taking in the full, round face. Not fat, but cheeks like chipmunks’. The shaved head. The short, pug nose. The near permanent scowl of disapproval. And hazel eyes, like the bark of a tree. Mottled. And rough. And unyielding.

And yet, the voice of an archangel. Not simply a member of the celestial choir, but one of the Chosen. A favorite of God. Gifted beyond all others.

Except the other men in this monastery. Two dozen of them.

Was this place, Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, a golden moment? Between two worlds. It felt like it. Out of time, and place. A netherworld. Between the vibrant life of Québec. The bistros and brasseries, the festivals. The hardworking farmers and brilliant academics.

Between the mortal world, and Heaven. Or Hell. There was here.

Where quiet was king. And calm reigned. And the only sounds were the birds in the trees and plainchant.

And where, a day ago, a monk was killed.

Did the prior, at the very end, his back to the wall, break his vow of silence?

*   *   *

Jean-Guy Beauvoir propped the broken chair against the door into the prior’s office.

It wouldn’t stop anyone, but it would slow them down just enough. And it would certainly give Beauvoir warning.

Then he walked around the desk and sat in the chair Francoeur had just left. It was still warm from the Superintendent. The thought made Beauvoir slightly queasy, but he ignored it and pulled the laptop toward him.

It too was warm. Francoeur had been on it, but had closed it down when Beauvoir entered.

After he’d rebooted the laptop, Beauvoir tried to connect to the Internet.

It wouldn’t. There was still no satellite hookup.

So what was the Superintendent doing? And why had he shut it down so quickly?

Jean-Guy Beauvoir settled in to find the answer.

*   *   *

“Shall I tell you my thinking?” asked Gamache.

Frère Simon’s face screamed no. Gamache, of course, ignored it.

“It’s unorthodox,” admitted the Chief. “We generally like the people we’re talking to to do all the talking. But I think it might be sensible to be flexible, in this case.”

He looked, with some amusement, at the mule-like monk. Then his face grew solemn.

“This is what I think happened. I think Frère Mathieu was still alive when you went into the garden. He was curled against the wall, and it probably took you a minute or so to see him.”

As Gamache spoke an image sprang up between the two men, a vision of Frère Simon entering the garden with his gardening gear. More bright autumn leaves had fallen since he’d last raked, and some of the flowers were in need of deadheading. The sun was out and the day was crisp and fresh and filled with the scent of wild crab apple trees in the forest, their fruit baking in the late-season sun.

Frère Simon walked down the lawn, scanning the flower beds, looking at what needed to be cut down and put to bed for the harsh winter so obviously approaching.

And then he stopped. The grass at the far end of the garden had been mussed up. Disturbed. It wasn’t obvious. A casual visitor would have probably missed it. But the abbot’s secretary was not a casual visitor. He knew every leaf, every blade of grass. He tended it as he would a child in his care.

Something was wrong.

He looked around. Was the abbot here? But he knew the abbot was going to the basement, to look at the geothermal.

Frère Simon stood very still in the late September sunlight, his eyes sharp, his senses alert.

“Am I right so far?” Gamache asked.

The Chief Inspector’s voice had been so mesmerizing, his words so descriptive that Frère Simon had forgotten he was still sitting inside, in the office. He could almost feel the chill autumn air on his cheeks.

He looked at the Chief Inspector, sitting so composed across from him, and thought, not for the first time, that this was a very dangerous man.

“I’ll take your silence as assent,” said Gamache with a small smile, “though I realize that’s often a mistake.”

He continued his story, and once again the image between the men sprang up and began to move.

“You walked a few steps, trying to make out the lump at the far end of the garden, not yet concerned, but curious. Then you noticed the grass wasn’t just disturbed, but there was blood.”

Both men saw Frère Simon bending over, looking at the bent blades, and here and there a smear of red, as though the fallen leaves had sprung a stigmata.

Then he stopped and looked ahead of him, in the direction of the trail.

At the end of the path lay a figure. Curled into a tight, black ball. With just a crest of distinctive white. Only it wasn’t all white. There was deep red there too.

Frère Simon threw his gardening tools to the ground and leapt forward, wading through the bushes to get there. Stomping on his precious perennials. Killing the cheerful black-eyed Susans standing in his way.

A monk, one of his brothers, was hurt. Badly hurt.

“I thought,” said Frère Simon, not looking into Gamache’s eyes, but down at the rosary in his hands. His voice was low, not above a whisper, and the Chief leaned forward to grasp each rare word. “I thought…”

Now Frère Simon did look up. The memory alone was enough to frighten him.

Gamache said nothing. He kept his face neutral, interested. But his deep brown eyes never left the monk’s.

“I thought it was Dom Philippe.”

His eyes fell to the simple cross swinging from his rosary. Then Frère Simon brought his hands up, and dropped his head and held it there, so that the cross knocked softly against the monk’s forehead. And then stopped.

“Oh, God, I thought he was dead. I thought something had happened to him.” Frère Simon’s voice was muffled. But while his words were obscured, his feelings couldn’t have been clearer.

“What did you do?” asked Gamache, softly.

His head still in his hands, the monk spoke to the floor. “I hesitated. God help me, I hesitated.”

He lifted his head to look at Gamache. His confessor. Hoping for understanding, if not absolution.

“Go on,” said Gamache, his eyes never wavering.

“I didn’t want to see. I was afraid.”

“Of course you were. Anyone would be. But you did go to him, finally,” said the Chief. “You didn’t run away.”

“No.”

“What happened?”

Now Frère Simon held on to Gamache’s eyes as though they were a rope and he was dangling from a cliff.

“I knelt and turned him a little. I thought maybe he’d fallen from the wall or the tree. I know, it’s ridiculous, but I couldn’t see how else it could’ve happened. And if he’d broken his neck I didn’t want to…”

“
Oui,
” said Gamache. “Go on.”

“Then I saw who it was.” The monk’s voice had changed. It was still filled with stress, with anxiety, reliving those terrible moments. But the degree had changed. “It wasn’t the abbot.”

There was clearly relief.

“It was the prior.”

And even more relief. What had started as a dreadful tragedy had ended as almost good news. Frère Simon couldn’t hide it. Or chose not to.

Still, he held the Chief’s gaze. Searching it for disapproval.

He found none. Only acceptance, that what he was hearing was almost certainly, finally, the truth.

“Was he alive?” Gamache asked.

“
Oui
. His eyes were open. He stared at me, and grabbed my hand. You’re right. He knew he was dying. And I knew. I couldn’t tell you how I knew, but I did. I couldn’t just leave him.”

“How long did it take?”

Frère Simon paused. It had obviously taken an eternity. Kneeling in the earth, holding the bloody hand of a dying man. A fellow monk. A man this man despised.