The Beautiful Mystery ciag-8

by Louise Penny

  It was, he had to admit, one of the strangest occurrences he’d had in the hundreds of murders his department had investigated. Granted, every homicide had its share of strange behavior. Indeed, normal behavior would be considered among the oddest.

  Still, he’d never had an entire community vanish.

  He’d had suspects hide. He’d had many people try to run away. But never all of them. The only monk left lay at his feet. The Chief Inspector hoped Frère Mathieu was still the only dead monk in the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

  Gamache gave up the search for a key and looked at his watch. It was almost five. With a sinking heart he slid open the slit in the door and looked out. The sun was low on the horizon, just touching to tops of the woods. He could smell the fresh air, the fragrant pine forest. But what he sought, he found.

  The boatman was still at the dock.

  “Etienne!” Gamache called, putting his mouth close to the small opening. “Monsieur Legault!”

  Then he looked out. The boatman hadn’t moved.

  Gamache tried a few more times and wished he could whistle, that shrill, piercing sound some people achieved.

  The Chief watched the boatman, sitting in his boat. And he realized the man was fishing. Casting. Reeling in. Casting. Reeling in.

  With endless patience.

  Or at least, Gamache hoped it was endless.

  Leaving the small slit open, he turned back to the corridor and stood very still. Listening. He heard nothing. It was some comfort, he told himself, that he didn’t hear an outboard motor.

  Still he stared. Wondering where the monks were. Wondering where his agents were. He pushed away the image that came into his head, created by the small but mighty factory deep within him that produced terrible thoughts.

  The monster under the bed. The monster in the closet. The monster in the shadows.

  The monster in the silence.

  With an effort, the Chief Inspector banished those horrors. Let them glide right past, as though they were water and he a rock.

  To occupy himself, he went into the porter’s room. It was really just a recess in the stone wall, with a small window to the corridor, a narrow desk and a single wooden stool.

  The Spartans looked positively bourgeois next to these monks. There were no decorations, no calendars on the wall, no photos of the pope or the archbishop. Or Christ. Or the Virgin Mary.

  Just stone. And a single thick book.

  Gamache could barely turn around and wondered if he’d have to back out. He was hardly petit and when this monastery was built the monks had been considerably smaller. It would be embarrassing if when the others returned they found him wedged into the porter’s room.

  But it didn’t come to that, and the Chief finally sat on the stool, adjusting himself to try to find a comfortable position. His back was against one wall, his knees against the other. This was not a place for the claustrophobic. Jean-Guy, for instance, would hate it. As he himself hated heights. Everyone had something they were afraid of.

  Gamache picked up the old book on the narrow desk. It was heavy, and bound in soft, frayed leather. There was no date written into the first pages, and the lettering was gray. Faded. And written with a quill pen.

  The Chief pulled a book of Christian meditations from his satchel, and from that he withdrew the vellum they’d found on the body. Placed in the slim volume for safekeeping.

  Was this page torn from the huge book on his knees?

  He put on his reading glasses and for what felt like the hundredth time that day, Gamache examined the page. The edges, while worn, didn’t appear to be torn from a larger volume.

  His eyes moved from the book to the page. Back and forth. Slowly. Trying to find similarities. Trying to find differences.

  Every now and then he looked up, and down the empty corridor. And listened. At this stage he wanted to see his men more than the monks. Gamache no longer bothered to look at his watch. It didn’t matter.

  When Etienne decided to leave, Gamache couldn’t stop him. But so far, no outboard motor.

  Gamache turned over the brittle pages of the book.

  It appeared to be a collection of Gregorian chants, written in Latin with the neumes above the words. A handwriting analyst could tell far more, but Gamache had examined enough letters to have some expertise.

  On first glance, the writing on the page and in the book seemed exactly the same. A simple form of calligraphy. Not the florid swirls of subsequent generations, these were clear, neat, graceful.

  But some things didn’t match. Tiny things. A swirl here, a tail on a letter there.

  The chants in the book and the one on the torn page weren’t written by the same hand. He was sure of it.

  Gamache closed the large book and turned to the yellowed page. But now, instead of looking at the words, he examined the squiggles above them.

  The abbot had called them neumes. Musical notations used a thousand years ago. Before there were notes and staffs, trebles and octaves, there were neumes.

  But what did they mean?

  He wasn’t sure why he was looking at them again. It wasn’t as though he’d suddenly be able to understand them.

  As he stared, completely focused, willing the ancient markings to make sense, he imagined he heard the music. He’d listened to the recording of the monks singing their plainchant so often the sound was imprinted on his brain.

  As he stared at the neumes he could hear their soft, masculine voices.

  Gamache lowered the paper, slowly, and removed his reading glasses.

  He stared down the long, long, darkening corridor. And still he heard it.

  Low, monotonous. And getting closer.

  NINE

  Gamache left the body and the book and walked swiftly toward the music.

  He entered the Blessed Chapel. The chanting was all about him now. Emanating from the walls and floor and rafters. As though the building was built of neumes.

  The Chief quickly scanned the church as he walked, his eyes sweeping into corners, rapidly absorbing everything there was to see. He was almost at the very center before he saw them. And stopped.

  The monks had returned. They were filing through a hole in the wall at the side of the church. Their white hoods were up, hiding their bowed heads. Their arms were across their bodies, hands buried in their flowing black sleeves.

  Identical. Anonymous.

  Not a patch of skin or hair visible. Nothing to prove they were flesh and blood.

  As they walked, single file, the monks sang.

  This was what neumes sounded like, when lifted from the page.

  This was the world-famous choir of the abbey of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, singing their prayers. Singing Gregorian chants. While it was a sound millions had heard, it was a sight few had ever witnessed. Indeed, as far as the Chief Inspector knew, this was unique. He was the first person to ever actually see the monks in their chapel, singing.

  “Found ’em,” said a voice behind Gamache. When the Chief turned, Beauvoir smiled and nodded toward the altar and the monks. “No need to thank me.”

  Beauvoir looked relieved and Gamache smiled, relieved himself.

  Jean-Guy stopped beside the Chief Inspector and looked at his watch. “Five o’clock service.”

  Gamache shook his head and almost groaned. He’d been a fool. Any Québécois who’d been born before the Church fell from favor knew there was a service at five in the afternoon and that any monk alive would make his way there.

  It didn’t explain where the monks had been, but it did explain why they’d returned.

  “Where’s Captain Charbonneau?” Gamache asked.

  “Down there.” Beauvoir pointed across the chapel, through the monks and to the far end.

  “Stay here,” said the Chief and began to move in that direction when the far door opened and the Sûreté officer appeared. Charbonneau looked, thought Gamache, exactly as he must have looked when he’d arrived in the chapel.

/>   Perplexed, alert, suspicious.

  And finally, amazed.

  Captain Charbonneau saw Gamache and nodded, then briskly made his way along the wall, skirting the monks but keeping his eyes on them.

  They were taking their places along the wooden benches, two rows on either side of the altar.

  The last man took his place.

  The abbot, thought Gamache. He looked like all the others, in simple robes with a rope around his slender middle, but still the Chief knew it was Dom Philippe. Some mannerism, some movement. Something distinguished him from the rest.

  “Chief,” said Charbonneau quietly when he arrived at Gamache’s side. “Where did they come from?”

  “Over there,” said Gamache, pointing off to the side. There was no door visible, just a stone wall, and the Captain looked back to Gamache, who didn’t explain. Couldn’t explain.

  “We need to get out of here,” said Beauvoir. He took a step toward the monks, but the Chief stopped him.

  “Wait a moment.”

  As the abbot took his place the singing died. The monks continued standing. Absolutely motionless. Facing each other.

  The Sûreté agents also stood, facing the monks. Waiting for a signal from Gamache. He was staring at the monks, at the abbot. His eyes sharp. Then he made up his mind.

  “Get the body of Frère Mathieu, please.”

  Beauvoir looked confused, but left with Charbonneau and returned with the stretcher.

  The monks remained motionless, apparently oblivious to the men standing together in the aisle. Staring at them.

  Then the monks, in a single synchronized movement, removed their hoods but continued to stare straight ahead.

  No, Gamache realized. They weren’t staring. Their eyes were closed.

  They were praying. Silently.

  “Come with me,” Gamache whispered, and led them down the very center of the chapel. He walked slowly.

  The monks, even in a trance, could not fail to hear them approaching. Their feet on the floor. How disconcerting this must be for them, the Chief Inspector thought.

  Since the walls were raised more than three hundred years ago, their services had been undisturbed. The same ritual, the same routine. Familiar, comfortable. Predictable. Private. They had never heard a sound during a service they themselves had not produced.

  Until this very moment.

  The world had found them, and slipped through a crack in their thick walls. A crack produced by a crime. But Gamache knew he was not the one violating the sanctity and privacy of their lives. The murderer had done that.

  That vicious act in the garden this morning had summoned up a whole host of things. Including a Chief Inspector of homicide.

  He took the two stone steps up and stood between the rows.

  The Chief gestured to Beauvoir and Charbonneau to lower the body to the slate floor, in front of the altar.

  Then silence again descended.

  Gamache studied the rows of monks, to see if any of them were peeking. Sure enough, one was.

  The abbot’s secretary. Frère Simon. His heavy face stern, even in repose. And his eyes not quite shut. This man’s mind was not entirely on prayer, not entirely with God. As Gamache watched, Brother Simon’s eyes closed completely.

  A mistake, Gamache knew. Had Frère Simon stayed as he was, Gamache might have had his suspicions but could not have been certain.

  But that tiny flutter had betrayed him, as surely as if Frère Simon had screamed.

  Here was a community of men who communicated all day, every day. Just not with words. The smallest gesture took on a meaning and significance that would be lost in the hurly-burly of the outside world.

  Would be lost on him, Gamache knew, if he wasn’t careful. How much had he already missed?

  At that moment all the monks opened their eyes. At once. And stared. At him.

  Gamache suddenly felt both very exposed and a little foolish. Like being caught where he shouldn’t be. On the altar during a service, for instance. Beside a dead man.

  He looked over to the abbot. Dom Philippe was the only monk not staring at him. Instead his cool, blue eyes rested on Gamache’s offering.

  Frère Mathieu.

  * * *

  For the next twenty-five minutes the Sûreté officers sat in a pew, side by side, while the monks held Vespers. They, along with the monks, sat, and stood, and bowed and sat. Then stood. And sat, then kneeled.

  “I should’ve carbed up,” murmured Beauvoir, standing again.

  When not silent, the monks sang their Gregorian chants.

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir sat back down on the hard wooden pew. He went to church as rarely as possible. Some weddings, though the Québécois now preferred to simply live together. Funerals mostly. And even those were becoming rarer, at least in churches. Even the elderly Québécois, when they died, now preferred a funeral home send-off.

  It might not have nurtured them, the funeral home. But neither had it betrayed them.

  The monks had been silent for a few moments.

  Please, dear Lord, Beauvoir prayed, let this be over.

  Then they stood, and started another chant.

  Tabernac, thought Beauvoir, getting to his feet. Beside him, the Chief was also standing, and resting his large hands on the wooden pew in front. His right hand trembled slightly. It was subtle, barely there, but in a man so still, so self-possessed, it was remarkable. Impossible to miss. The Chief didn’t bother to hide the tremor. But Beauvoir noticed Captain Charbonneau glancing at the Chief. And the tell-tale tremble.

  And Beauvoir wondered if he knew the tale it told.

  He wanted to take him aside and scold Charbonneau for staring. He wanted to make it clear that slight quiver wasn’t a sign of weakness. Just the opposite.

  But he didn’t. Taking his cue from Gamache, he said nothing.

  “Jean-Guy,” Gamache whispered, his eyes straight ahead, never leaving the monks, “Frère Mathieu was the choir director, right?”

  “Oui.”

  “So who’s directing them now?”

  Beauvoir was quiet for a moment. Now, instead of just biding his time while this interminable, intolerable, tedious chanting droned on and on, he started to pay attention.

  There was an obvious empty spot on the benches. Directly across from the abbot.

  That must have been where the man now laid at their feet had stood, and sat, had bowed and prayed. And led the choir in these dull chants.

  Beauvoir had earlier amused himself by wondering if the prior had possibly done it to himself. Stoned himself to death rather than have to live through yet another mind-numbing mass.

  It was all the Inspector could do to not run shrieking into one of the stone columns, hoping to knock himself out.

  But now he had a puzzle to occupy his active mind.

  It was a good question.

  Who was leading this choir of men, now that their director was dead?

  “Maybe no one is,” he whispered, after studying the monks for a minute or two. “They must know the songs by heart. Don’t they do the same ones over and over?”

  They sure sounded the same to him.

  Gamache shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think they change from mass to mass and from day to day. Feast days, saints’ days, that sort of thing.”

  “Don’t you mean, et cetera?”

  Beauvoir saw the Chief smile slightly and shoot him a glance.

  “And so on,” said Gamache. “Ad infinitum.”

  “That’s better.” Beauvoir paused before whispering, “Do you know what you’re talking about?”

  “I know a little, but not much,” admitted the Chief. “I know enough about choirs to know they don’t direct themselves, any more than a symphony orchestra can conduct itself, no matter how often they perform a work. They still need their leader.”

  “Isn’t the abbot their leader?” asked Beauvoir, watching Dom Philippe.

  The Chief also watched the tall, slender man. Who rea
lly led these monks? both men wondered, as they bowed and sat again. Who was leading them now?

  * * *

  The Angelus bell rang out, its deep, rich notes pealing over the trees and across the lake.

  Vespers was over. The monks bowed to the crucifix and filed back off the altar while Gamache and the others stood in their pew and watched.

  “Should I get the key from that young monk?” Beauvoir waved to Frère Luc, who was leaving the altar.

  “In a moment, Jean-Guy.”

  “But the boatman?”

  “If he hasn’t left by now, he’ll still be waiting.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “Because he’ll be curious,” said Gamache, studying the monks. “Wouldn’t you wait?”

  They watched the monks leave the altar and pool on either side of the church. Yes, thought Beauvoir, shooting a glance at the Chief, I’d wait.

  With their hoods down and heads up Gamache could see their faces. Some looked as though they’d been crying, some looked wary, some weary and anxious. Some just looked interested. As though they were watching a play.

  It was difficult for Gamache to trust what he was sensing from these men. So many strong emotions masqueraded as something else. Anxiety could look like guilt. Relief could look like amusement. Grief, deep-felt and inconsolable, often looked like nothing at all. The deepest passions could appear dispassionate, the face a smooth plain while something mammoth roiled away underneath.

  The Chief scanned the faces, and came back to two.

  The young gatekeeper, who’d met them at the dock. Frère Luc. Gamache could see the large key dangling from the rope about his waist.

  Luc looked the most blank. And yet, when they’d first met him, he’d clearly been very upset.

  Then Gamache turned his gaze on the abbot’s glum secretary. Brother Simon.

  Sadness. Waves of it washed off the man.

  Not guilt, not sorrow, not wrath or mourning. Not irae or illa.

  But pure sadness.

  Brother Simon was staring at the altar. At the two men still there.

  The prior. And the abbot.

  Who was this profound sadness for? Which man? Or, the Chief wondered, maybe it was for the monastery itself. Sadness that Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups had lost more than a man. It had lost its way.