The Beautiful Mystery ciag-8

by Louise Penny

  “Fuck you. I won’t go back there. And you think holding on to those pills will do any good? I can get more, without even leaving headquarters.”

  “You won’t be in headquarters. You’re suspended. You don’t think I’m going to let you walk around with pills and a gun? You’ll go on sick leave, and when your doctor says you’re well, we’ll discuss reinstating you.”

  “Fuck you,” spat Beauvoir, the drool sticking to his chin.

  “If you don’t go willingly I’ll arrest you for assault and have the judge sentence you to rehab. I’ll do it, you know.”

  Beauvoir held Gamache’s eyes, and knew he’d do it.

  Gamache put Beauvoir’s badge and ID card into his own pocket. Beauvoir’s mouth was open, a thin line of spittle dripped onto his sweater. His eyes were glassy and wide, and he swayed on his feet. “You can’t suspend me.”

  Gamache took a deep breath and stepped back. “I know this isn’t you. It’s the goddamned pills. They’re killing you, Jean-Guy. But we’ll get you to treatment and it’ll be all right. Trust me.”

  “Like I trusted you in the factory? Like the others trusted you?”

  And Beauvoir, even through his haze, could see he’d scored a direct hit. He saw the Chief flinch as the words struck.

  And he was glad.

  Beauvoir watched as the Chief slowly put Beauvoir’s gun into the holster and attached it to his own belt.

  “Who gave you the pills?”

  “I told you. I found them in my room, with the note from the doctor.”

  “They’re not from the doctor.”

  But Beauvoir was right about one thing. He could get more OxyContin anytime he wanted. Québec was swimming in the stuff. The Sûreté evidence locker was swimming in it. Some of it even made it to trial.

  Gamache stood still.

  He knew who’d given Beauvoir the drugs.

  * * *

  “Ecce homo,” said the abbot. “Why did Mathieu say that when he was dying?”

  “It’s what I said when I hit him.”

  “Why?”

  There was another pause and another ragged breath. “He wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

  “You mean, he was just a man,” suggested the abbot. “He wasn’t the saint you thought he was. He was a world expert on Gregorian chants. A genius even. But he was just a man. You expected him to be more.”

  “I loved him. I’d have done anything for him. But he asked me to help him ruin the chants, and I couldn’t do that.”

  “You went to the garden knowing you might kill him?” asked the abbot, trying to keep his voice neutral. “You took the iron door knocker with you.”

  “I had to stop him. When we met in the garden I tried to reason with him, to get him to change his mind. I tore up the sheet he gave to me. I thought it was the only copy.” The voice stopped. But the breathing continued. Rapid and shallow now. “Frère Mathieu was in a rage. Said he’d kick me out of the choir. Make me sit in the pews.”

  The abbot listened to Frère Luc, but he saw Mathieu. Not the loving, kind, godly friend, but the man overcome with rage. Stymied. Denied. The abbot could barely stand up to the force of that personality. He could begin to see how young Frère Luc might break. And lash out.

  “All I wanted was to sing the chants. I came here to study with the prior and sing the chants. That’s all. Why wasn’t that enough?”

  The voice became a squeak, unintelligible. The abbot tried to make out the words. Frère Luc cried and begged him to understand. And the abbot found that he did.

  Mathieu was human, and so was this young man.

  And so was he.

  Dom Philippe lowered his head to his hands as the young man’s sobs surrounded him.

  * * *

  Armand Gamache left Beauvoir in the prior’s office and headed for the Blessed Chapel. With each step he felt his rage growing.

  The drugs would kill Jean-Guy. A long, slow slide to the grave. Gamache knew that. The man who did this knew it. And had done it anyway.

  The Chief Inspector yanked open the door to the Blessed Chapel so forcefully it banged against the wall behind it. He saw the monks turn at the sound.

  He saw Sylvain Francoeur turn. And Gamache, as he approached with steely, steady calm, saw the smile fade from Francoeur’s handsome face.

  “We need to talk, Sylvain,” said Gamache.

  Francoeur backed away, up the steps and onto the altar. “Now’s not the time, Armand. The plane will be arriving any moment.”

  “Now is the time.” Gamache kept walking forward, his eyes never straying from Francoeur. In his hand he held a handkerchief.

  As his long, steady strides brought him closer to the Superintendent, Gamache opened his fist to reveal a pill bottle.

  The Superintendent turned to run but Gamache was faster, and caught him against the choir stall. The monks scattered. Only the Dominican stood his ground. But said and did nothing.

  Gamache put his face against Francoeur’s.

  “You could’ve killed him,” Gamache snarled. “You almost killed him. How can you do this to one of your own?”

  Gamache had Francoeur’s shirt in his fist, yanking it. He felt the man’s warm breath on his face, in short, terrified puffs.

  And Gamache knew. Just a little more pressure. Just a few moments more, and this problem would disappear. This man would disappear. One more twist.

  And who would blame him?

  In that instant, Gamache let go. And stepped back, glaring at the Superintendent. Gamache’s breathing was shallow, rapid. With an effort he brought himself under control.

  “You’re fucked, Gamache,” said Francoeur in a hoarse whisper.

  “What’s happened?”

  Both men turned to see Jean-Guy Beauvoir clutching the back of a pew, staring at them. His face pale and shiny.

  “Nothing,” said Gamache, straightening his disheveled jacket. “The boat must be here. We’ll pack up and leave.”

  Gamache stepped off the altar and made for the door back to the prior’s office. Then he noticed he was alone. He turned.

  Francoeur hadn’t moved. But neither had Beauvoir.

  Gamache walked back down the aisle slowly, looking at Beauvoir the whole time.

  “Did you hear me, Jean-Guy?” he asked. “We need to get going.”

  “Inspector Beauvoir is, I believe, of two minds,” said Francoeur, straightening his clothes.

  “You suspended me,” said Beauvoir. “I don’t need rehab. If I go with you, promise you won’t take me.”

  “I can’t do that,” said Gamache, holding Jean-Guy’s bloodshot eyes. “You need help.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Francoeur. “There’s nothing wrong with you. What you need is a decent boss who doesn’t treat you like a child. You think you’re in trouble now. Wait ’til he finds out about you and Annie.”

  Beauvoir spun around to Francoeur. Then back to Gamache.

  “We already know about you and Annie,” said the Chief. His eyes hadn’t left Jean-Guy. “Have for months.”

  “Then why didn’t you say anything?” asked Francoeur. “Are you ashamed? Hoping it’ll be short lived? That your daughter’ll come to her senses? Maybe that’s why he wants to humiliate you, Inspector Beauvoir. Maybe that’s why he’s suspended you and wants to ship you off to rehab. In one coup-de-grâce he’ll end your career, and your relationship. Do you think she’ll want an addict for a husband?”

  “We respected your privacy.” Gamache ignored Francoeur and continued to speak only to Beauvoir. “We knew you’d tell us when you were ready. We couldn’t be happier. For both of you.”

  “He’s not happy,” said Francoeur. “Look at him. You can see it in his face.”

  Gamache took a cautious step forward as though approaching a skittish deer.

  “Yes, look at me, Jean-Guy. I knew about you and Annie because of the lilacs. The flowers we picked together and you gave her. Remember?”

  His voice was gentle. Ki
ndly.

  Gamache offered his right hand to Beauvoir. A helping hand. Jean-Guy saw the slight quiver in the familiar hand.

  “Come back with me,” said Gamache.

  There was complete silence in the Blessed Chapel.

  “He left you to die on the factory floor,” the reasonable voice floated toward them. “He went to help the others, and left you. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t even like you. And he sure doesn’t respect you. If he did he’d never suspend you. He wants to humiliate you. Castrate you. Give him back his weapon, Armand. And his warrant card.”

  But Gamache didn’t move. His hand remained outstretched toward Beauvoir. His eyes resting on the young man.

  “Chief Superintendent Francoeur read your files. The ones from your therapy,” said Gamache. “That’s how he knows about your relationships. That’s how he knows all about you. Everything you thought was confidential, everything you told the therapist, Francoeur knows. He’s using that to manipulate you.”

  “Again, he’s treating you like a child. As though you can be so easily manipulated. If you don’t trust him with a weapon, Armand, I do.” Francoeur unclipped his own holster and approached Beauvoir. “Take it, Inspector. I know you’re not an addict. Never were. You were in pain and needed the medication. I understand.”

  Gamache turned to Francoeur and fought the urge to take out the gun now clipped to his belt and finish what he started.

  Deep breath in, he told himself. Deep breath out.

  When he felt it was safe to speak he turned back to Beauvoir.

  “You need to choose.”

  Beauvoir looked from Gamache to Francoeur. Both stretched out their hands to him. One offered a slight tremble, the other a gun.

  “Are you going to take me to rehab?”

  Gamache stared for a moment. Then nodded.

  There was a long, long silence. And finally Beauvoir broke it. Not with a word, but with an action. He stepped away from Gamache.

  * * *

  Armand Gamache stood on the shore and watched the float plane leave the dock with Francoeur, Frère Luc and Beauvoir on board.

  “He’ll come to his senses,” the Dominican said, as he joined the Chief Inspector.

  Gamache said nothing, but just watched as the plane bounced over the waves. Then he turned to his companion.

  “I suppose you’ll be leaving soon too,” said Gamache.

  “I’m in no rush.”

  “Is that right? Not even to get the Book of Chants back to Rome? It’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

  “True, but I’ve been thinking. It’s very old. Might be too fragile to travel. I’ll give it a good, hard think before doing anything. Might even pray on it. A decision could take awhile. And ‘awhile’ in Church time is a very long time indeed.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” said Gamache. “I hate to remind you, but the foundations are collapsing.”

  “Yes, well, about that. I’ve had a conversation with the head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. He was impressed by the abbot’s insistence on keeping their vows of silence and humility. Even in the face of great pressure, including the possible collapse of the monastery.”

  Gamache nodded. “A steady hand on the tiller.”

  “Exactly what the Holy Father said. He was also impressed.”

  Gamache raised his brows.

  “So much so that the Vatican is considering paying for the restoration of Saint-Gilbert. We lost them once. It would be a shame to lose the Gilbertines again.”

  Gamache smiled and nodded. Dom Philippe had his miracle.

  “When you asked me to sing Frère Mathieu’s new chant, did you know it was Frère Luc who’d react?” the Dominican asked. “Or was that a surprise?”

  “Well, I suspected it might be him, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Why’d you suspect Frère Luc?”

  “For one thing, the murder happened after Lauds. When I watched where everyone went after the service, it was clear only Frère Luc was alone. No one visited him in the porter’s office. No one went down that corridor. Only Frère Luc could’ve gone to the garden unseen because everyone else worked in groups.”

  “Except the abbot.”

  “True, and I suspected him for a while too. In fact, right up until the end I suspected almost everyone. I realized while Dom Philippe wasn’t confessing to the crime, neither was he completely exonerating himself. He told a lie he knew we’d uncover. Said he was in the basement looking at the geothermal. He wanted us to know he was alone.”

  “But he must have known that would make him a suspect,” said Frère Sébastien.

  “That’s what he wanted. He knew one of his monks had committed the crime, and he felt some measure of responsibility. So he deliberately left himself open to take the blame. But that was another reason I suspected Frère Luc.”

  “How so?”

  The plane was just skimming the waves. Beginning to get airborne. Gamache spoke to the monk, but had eyes only for the small plane.

  “The abbot kept wondering how he could have missed it. How he didn’t see it coming. Dom Philippe struck me from the beginning as an unusually observant man. Very little got by him. So I began to wonder the same thing. How could the abbot have missed it? And there seemed two possible answers. That he hadn’t missed anything because he himself was the killer. Or, he had missed it only because the killer was the one monk the abbot didn’t know very well. The newest among them. Who chose to spend all his time in the porter’s office. No one knew him. Not even the prior, as it turns out.”

  The plane cleared the lake. The fog was gone and Gamache shielded his eyes from the bright sun. And watched the plane.

  “Ecce homo,” said Frère Sébastien, watching Gamache. Then his gaze shifted to the monastery, where the abbot had left the gate and was walking toward them.

  “Dom Philippe heard Frère Luc’s confession, you know,” said the Dominican.

  “Which is more than I’ve done,” Gamache glanced at the monk before returning his gaze to the sky.

  “I suspect Frère Luc will tell you everything. That’ll be part of his penance. Plus Hail Marys for the rest of his life.”

  “And will that do it? Will he be forgiven?”

  “I hope so.” The Dominican studied Chief Inspector Gamache. “You took a risk, getting me to sing the prior’s chant. Suppose Frère Luc hadn’t reacted?”

  Gamache nodded. “It was a risk. But I needed a quick resolution. I hoped if just seeing the new chant was enough to drive Frère Luc to murder, hearing it sung in the Blessed Chapel would also bring on some violent reaction.”

  “And if Luc hadn’t reacted? Hadn’t given himself away? What would you have done?”

  Gamache turned to look him full in the face. “I think you know.”

  “You’d have left with your Inspector? To take him to treatment? You’d have left us with a murderer?”

  “I’d have come back, but yes. I’d have left with Beauvoir.”

  Now they both looked at the plane. “You’d do anything to save his life, wouldn’t you?”

  When Gamache didn’t answer, the Dominican walked back toward the abbey.

  * * *

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir looked out the window, onto the sparkling lake.

  “Here.” Francoeur tossed something at Beauvoir. “This’s for you.”

  Beauvoir bobbled then caught the pill bottle. He closed his hand over it.

  “Merci.” He quickly twisted off the cap and took two pills. Then he leaned his head against the cool window.

  The plane turned and flew toward the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

  Jean-Guy looked down as they banked. A few monks were outside the walls, picking wild blueberries. He realized he didn’t have any of the chocolates to take back to Annie. But Beauvoir had a sick feeling that it no longer mattered.

  As his head lolled against the window, he saw monks bowing down in the garden. And one monk outside with the chickens. The Chant
eclers. Saved from extinction. As the Gilbertines had been. As the chants had been.

  And he saw Gamache on the shore. Looking up. He’d been joined by the abbot, and the Dominican was walking away.

  Beauvoir felt the pills take hold. Felt the pain finally recede, the hole heal. He sighed with relief. To his surprise, Beauvoir realized why Gilbert of Sempringham had chosen that unique design for their robes. Long black robes, with the white top.

  From above, Heaven, or an airplane, the Gilbertines looked like crosses. Living crosses.

  But there was one other thing for God, and Beauvoir, to see.

  The monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups wasn’t itself a cross. On paper Dom Clément had drawn it to look like a crucifix, but that was another medieval architect’s lie.

  The abbey was, in fact, a neume. Its wings curved, like wings.

  It looked as though the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups was about to take flight.

  At that moment, Chief Inspector Gamache looked up. And Beauvoir looked away.

  * * *

  Gamache watched the plane until it disappeared from sight, then he turned to the abbot, who’d just joined him.

  “I know how horrendous this has been for you.”

  “For all of us,” the abbot agreed. “I hope we learn from it.”

  Gamache paused. “And what’s the lesson?”

  The abbot thought about that for a few moments. “Do you know why we’re called Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups? Why our emblem is two wolves intertwined?”

  Gamache shook his head. “I assumed it dated back to when the first monks arrived. That it was symbolic of taming the wilderness, or making friends with it. Something like that.”

  “You’re right, it is from when Dom Clément and the others came here,” said the abbot. “It’s a story one of the Montagnais told them.”

  “A native story?” asked Gamache, surprised the old Gilbertines were inspired by anything they’d have considered pagan.

  “Dom Clément relates it in his diaries. One of the elders told him that when he was a boy his grandfather came to him one day and said he had two wolves fighting inside him. One was gray, the other black. The gray one wanted his grandfather to be courageous, and patient, and kind. The other, the black one, wanted his grandfather to be fearful and cruel. This upset the boy and he thought about it for a few days then returned to his grandfather. He asked, ‘Grandfather, which of the wolves will win?’”