“How?” asked Gamache, trying not to sound exasperated.
“You tell him,” Frère Sébastien invited the young Gilbertine. “It’s your book.”
Frère Luc flushed with pride and looked at the Dominican with something close to adoration. For not only including him in this conversation, but treating him as an equal.
“It’s not just a dot.” Frère Luc turned to Gamache. “If you found a treasure map that had all the directions, but not the place to begin, it’d be useless. The dot is the starting point. It tells us what the first note should be.”
Gamache looked back down at the book, open in Frère Sébastien’s arms.
“But I thought the neume told us that,” he said, pointing to the first squiggle above the first faded word.
“No,” said Luc. Patient now. A born teacher, when working with something he knew and loved. “It only tells us to raise our voices. But from where? This dot is in the middle of the letter. The voice should start in the middle register, and go up.”
“Not exactly precise,” said Gamache.
“It’s an art, not a science,” said Frère Sébastien. “It’s as close as we need to come and can come.”
“If the dot is so important, why don’t all the Books of Chants have it?” the Chief asked.
“Good question,” admitted Frère Sébastien. “We think this,” he hefted the book, “was written by musician monks, but that it was then taken and copied. By scribes. Literary men who didn’t appreciate the importance of the dot. Might have even thought it was a flaw, a mistake.”
“So they left it out?” asked Gamache and the Dominican slowly nodded.
Centuries of searching, a near holy war, generations of monks dedicated to the hunt. All because of a missing dot, and monks who’d mistaken it for a flaw.
“The sheet of music we found on the prior’s body had a dot,” Gamache said.
Frère Sébastien looked at the Chief with interest. “You noticed?”
“I only noticed because you had your finger over it, as though trying to hide it.”
“I was,” admitted the monk. “I was afraid someone else would see the significance of it. Whoever wrote that piece of music knew about the original Book of Chants. And had written another chant in the same style exactly. Including the dot.”
“But that doesn’t narrow it down,” said Gamache. “All the Gilbertines know about this book. They copy out the chants. They must know about the dot and what it does.”
“But do they all know how valuable that makes this book?” asked the Dominican. “In fact, it has no value. It’s priceless.”
Luc shook his head. “Only Frère Mathieu might’ve known, and he wouldn’t care. Its only value to him was the music, nothing else.”
“You also knew,” Gamache pointed out.
“About the dot, yes, but not that the book was priceless,” said Frère Luc.
Gamache wondered if he finally had the motive. Could one of the monks have realized their old wreck of a book was worth a fortune? That the treasure within these walls wasn’t hidden at all, but in plain sight, in plainchant?
Was the prior killed because he stood between the monk and a fortune?
Gamache turned back to the Dominican.
“Is that why you’re here? Not for the lost brothers, but the lost book? It wasn’t the drawing on the cover of the CD that gave them away, but the music itself.”
The truth became clear. This monk had followed the neumes here. For hundreds of years the Church had been looking for the starting point. The Gilbertine recording of the Gregorian chants had unwittingly provided that.
Frère Sébastien seemed to be weighing his answer, then finally he nodded.
“When the Holy Father heard the recording he knew at once. It was the same in every way as all the other Gregorian chants sung in monasteries around the world. Except, these were divine.”
“Sacred,” agreed Frère Luc.
Both monks looked at Gamache, their eyes intense. There was something frightening about that level of zeal. For a single dot.
In the beginning.
The beautiful mystery. Finally solved.
THIRTY-THREE
After breakfast Gamache approached the abbot. Not about the Book of Chants and its value. That he chose to keep quiet, for now. But about something else, of immeasurable value to the Chief himself.
“Did you get through to the boatman?”
He nodded. “Took a couple of tries but Frère Simon finally connected. He’s waiting for the fog to burn off, but he’s optimistic he can be here by noon. Don’t worry,” said Dom Philippe, once more correctly interpreting the tiny lines on Gamache’s face. “He’ll make it.”
“Merci, mon père.”
When the abbot and the others left to prepare for Lauds, Gamache looked at his watch. It was twenty past seven. Five more hours. Yes, the boatman would make it, but what would he find when he docked?
Jean-Guy hadn’t come to breakfast. Gamache strode across the quiet chapel and out the far door. A few monks nodded to him in the corridor as they left their cells, heading for the next service.
The Chief looked into the prior’s office, but it was empty. Then he knocked on Beauvoir’s door and entered without waiting for a reply.
Jean-Guy was lying in bed. In his clothing from the night before. Unshaved, disheveled. Bleary-eyed, Beauvoir got up on one elbow.
“What time is it?”
“Almost seven thirty. What’s wrong, Jean-Guy?” Gamache stood over the bed as Beauvoir struggled up.
“I’m just tired.”
“It’s more than that.” He looked closely at the young man he knew so well. “Are you on something?”
“Are you kidding? I’m clean and sober. How many times do I have to prove it?” snapped Beauvoir.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
They stared at each other. Five hours, thought Gamache. Just five hours. We can make it. He scanned the small room but there was nothing out of place.
“Get dressed, please, and join me in the Blessed Chapel for Lauds.”
“Why?”
Gamache was very still then. “Because I’ve asked you to.”
There was a pause between the two men.
Then Beauvoir relented. “Fine.”
Gamache left and a few minutes later Beauvoir, quickly showered, joined him in the Blessed Chapel, arriving just as the chants began. He dropped into the pew beside Gamache, but said nothing. Angered at being ordered about, questioned. Doubted.
The singing, as always, began from far off. A distant, but perfect, beginning. And then it drew closer. Beauvoir closed his eyes.
Deep breath in, he told himself. Deep breath out.
It felt as though he was breathing in the notes. Taking them to his core. They seemed lighter than round black notes. These neumes had wings. Beauvoir felt light-hearted, and light-headed. Lifted from his stupor. Lifted from the hole he’d rolled into.
As he listened he heard not just the voices, but the breathing of the monks, also in unison. Deep breath in. And then the singing, on the exhale.
Deep breath out.
And then, before he knew it, Lauds was over. And the monks had gone. Everyone had gone.
Beauvoir opened his eyes. The Blessed Chapel was completely silent and he was alone. Except for the Chief.
“We need to talk.” Gamache spoke quietly, not looking at Beauvoir, but staring ahead. “Whatever it is, it will be all right.”
His voice was confident, and kind, and comforting. Beauvoir felt himself drawn to it. And then he felt himself pitching forward. Losing all control. The pew leapt at him, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Then Gamache’s strong hand was on his chest, stopping him. Holding him. He could hear that familiar voice call his name. Not Beauvoir. Not Inspector.
Jean-Guy. Jean-Guy.
He felt himself slide sideways, limp, and his eyes roll to the back of his head. Just before blacking out he saw prisms of light from above, and felt the Chief’s jacket against his cheek and smelled sandalwood and rosewater.
Beauvoir’s eyes flickered open, the lids heavy. Then they closed.