*
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 Chanteclers. 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.