*
Gamache walked through the halls, meeting a monk here and there. He was beginning to recognize them, though he couldn’t yet put names to all the faces.
Frère Alphonse? Frère Felicien?
The monks’ faces were almost always in repose, their hands thrust up their drooping sleeves in a mannerism the Chief realized was just something monks did. When he passed, they always caught his eye and nodded. Some ventured small smiles.
All looked, at a distance, calm. Contained.
But up close, at that moment when they passed, to a man Gamache saw anxiety in their eyes. A plea.
For him to leave? To stay? To help? Or to go away?
When he’d arrived, not that many hours ago, the abbey of Saint-Gilbert had seemed peaceful. Restful. It was surprisingly beautiful. Its austere walls not cold, but soothing. The daylight refracted by the imperfect glass, broken into reds and purples and yellows. Apart they were individual colors, but together they made giddy light.
Like the abbey. Made up of individuals. Alone they were no doubt exceptional, but together they were brilliant.
Except for one. The shadow. Necessary, perhaps, to prove the light.
Gamache approached another monk as he made his way through the Blessed Chapel.
Frère Timothé? Frère Guillaume?
They passed and nodded and again Gamache caught something in this anonymous monk’s passing glance.
Perhaps each man had a private plea, different from the rest, depending who he was and what was his nature.
This man—Frère Joel?—clearly wanted Gamache to go away. Not because the monk was afraid, but because Gamache had become a walking billboard, advertising the murder of the prior. And their failure as a community.
They were supposed to do only one thing. Serve God. But instead, this abbey had gone in the opposite direction. And Gamache was the exclamation mark that drove that truth home.
The Chief turned right and walked down the long corridor toward the closed door. He was growing familiar with the abbey, comfortable even.
It was in the form of a cross, with the Blessed Chapel in the middle and arms out four sides.
It was now dark outside. The halls were dimly lit. It felt like midnight, but when he glanced at his watch the Chief saw it wasn’t yet six thirty.
The door marked “Porterie” was closed. Gamache knocked.
And waited.
Inside he heard a small sound. A paper, a page turned. Then silence again.
“I know you’re in there, Frère Luc,” said Gamache, lowering his voice. Trying to make himself sound less like the Big Bad Wolf. He heard more paper shuffling, and then the door opened.
Frère Luc was young, in his early twenties, perhaps?
“Oui?” the monk asked.
And Gamache realized it was the first time he’d heard this boy speak directly to him. Even in that short word, Gamache could hear that Frère Luc’s voice was full and rich. A lovely tenor almost certainly. While the man was reedy the voice was not.
“May we talk?” Gamache asked. His own voice was deeper than this boy’s.
Frère Luc’s brown eyes flicked this way and that, over Gamache’s shoulder.
“I believe we’re alone,” said the Chief.
“Oui,” he repeated, folding his hands in front of him.
It was a parody of the composure of the other monks. There was no calm here. This young man seemed torn between being afraid of Gamache and being relieved to see him. Wanting him to both leave and stay.
“I’ve already been interviewed, monsieur.”
It was, even in simple speech, a beautiful voice. A shame to hide it in a vow of silence.
“I know,” said Gamache. “I read the report. You were here when Frère Mathieu was found.”
Luc nodded.
“Do you sing?” the Chief asked.
In any other setting it would be a preposterous first question to a suspect. But not here.
“We all do.”
“How long have you been at Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups?”
“Ten months.”
There was a hesitation and Gamache felt this young man could have told him the days, hours and exact minutes since he’d walked past that heavy door.
“Why did you come here?”
“The music.”
Gamache didn’t know if Frère Luc was being deliberately unhelpful by giving terse answers, or if the rule of silence came naturally to him and words did not.
“I wonder if you could be a little fuller in your answers, mon frère?”
Frère Luc looked petulant.
A young man trying to hide a temper beneath monks’ robes, thought Gamache. So much can hide in silence. Or at least try. Gamache knew most emotions eventually found their way out, especially anger.
“I’d heard the recording,” said Luc. “The chants. I was a postulant in another monastery, down south, by the border. They also do chants, but this was different.”
“How?”
“It’s hard to say what’s different.” Frère Luc’s face changed as soon as he thought about the music. That calm he’d only pretended to became genuine. “As soon as I heard the monks from Saint-Gilbert I knew I’d never heard anything like it.”
Luc actually smiled. “I suppose I should say I came here to be closer to God, but the truth is, I think I can find God in any abbey. But I can’t find the chants just anywhere. Only here.”
“The death of Frère Mathieu must be a great loss.”
The boy opened his mouth, then shut it. His chin dimpled just a bit, his emotions almost breaking through.
“You have no idea.”
And Gamache suspected that might be right.
“Was the prior one of the reasons you came here?”
Frère Luc nodded.
“Will you stay?” Gamache asked.
Frère Luc dropped his eyes to his hands, and kneaded his robe. “I’m not sure where else I’d go.”
“This is your home now?”
“The chants are my home. They happen to be here.”
“The music means that much to you?”
Frère Luc cocked his head to one side and examined the Chief Inspector.
“Have you ever been in love?”
“I have,” said Gamache. “I still am.”