The Beautiful Mystery

Gamache pulled the paper from his satchel. “Is this one of them?”

 

Luc took it from the Chief. He was totally focused. Completely still. His brows drew together and he shook his head, handing the paper back.

 

“I can’t tell you what this is, monsieur. But I can tell you what it isn’t. It’s not a Gregorian chant.”

 

“How can you tell?”

 

Luc smiled. “There’re very clear rules to a chant. Like a sonnet, or haiku. Things you must do, and things you mustn’t. A Gregorian chant is about discipline, and simplicity. The humility to submit to the rules, and the inspiration to rise above them. The challenge is to use the rules and transcend them at the same time. To sing to God, and not impose your own ego. That,” he gestured to the paper, now back in Gamache’s hand, “is nonsense.”

 

“You mean the words?”

 

“I don’t understand the words. What I mean is the rhythm, the meter. It’s way off. Too fast. Not even close to a Gregorian chant.”

 

“But it has these things.” Gamache pointed to the squiggles above the words. “Neumes, right?”

 

“Right. That’s what’s so troubling about it.”

 

“Troubling, Frère Luc?”

 

“It’s meant to look like a Gregorian chant. It’s masquerading as one. But it’s an imposter. Where did you find it?”

 

“On the body of Frère Mathieu.”

 

Luc blanched. Gamache knew that there were two things a person could not create, no matter how much they willed it. A blanch and a blush.

 

“What does that tell you, Frère Luc?”

 

“That the prior died trying to protect what he loved.”

 

“This?” Gamache lifted the page.

 

“No, not that at all. He must have taken that from someone here. Someone who was trying to turn the chants into a joke. Trying to make them an abomination. And the prior wanted to stop it.”

 

“You think this was done as an insult?”

 

“Someone knew Gregorian chants and neumes enough to mock them. Yes, it was done on purpose, as an insult.”

 

“Someone here, you said. Who?” Gamache watched the young monk.

 

Frère Luc was quiet.

 

Gamache waited. Then he spoke, recognizing that sometimes silence was a useful tactic. Much more oppressive and threatening than hurled insults. But here silence was their comfort. It was the spoken word that seemed to frighten the monks.

 

“Who hated Frère Mathieu enough to mock his life’s work?” Gamache persisted. “Who hated him enough to kill him?”

 

Luc remained silent.

 

“If every monk here loves the chants, why would one mock them? Create what you call an abomination?” Gamache held the vellum up and leaned forward very slightly. Luc backed away very slightly, but he had nowhere to go.

 

“I don’t know,” said Luc. “I’d tell you if I did.”

 

The Chief studied Frère Luc, and thought he probably would. He loved the chants and clearly admired and respected the prior. Frère Luc would not protect any man who was out to kill both. But while this monk might not know who did it, he might have suspicions. As the abbot had said earlier, Gamache needed proof, but a monk only needed his beliefs. Did Frère Luc believe he knew who’d killed the prior, and mocked the chants? And was he arrogant enough to think he could deal with them on his own?

 

The Chief Inspector held the monk’s eyes and when he spoke his voice was stern.

 

“You must help me find out who did this.”

 

“I don’t know anything.”

 

“But you suspect.”

 

“No. That’s not true.”

 

“A murderer is walking these halls, young man. A killer is trapped in here with us. With you.”

 

Gamache saw the fear in Luc’s eyes. A young man who sat alone all day, the only key to the outside world attached to a rope around his waist. The only way out was through him. If the murderer ever wanted to escape it might literally be over this young man’s dead body. Did Luc appreciate that?

 

The Chief Inspector leaned away, but not by much. “Tell me what you know.”

 

“All I know is that not everyone was happy about the recording.”

 

“The new one? The one the prior was about to make?”

 

Frère Luc paused then shook his head.

 

“The old one? The first one?”

 

Frère Luc nodded.

 

“Who was unhappy?”

 

Now Frère Luc looked miserable.

 

“You must tell me, son,” said Gamache.

 

Luc leaned forward. To whisper. His eyes darting into the dim corridor. Gamache also leaned forward. To hear.

 

But before he could say anything, Frère Luc’s eyes widened.

 

“There you are, Monsieur Gamache. Your Inspector said you’d be here. I’ve come to take you to dinner.”

 

Frère Simon, the abbot’s secretary, stood in the hallway, a few feet from the porter’s door. His hands up his sleeves, his head humbly bowed.

 

Had he heard their conversation? Gamache wondered.

 

This was the monk whose eyes never seemed to quite close. Who watched everything, and who, Gamache suspected, heard everything.