ELEVEN
Two monks came out of the kitchens carrying bowls of small new potatoes, drizzled with butter and chives. Broccoli and sweet squash and casseroles followed. Cutting boards with warm baguettes dotted the long refectory table and platters of cheeses and butter were silently passed up and down the long benches of monks.
The monks, though, took very little. Passing the bowls and bread, but only taking enough to be symbolic.
They had no appetite.
This left Beauvoir in a quandary. He wanted to drop huge spoonfuls of everything onto his plate until he could no longer see above it. He wanted to make an altar of the food, then eat it. All.
When the first casserole, a fragrant cheese and leek dish with a crunchy crumble top, came by he paused, looking at the modest amounts everyone else had taken.
Then he took the biggest scoop he could manage and plopped it onto his plate.
Bite me, he thought. And the monks looked like they might.
The abbot broke the silence with grace. And then another monk rose after the meal had been served, and walked to a lectern. There he read from a prayer book.
Not a word was said in conversation.
Not a word was said about the hole in their ranks. The missing monk.
But Frère Mathieu was very much present, hanging over them like a haunting. Taking advantage of the silence to grow until he finally filled the room.
Gamache and Beauvoir were not seated together. Like children who couldn’t be trusted, they were at opposite ends of the table.
Near the end of the meal, the Chief folded his cloth napkin and rose.
Frère Simon, across from him, motioned, at first subtly then with more vigor, for the Chief to sit back down.
Gamache met the man’s eyes, and also motioned. That he’d received the message, but was going to do what he needed to do anyway.
Down the bench, Beauvoir, seeing the Chief rise, also got to his feet.
There was perfect silence now. Not even the discreet clink of cutlery. All forks and knives were either put down, or suspended. All eyes were on the Chief.
He walked slowly to the lectern and looked down the table. Twelve monks on one side. Eleven monks on the other. The room, the community, out of balance.
“My name is Armand Gamache,” he said into the shocked silence. “Some of you I’ve already met. I’m the Chief Inspector of homicide for the S?reté du Québec. This is my second in command, Inspector Beauvoir.”
The monks looked anxious. And angry. At him.
Gamache was used to this transference. They couldn’t yet blame the killer, so they blamed the police for turning their lives upside down. He felt a rush of sympathy.
If they only knew how bad it would get.
“We’re here to investigate what happened this morning. The death of Frère Mathieu. We’re grateful for your hospitality, but we need more than that. We need your help. I suspect whoever killed your prior had no intention of hurting others.” Gamache paused. Then his voice grew more intimate. More personal. “But others will be hurt, very badly, before this is over. Things that you want to remain private will be made public. Relationships, quarrels. All your secrets will come out as Inspector Beauvoir and I hunt for the truth. I wish it wasn’t so, but it is. Just as you wish Frère Mathieu wasn’t dead.”
But even as he said it, Gamache wondered if it was true.
Did they wish Frère Mathieu was still among them? Or did they wish him dead? There was real pain here. The monks of this monastery were devastated. Deeply upset.
But what were they really mourning?
“We all know that the murderer is among us right now. He’s shared our table, eaten the bread. Listened to the prayers and even joined in. I want to speak with him for a moment.” Gamache paused. Not, he hoped, to be melodramatic, but to let his words sink through the armor these monks wore. Cloaks of silence and piety and routine. He needed to break through those, to get to the man inside. The soft center.
“I think you love this abbey and don’t want to hurt your fellow monks. That was never your intention. But as careful as Inspector Beauvoir and I might be, more damage will be done. A murder investigation is catastrophic for all involved. If you thought the worst was the murder, wait for it.”
His voice was quiet but commanding, authoritative. There could be no doubt he was speaking the truth.
“There is one way to stop it, though. Only one.” Gamache let that hang in the air. “You must give yourself up.”
He waited, and they waited.
A throat cleared and all eyes swung to the abbot, who rose to his feet. Eyes widened in shock. Frère Simon also made to get up, but the abbot, in a move barely visible, motioned him down.
Dom Philippe turned to his community. If the tension had been great before, it sizzled now, the room crackling with it.
“No,” said the abbot, “I’m not about to confess. I join the Chief Inspector in asking, begging, whoever did this to come forward.”
No one moved, no one spoke. The abbot addressed Gamache.
“We will cooperate, Chief Inspector. I’ve lifted the vow of silence. There might be a tendency toward silence now, but it’s no longer an obligation.”
He looked at the monks. “If any of you has information, you must not keep it to yourself. There’s no moral or spiritual value in protecting whoever did this. You must tell Chief Inspector Gamache everything you know, and trust him and Inspector Beauvoir to sort out what matters and what doesn’t. That’s what they do. We pray, and work, and contemplate God. And sing to the glory of God. And these men,” he nodded to Gamache and Beauvoir, “find killers.”
His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. This man, who didn’t speak often, now found himself saying words like “killers.” He pressed on.
“Our order has been tested over the centuries. And this is another test. Do we really believe in God? Do we believe all the things we say and sing? Or has it become a faith of convenience? Has it, in splendid isolation, grown weak? When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up. We must not protect the killer.”
One of the monks rose and bowed to the abbot.
“You say, mon père, that our order has been tested over the centuries, and that’s true. We’ve been persecuted, driven out of our monasteries. Imprisoned and burned. Driven to the brink of extinction. Driven into hiding. All by the authorities, by men like these,” he waved toward Gamache and Beauvoir, “who also claimed to be acting in the interest of so-called truth. This man has even admitted he’ll violate our abbey to get at that truth. And you’re asking us to help? You invited them in. Gave them a bed. Share our food. Courage has never been our weakness, Père Abbé. Judgment has.”
The monk was one of the younger men. Late thirties, Gamache guessed. His voice was assured, reasonable, sensible. A few of the other monks were nodding. And more than a few were averting their eyes.
“You ask us to trust them,” he continued. “Why should we?”
The monk sat down.