The brothers who weren’t busy studying the table in front of them moved their eyes from the monk who just spoke, to the abbot, and finally to Gamache.
“Because, mon frère, you have no choice,” said the Chief. “As you say, we’re already in. The door has locked behind us and the outcome is not in doubt. Inspector Beauvoir and I will find whoever killed Brother Mathieu and we’ll bring him to justice.”
There was a small, anonymous snort of derision.
“Not divine justice, but the best this world has to offer for now,” continued Gamache. “The justice decided by your fellow Québécois. Because, like it or not, you are not citizens of some higher plane of existence, some greater dominion. You, like me, like the abbot, like the boatman who brought us here, are all citizens of Québec. And will abide by the laws of the land. You may, of course, also abide by the moral laws of your beliefs. But I pray to God they’re the same thing.”
Gamache was annoyed. That much was obvious. Not at being challenged, but by the arrogance, the haughty assumption of both superiority and martyrdom this monk had taken. And the others had supported.
Not all the others, Gamache could see. And Gamache saw something else with sudden clarity. This arrogant monk had done him a huge favor. And shown him something only vaguely hinted at before.
Here was a community divided, a fissure running through them. And this tragedy, rather than bridging it, was simply widening the gap. Something lived in that dark crevice, Gamache knew. And when he and Jean-Guy found it it would almost certainly have nothing to do with faith. Or God.
They left the monks to their stunned, and convenient, silence and walked toward the Blessed Chapel.
“You’re pissed,” said Beauvoir, almost running to catch up to Gamache’s long strides.
“Pissed off, perhaps, but not pissed,” said the Chief, with a smile. “Seems, Jean-Guy, we’ve landed in the only monastery on earth that doesn’t make liquor.”
Beauvoir touched the Chief’s arm to slow him down and Gamache stopped in the middle of the corridor.
“You old…”
At a look from Gamache, Beauvoir stopped what he was about to say, but also smiled.
“That was all an act,” Beauvoir lowered his voice, “you storming out. You wanted to show that asshole monk you wouldn’t be pushed around, unlike the abbot.”
“It wasn’t entirely an act, but yes. I wanted the others to know it was possible to challenge that monk. What’s his name anyway?”
“Frère Dominic? Frère Donat? Something like that.”
“You don’t know, do you.”
“Not a clue. They all look the same to me.”
“Well, find out, please.”
They’d started walking again, more slowly this time. When they reached the Blessed Chapel the Chief paused, glanced behind him to see the empty corridor, then walked through the center of the church, Beauvoir at his side.
Passing the pews, the two men mounted the steps, crossed the altar and Gamache took a seat on the front choir bench. The prior’s place. Gamache knew that because it had been empty at Vespers. It was directly across from where the abbot sat. Beauvoir sat down next to the Chief.
“Do you feel a song coming on?” he whispered, and Gamache smiled.
“The main reason I pushed was to see what would happen. Their reaction was interesting, Jean-Guy, didn’t you find?”
“Interesting that monks would be so self-satisfied? I’ll alert the press.”
Like many Québécois of his generation, he had no use for the Church. It just wasn’t part of his life. Unlike previous generations. The Catholic Church wasn’t just a part of his parents’ lives, and his grandparents’, it ruled their lives. The priests told them what to eat, what to do, who to vote for, what to think. What to believe.
Told them to have more and more babies. Kept them pregnant and poor and ignorant.
They’d been beaten in school, scolded in church, abused in the back rooms.
And when, after generations of this, they’d finally walked away, the Church had accused them of being unfaithful. And threatened them with eternal damnation.
No, Beauvoir was not surprised that monks, when scratched, bled hypocrisy.
“What I found interesting was the divide,” said the Chief. His voice was quiet, but it echoed through the chapel. This was the sweet spot, he realized. Right here. Where the benches were. The Blessed Chapel had been designed for voices. To pick them up, and bounce them off the perfect angles. So that a whisper here would become clear anywhere else in the church.
Transmutation, thought Gamache. Not water into wine, but a whisper into an audible word.
How curious, again, that a silent order would create an acoustic marvel.
This was not the place for a private conversation. But then, the Chief didn’t care who overheard.
“Yes, that was pretty clear,” agreed Beauvoir. “They all look so calm and peaceful, but there was real anger there. That monk doesn’t like the abbot.”
“Worse,” said Gamache. “He doesn’t respect him. It’s possible to have a leader you wouldn’t choose as a friend. But you need to at least respect them. Trust them. That was quite a body-shot. Publicly accusing the abbot of bad judgment.”
“Maybe it’s true,” said Beauvoir.
“Maybe.”
“And the abbot let him get away with it. Would you?”
“Let someone insult me? Clearly you’re not paying attention. It happens all the time.”
“But one of your subordinates?”
“That too has happened, as you know. And I don’t automatically fire them. I want to know where it’s coming from. Get at the root. That’s far more important.”
“So where’s this coming from, do you think?”
It was a good question. One Gamache had been asking himself as he’d left the dining hall, and walked through the church.
That this was an abbey divided was obvious. The murder wasn’t, in fact, an isolated event, but the latest in probably an escalating series of blows.
The prior had been attacked with a stone.
And the abbot had also just been attacked. With words.
One killed instantly, the other slowly. Were they both victims of the same person? Were the abbot and the prior on the same side of the divide? Or opposite sides? Gamache looked across the slate floor, past the altar, to the far side. Where the abbot sat.
Two men, of an age, staring at each other for decades.
One in charge of the abbey, the other in charge of the choir.
When they’d been in the garden that morning and Gamache had taken the abbot aside for a talk, he’d had the impression that the abbot and the prior were very close.
Closer, perhaps, than the Church would officially condone.
Gamache had no problem with that. Indeed, he completely understood and would find it surprising if some of these men didn’t find comfort in each other. It seemed perfectly natural to him. What he wanted to know, though, was what had started the rift. Where did the crack begin? What blow, minor or otherwise, had started it all?
And he wanted to know where the abbot and the prior stood. Together? Or apart?
The Chief’s mind went to what the young monk had said, just before Frère Simon had arrived to announce dinner. Gamache told Beauvoir about their conversation.
“So not everyone was happy about the recording,” said Beauvoir. “Why not, I wonder. It was a huge hit. Must have made a fortune for the abbey. And you can tell. New roof, new plumbing. Geothermal system. It’s incredible. As great as those chocolate-covered blueberries are, I can bet they didn’t pay for the heating system.”
“And Frère Mathieu was apparently planning a new recording,” said Gamache.
“Do you think he was killed to stop him?”
Gamache was quiet for a moment. And then he slowly turned his head. Beauvoir, sensing a new awareness in the Chief, also looked into the gloom. The only lights in the Blessed Chapel were sconces on the walls behind the altar. The rest was in darkness.
But in that darkness they could just make out small, white shapes. Like tiny vessels.
Slowly the armada took shape. They were cowls. The white hoods of the monks.
They’d come back into the chapel and were standing in the darkness. Watching.
And listening.
Beauvoir turned to Gamache. There was a very small smile on his face, only noticeable to someone very close. And in his keen eyes there was a gleam.
He’s not surprised, thought Beauvoir. No, it was more than that. He’d wanted them to come. To hear their conversation.
“You old…” Beauvoir whispered, and wondered if the monks had heard that too.