THREE
“Want me to wait?” the boatman asked. He rubbed his stubbly face and looked amused.
They hadn’t told him why they were there. For all he knew they were journalists or tourists. More misguided pilgrims.
“Oui, merci,” said Gamache, handing the man his payment, including a generous tip.
The boatman pocketed it and watched as they unloaded their things then climbed onto the dock.
“How long can you wait?” asked the Chief.
“About three minutes,” laughed the boatman. “That’s about two minutes more’n you’ll need.”
“Can you give us,” Gamache checked his watch. It was just after one in the afternoon. “Until five o’clock?”
“You want me to wait here until five? Look, I know you’ve come a long way, but you must know it won’t take four hours to walk to that door, knock, then turn round and come back.”
“They’ll let us in,” said Beauvoir.
“Are you monks?”
“No.”
“Are you the pope?”
“No,” said Beauvoir.
“Then I’ll give you three minutes. Use ’em well.”
Off the dock and up the dirt path, Beauvoir swore under his breath. When they reached the big wooden door the Chief turned to him.
“Get it out of your system, Jean-Guy. Once through there the swearing stops.”
“Oui, patron.”
Gamache nodded and Jean-Guy raised his hand and hit the door. It made almost no sound, but hurt like hell.
“Maudit tabernac,” he hissed.
“I think that’s the doorbell,” said Captain Charbonneau, pointing to a long iron rod in a pocket chiseled out of the stone.
Beauvoir took it and hit the door a mighty whack. That made a sound. He hit it again and noticed the pockmarks, where others had hit. And hit. And hit.
Jean-Guy looked behind him. The boatman raised his wrist and tapped his watch. Beauvoir turned back to the door and got a start.
The wood had sprung eyes. The door was looking at them. Then he realized a slit had been opened, and two bloodshot eyes looked out.
If Beauvoir was surprised to see the eyes, the eyes seemed surprised to see him.
“Oui?” The word was muffled by the wood.
“Bonjour, mon frère,” said Gamache. “My name is Armand Gamache, I’m the Chief Inspector of homicide with the S?reté. This is Inspector Beauvoir and Captain Charbonneau. I believe we’re expected.”
The wooden window was rammed shut and they heard the unmistakable click as it was locked. There was a pause and Beauvoir began to wonder if they really would get in. And, if not, what would they do? Ram the door down? Clearly the boatman would be no help. Beauvoir could hear a soft chuckle coming from the dock, mingling with the lapping of the waves.
He looked into the forest. It was thick and dark. An attempt had been made to keep it at bay. Beauvoir could see evidence of trees chopped down. Stumps dotted the ground around the walls, as though there’d been a battle and now an uneasy truce. The stumps looked, in the shadow of the monastery, like tombstones.
Beauvoir took a deep breath and told himself to get a grip. It wasn’t like him to be so fanciful. He dealt in facts. Collected them. It was the Chief Inspector who collected feelings. In each murder case, Gamache followed those feelings, the old and decaying and rotting ones. And at the end of the trail of slime, Gamache found the killer.
While the Chief followed feelings, Beauvoir followed facts. Cold and hard. But between the two men, together, they got there.
They were a good team. A great team.
Suppose he isn’t happy? The question snuck up on Beauvoir, out of the woods. Suppose he doesn’t want Annie to be with me?
But that was, again, just fancy. Not fact. Not fact. Not fact.
He stared at the door and saw again the pockmarks, where it had been beaten. By someone, or something, desperate to get in.
Beside him, Chief Inspector Gamache was standing solid. Calm. Staring at the door as though it was the most fascinating thing he’d seen.
And Captain Charbonneau? Out of the periphery of Beauvoir’s vision he could see the outpost commander also staring at the door. He looked uneasy. Anxious to either enter or leave. To come or go. To do something, anything, other than wait on the stoop like some very polite conquerors.
Then there was a noise, and Beauvoir saw Charbonneau twitch in surprise.
They heard the long, drawn-out scrape of wrought iron against wood. Then silence.
Gamache hadn’t moved, hadn’t been surprised, or if he was he hadn’t shown it. He continued to stare at the door, his hands clasped behind his back. With all the time in the world.
A crack appeared. It widened. And widened.
Beauvoir expected to hear a squeal as old, rusty, unused hinges were finally used. But instead there was no sound at all. Which was even more disconcerting.
The door opened completely, and facing them was a figure in a long black robe. But it wasn’t totally black. There were white epaulettes at the shoulders, and a small apron of white partway down the chest. As though the monk had tucked a linen napkin into his collar and forgotten to remove it.
Tied at his waist was a rope, and attached to that was a ring with a single giant key.
The monk nodded, and stepped aside.
“Merci,” said Gamache.
Beauvoir turned to the boatman and barely resisted giving him the finger.
Had his passengers levitated, the boatman could not have looked more surprised.
On the threshold Chief Inspector Gamache called back.
“Five o’clock then?”
The boatman nodded and managed, “Oui, patron.”
Gamache turned back to the open door, and hesitated. For a heartbeat. Unnoticeable by anyone other than someone who knew him well. Beauvoir looked at Gamache and knew why.
The Chief simply wanted to savor this singular moment. With one step, he would become the first nonreligious ever to set foot into the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.
Then Gamache took that step, and the others followed.
The door closed behind them with a soft, snug thud. The monk brought up the large key and placed it in a large lock, and turned.
They were locked in.