“No. I’m not sure these men are really afraid of death. I think they’re afraid of life. But here, in Saint-Gilbert, they finally found where they belonged.”
Beauvoir thought of the field of giant mushrooms, with the floppy hats. And how he’d felt the odd one out, in his pressed slacks and merino wool sweater.
“So if they finally found where they belong, what’re they afraid of?”
“Losing it,” said the Chief. “They’d been in purgatory. Many have probably been in Hell. And once you’ve been there, you sure don’t want to go back.”
Gamache paused and the two men held each other’s eyes. Beauvoir could see the deep scar by the Chief’s temple. And could feel the ache gnawing his own gut. He saw the bottle of tiny pills he kept hidden in his apartment. Just in case.
Yes, thought Beauvoir. You sure don’t want to slip back into Hell.
The Chief leaned forward, put on his glasses, and unrolled a large cylinder of paper on the desk.
Beauvoir watched Gamache, but saw something else. Superintendent Francoeur stepping from the plane that had descended so quickly from the sky. The Chief had offered his hand, but Francoeur had turned his back on Gamache, for all to see. For Beauvoir to see.
The sick feeling sat like a fist in Beauvoir’s stomach. It had found a home there. Was settling in. And growing.
“The abbot gave us a plan of the monastery.” Gamache stood and leaned over the desk.
Beauvoir joined him.
The drawing looked exactly as Beauvoir imagined the abbey in his mind, after walking the halls for twenty-four hours. Shaped like a cross, with the chapel in the very center and the bell tower above that.
“Here’s the Chapter House,” said Gamache. The room was shown on the drawing, attached to the side of the chapel. There was no attempt to hide it in the design. But in real life it was hidden, behind the plaque to Saint Gilbert.
The abbot’s garden was also on the plan, plain to see in ink, but not in real life. It too was hidden but not secret.
“Are there other hidden rooms?” Beauvoir asked.
“The abbot doesn’t know of any, but he admits there’re rumors of secret rooms, and something else.”
“What?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, it’s almost embarrassing to say,” admitted Gamache, taking off his glasses and looking at Beauvoir.
“I would have thought a man caught in his pajamas on a church altar would have a high tolerance for embarrassment.”
“You make a good point.” The Chief smiled. “Treasure.”
“Treasure? Are you kidding? The abbot says there’s a treasure hidden here?”
“He doesn’t say it,” said Gamache, “he says those are the rumors.”
“Have they looked?”
“Unofficially. I think monks aren’t supposed to care about such things.”
“But men do,” said Beauvoir, looking back down at the plan.
An old abbey with a hidden treasure, thought Beauvoir. It was too ridiculous. No wonder the Chief was embarrassed to say it. But while he ridiculed the idea, Beauvoir’s eyes were bright as he scanned the drawing.
What child, boy or girl, hadn’t dreamed of hidden treasure? Hadn’t lapped up stories of derring-do, of galleons and pirates and fleeing princes and princesses, burying something precious. Or, better yet, finding something precious.
As ridiculous and far-fetched as a hidden room with treasure almost certainly was, Beauvoir couldn’t help but be sucked into the fantasy. In an instant he found himself wondering what the treasure could be. The riches of the medieval Church? Chalices, paintings, coins. Priceless jewels brought back by Crusaders.
Then Jean-Guy imagined finding it.
Not for the sake of the fortune. Or, at least, not entirely for that. But for the fun of finding it.
Instantly he saw himself telling Annie. He could see her watching him, listening. Hanging on his every word. Reacting to each twist in the tale. Her face expressive as he told her about the search. Gasping. Laughing.
They’d talk about it for the rest of their lives. Tell their children and grandchildren. About the time Grandpapa found the treasure. And returned it to the Church.
“So,” said Gamache, rolling the plan back up. “I can leave this with you?”
He handed it to Beauvoir.
“I’ll split everything with you, patron. Fifty-fifty.”
“I already have my treasure, thank you very much,” said Gamache.
“I don’t think a bag of chocolate-covered blueberries could be considered a treasure.”
“Non?” asked Gamache. “To each his own.”
A deep bell started ringing. Not a joyous celebration, but a solemn toll.
“Again?” said Beauvoir. “Can’t I just stay here?”
“Of course you can.” Gamache took from his breast pocket the horarium the abbot’s secretary had given him and examined it. Then he looked at his watch.
“Eleven A.M. mass,” he said and walked toward the closed door.
“Is it only eleven? Feels like bedtime.”
For a place that ran like clockwork, time seemed to stand still.
Beauvoir opened the door for the Chief and after the smallest hesitation, and a whispered curse, he followed him down the corridor and back into the Blessed Chapel.
Gamache slipped into the pew, Beauvoir beside him. They sat quietly, waiting for the service to begin. Again, the Chief marveled at the light falling through the high windows. Split into all different colors. It spilled onto the altar and the benches and seemed to dance there. Waiting happily for the company of the monks.
The Chief glanced around the now familiar space. It felt as though he’d been there a very long time, and it came as a surprise he and Beauvoir hadn’t yet spent a full day at Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.
The Blessed Chapel, Gamache now knew, was built to honor a saint so dull the Church couldn’t find some equally dull complaint to let him patronize.
Few prayed to Saint Gilbert.
And yet in his excruciatingly long life, Gilbert had done one spectacular thing. He’d stood up to a king. He’d defended his archbishop. Thomas had been killed, but Gilbert had stood up to tyranny, and survived.
Gamache remembered joking with the abbot that maybe Gilbert could become the Patron Saint of Fretters, since his monastery had such strong defenses and locked doors.
And so many places to hide.
But maybe he’d been wrong, done Gilbert a disservice. He might have fretted, but Gilbert had finally found more courage than anyone else. Sitting quietly in the refracted light, Gamache wondered if he’d have the same courage.
He spent a moment thinking about the new visitor, and praying to Saint Gilbert.
As the last note of the solemn bell resonated the monks entered. They appeared in single file. Singing. White hoods hid their faces. Hands were buried up to the elbows in their loose black sleeves. The singing grew as more voices entered the Blessed Chapel, until the empty space was filled with the plainchant. And the light.
And then someone else entered.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur bobbed, crossed himself, then, despite all sorts of empty pews, he slipped into the one directly in front of Gamache and Beauvoir, obscuring their view.
And once again the Chief Inspector tilted his head slightly to the side. Hoping to see more clearly. The monks. But also the motives of the man in front of him. Who’d dropped so precipitously from the skies, with a purpose.
As Beauvoir huffed and snorted beside him, Gamache closed his eyes and listened to the beautiful music.
And thought about tyranny, and murder.
And whether it was ever right to kill one for the sake of the many.