Frère Bernard smiled. “Sometimes the divine mystery, and sometimes just mysteries. Like hidden rooms. And treasure.”
He gave Beauvoir a knowing look. A sharp look. This monk, thought Beauvoir, might be calm and even gentle. But he was no fool.
“Do you think they exist?”
“A room and some treasure lugged here by Dom Clément and the other monks centuries ago?” Frère Bernard shook his head. “It’s fun to think about. Passes the time on cold winter nights. But no one really believes it exists. Someone would’ve found it ages ago. The abbey’s been renovated, updated, repaired. If there was a secret room we’d have found it.”
“Maybe someone did.” Beauvoir stood. “So, how often are you allowed to leave?”
The monk laughed. “It’s not a prison, you know.”
But even Frère Bernard had to admit, from that angle, Saint-Gilbert sure looked like one.
“We leave whenever we want, though we don’t go far. Walks, mostly. We look for berries and firewood. We fish. In the winter we play hockey on the ice. Frère Antoine organizes that.”
Beauvoir felt again that vertigo. Frère Antoine played hockey. Was probably the captain and the center. The same position Beauvoir played.
“In the summer some of us jog and do tai chi. You’re welcome to join us after Vigils.”
“Is that the early morning service?”
“Five A.M.” He smiled. “Your Chief was there this morning.”
Beauvoir was about to say something sharp, to shut down any ridiculing of Gamache, when he saw that Frère Bernard seemed simply amused. Not mocking.
“Yes, he mentioned it to me,” said Beauvoir.
“We talked later, you know.”
“Oh, really?” But Beauvoir knew perfectly well it was Frère Bernard the Chief had spoken to that morning in the showers and that they’d then collected eggs together. Brother Bernard had told the Chief about the rift in the community. In fact, Chief Inspector Gamache had the impression the monk had sought him out specifically to tell him that.
And only then did it occur to Beauvoir to wonder if the same thing was happening here. Had this monk simply been out collecting blueberries and stumbled upon him? Or was this no accident? Had Frère Bernard seen Beauvoir leave, with the scroll, and followed him?
“Your Chief’s a good listener,” said the monk. “He’d fit in well here.”
“He does look good in a robe,” said Beauvoir.
Frère Bernard laughed. “I was afraid to say it.” The monk looked at Beauvoir, examining the younger man. “I think you’d also enjoy it here.”
Enjoy? thought Beauvoir. Enjoy? Does anyone actually enjoy it here?
He’d presumed they tolerated it, like a hair shirt. It never occurred to him living in Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups actually made them happy.
Frère Bernard picked up his basket of blueberries and they walked a few paces before he spoke again. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.
“I was surprised to see someone else arrive. We all were. Including your boss, I think. Who was that man who flew in?”
“His name’s Francoeur. He’s the Chief Superintendent.”
“Of the S?reté?”
Beauvoir nodded. “The big boss.”
“Your pope,” said Bernard.
“Only if the pope’s a moron with a gun.”
Frère Bernard snorted then fought to wipe the smile from his face.
“You don’t like him?”
“Years of contemplation have sharpened your instincts, Frère Bernard.”
Again Bernard laughed. “People come from miles around to hear my insights.” Then his smile disappeared completely. “For instance, this Francoeur, he doesn’t like your boss, does he?”
This too, they both knew, wasn’t exactly an incredible feat of perception.
Beauvoir wondered what to say. His impulse was always to lie. He’d have made, he thought, a good medieval architect. He immediately wanted to deny there was a problem, to cover the truth. To at the very least hide the scale of it. But he could see that would be useless. This man had seen clearly, as had everyone else, Francoeur’s easy dismissal of Gamache on the dock.
“It goes back a few years. They had a disagreement over a fellow officer.”
Frère Bernard didn’t say anything. He simply listened. His face calm, his eyes noncommittal and attentive. They walked slowly through the forest, their feet crackling on the twigs and leaves, fallen to the well-trodden path. The sun broke through the trees in patches and every now and then they heard the scrambling of a chipmunk or a bird or some other wild creature.
Beauvoir waited a moment, then went on. Might as well, he thought. It was all public knowledge anyway. Unless you lived in a monastery in the middle of nowhere.
What the monks knew and what everyone else knew seemed two very different things.
“The Chief arrested one of the superintendents of the S?reté, even though Francoeur and the others had ordered him not to. His name was Arnot. He was actually the Chief Superintendent at the time.”
And now there was a small reaction on the monk’s placid face. A tiny lifting of the brows. And then they settled back into place. It was almost invisible. Almost.
“Arrested him for what?”
“Murder. Sedition. It came out that Arnot was encouraging officers on reserves to kill any native who made trouble. Or, at the very least, when a young native was shot or beaten to death, Arnot didn’t discipline the officers who did it. It was a short step from turning a blind eye, to actively encouraging the killings. It became, apparently—” Beauvoir spoke haltingly, finding it difficult to talk about something so shameful. “—almost a sport. An elderly Cree woman asked Gamache for help finding her missing son. That’s when he discovered what was going on.”
“And the rest of the S?reté leadership wanted your boss to stay quiet about it?”
Beauvoir nodded. “They agreed to fire Arnot and the other officers, but they didn’t want a scandal. Didn’t want to lose the trust of the public.”
Frère Bernard didn’t drop his eyes, but Beauvoir had the impression they wavered.
“Chief Inspector Gamache arrested Arnot anyway,” said Frère Bernard. “He disobeyed orders.”
“It never occurred to him not to. He thought the mothers and fathers and loved ones of those who were killed deserved an answer. And a public trial. And an apology. It all came out. It was a mess.”
Bernard nodded. The Church knew from scandals, and knew from cover-ups and knew from messes.
“What happened?” the monk asked.