Frère Bernard had put out his rough hand and was touching Beauvoir’s arm.
“No, I’m fine. Just thinking about the case.”
The monk continued to examine his companion. Far from convinced he was hearing the truth.
Beauvoir scrambled around in his memory, picking up bits and pieces, desperate to find something useful. The case. The case. The prior. The murder. The scene. The garden.
The garden.
“We were talking about the abbot’s garden,” said Beauvoir. His voice was gruff, not inviting any more confidences. He’d already gone too far.
“Were we?” asked Frère Bernard.
“You said everyone knows about it. But you haven’t actually been in the garden yourself.”
“That’s right.”
“Who had?”
“Anyone Dom Philippe invited.”
Beauvoir realized he wasn’t listening as closely as he should. He was still distracted by his memories, and the feelings they awakened.
Had there been resentment in Frère Bernard’s voice just now?
Beauvoir didn’t think so, but with his attention frayed he couldn’t be sure. And again he cursed Francoeur. For being where he wasn’t wanted. In the monastery. And in Beauvoir’s head. Rattling around in there. Poking awake things better left sleeping.
He remembered what one of his counselors had advised when he felt anxious.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
“What do you think of the abbot?” he asked. He was feeling light-headed.
“What do you mean?”
Beauvoir wasn’t sure what he meant.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
“You’re one of the abbot’s men, aren’t you?” he asked. Grabbing at whatever questions surfaced.
“I am.”
“Why? Why not join with the prior?”
The monk starting kicking a stone and Beauvoir focused on that as it danced and jumped along the dirt path. The door into the monastery seemed a long way off. And suddenly he wished he was back in the Blessed Chapel. Where it was calm and peaceful. Listening to the monotone chants. Clinging to the chants.
No chaos there. No thoughts, no decisions. No raw emotions.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
“Frère Mathieu was a gifted musician,” Frère Bernard was saying. “He turned our vocation of singing chants into something sublime. He was a great teacher and a natural leader. He gave our lives new meaning and purpose. He breathed life into the abbey.”
“Then why wasn’t he abbot?”
It was working. Beauvoir followed his breath, and the monk’s quiet voice, back into his own body.
“Perhaps he should have been. But Dom Philippe was elected.”
“Over Frère Mathieu?”
“No. Frère Mathieu didn’t run.”
“Did Dom Philippe get in by acclamation?”
“No. The prior at the time ran. Most expected him to win since it was a natural progression. The prior almost always became the abbot.”
“And who was the prior at the time?” Beauvoir’s mind was working again. Taking things in, and churning rational questions back out. But the fist in his belly remained.
“I was.”
Beauvoir wasn’t sure he heard right. “You were the prior?”
“Yes. And Dom Philippe was just plain old Frère Philippe. A regular monk.”
“It must have been humiliating.”
Frère Bernard smiled. “We try not to personalize these things. It was God’s will.”
“And that makes it better? I’d rather be humiliated by men than God himself.”
Bernard chose not to answer.
“So you go back to being a regular monk, and the abbot appoints his friend as prior. Frère Mathieu.”