*
Armand Gamache had expected to need a few moments to adjust to the dark interior. He hadn’t expected that he’d need to adjust to the light.
Far from being dim, the interior was luminous.
A long wide corridor of gray stones opened up ahead of them, ending in a closed door at the far end. But what struck the Chief, what must have struck every man, every monk, who entered those doors for centuries, was the light.
The corridor was filled with rainbows. Giddy prisms. Bouncing off the hard stone walls. Pooling on the slate floors. They shifted and merged and separated, as though alive.
The Chief Inspector knew his mouth had dropped open, but he didn’t care. He’d never, in a life of seeing many astonishing things, seen anything quite like this. It was like walking into joy.
He turned and caught the eye of the monk. And held it for a moment.
There was no joy there. Just pain. The darkness Gamache had expected to find inside the monastery was not in the walls, but in the men. Or, at least, in this man.
Then, without a word, the monk turned and walked down the hallway. His pace was swift, but his feet made almost no sound. There was just a slight swish as his robe brushed the stones. Brushed past the rainbows.
The S?reté officers hiked their packs securely over their shoulders and stepped into the warm prisms.
As he followed the monk, Gamache looked up and around. The light came from windows high up the walls. There were no windows at head height. The first were ten feet off the ground. And then another bank of windows above that. Through them Gamache could see blue, blue skies, a few clouds, and the tops of trees, as though they were bending to look in. Just as he was looking out.
The glass was old. Leaded. Imperfect. And it was the imperfections that were creating the play of light.
There was no adornment on the walls. No need.
The monk opened the door and they walked through into a larger, cooler space. Here the rainbows were directed to a single point. The altar.
This was the church.
The monk rushed across it, managing to genuflect on the fly. His pace had picked up, as though the monastery was slightly tilted and they were tumbling toward their destination.
The body.
Gamache glanced around, quickly taking in his surroundings. These were sights and sounds never experienced by men who actually got to leave.
The chapel smelled of incense. But not the musky, stale scent of so many churches in Québec, that smelled as though they were trying to hide something rotten. Here the scent was more natural. Like flowers or fresh herbs.
Gamache took it all in, in a series of swift impressions.
There was no somber and cautionary stained glass here. He realized the windows high on the walls were angled slightly so that the light fell to the simple, austere altar first. It was unadorned. Except for the cheerful light, which played on top of it and radiated to the walls and illuminated the farthest corners of the room.
And in that light Gamache saw something else. They weren’t alone.
Two rows of monks faced each other on either side of the altar. They sat with their heads bowed, their hands folded in their laps. All in exactly the same position. Like carvings, tipping slightly forward.
They were completely and utterly silent, praying in the prism of light.
Gamache and the others passed from the church and entered yet another long hallway. Another long rainbow. Following the monk.
The Chief wondered if their guide, the hurrying monk, even noticed the rainbows he was splashing through anymore. Had they become humdrum? Had the remarkable become commonplace, in this singular place? Certainly the man in front of them didn’t seem to care. But then, the Chief knew, violent death did that.
It was an eclipse, blocking out all that was beautiful, joyous, kind or lovely. So great was the calamity.
This monk who was leading them was young. Much younger than Gamache had expected. He quietly chastised himself for having those expectations. It was one of the first lessons he taught new recruits to his homicide division.
Have no expectations. Enter every room, meet every man, woman and child, look at every body with an open mind. Not so open that their brains fell out, but open enough to see and hear the unexpected.
Have no preconceptions. Murder was unexpected. And often so was the murderer.
Gamache had broken his own rule. He’d expected the monks to be old. Most monks and priests and nuns in Québec were. Not many young people were attracted to the religious life anymore.
While many continued to search for God, they’d given up looking for Him in a church.
This young man, this young monk, was the exception.
In the brief moment Chief Inspector Gamache and the monk had stared at each other, locked eyes, Gamache had realized two things. The monk was barely more than a boy. And he was extremely upset, and trying to hide it. Like a child who’d stubbed his toe on a rock but didn’t want to admit to the pain.
Strong emotions were the rule at a murder scene. They were natural. So why was this young monk trying to hide his feelings? But he wasn’t doing a very good job.
“Jeez,” puffed Beauvoir, coming up beside Gamache, “what do you wanna bet Montréal is through there?”
He nodded to the next closed door, at the far end of the corridor. Beauvoir was more winded than Gamache or Captain Charbonneau, but then he carried more baggage.
The monk took a wrought-iron rod, like the one at the front door, from the side of the door and hit the wood. There was a mighty thump. He waited a moment, then hit again. They waited. Finally Beauvoir took the rod and gave the door a mighty rap.
Their wait ended with a familiar rasp, as again a deadbolt was pulled back. And the door opened.