“The murder of Frère Mathieu was almost certainly premeditated. If you’re in a garden you might pick up a rock in a moment of overwhelming emotion, and kill someone—”
“But not a piece of metal,” said Beauvoir, following the Chief’s thoughts. “That had to be brought with the murderer. There’s no way a pipe or a poker would just be lying around the abbot’s garden.”
Gamache nodded.
One of the monks hadn’t just lashed out at the prior, killing him in a fit of rage. It was planned.
Mens rea.
The Latin legal phrase came to Gamache.
Mens rea. A guilty mind. Intent.
One of these monks had met the prior in the garden, already armed with a metal pipe and a guilty mind. The thought and the act collided, and the result was murder.
“I can’t believe Francoeur’s staying,” said Beauvoir as they crossed the Blessed Chapel. “I’ll admit to the crime myself if it means that stupid shit’ll leave.”
Gamache stopped. They were dead in the center of the chapel.
“Be careful, Jean-Guy.” Gamache kept his voice low. “Superintendent Francoeur’s no fool.”
“Are you kidding? As soon as he stepped off the plane he should have handed you the dossiers. But instead he ignores you, in front of everyone, and sucks up to the abbot.”
“Lower your voice,” cautioned Gamache.
Beauvoir gave a furtive glance around then spoke in an urgent whisper. “The man’s a menace.”
He glanced toward the door from the corridor, for Francoeur. Gamache turned and they resumed their walk to the dining hall.
“Look,” Beauvoir hurried to catch up to the Chief’s long strides. “He’s undermining you here. You must see that. Everyone saw what happened on the dock, and they now think Francoeur’s in charge.”
Gamache opened the door and motioned Beauvoir through to the next corridor. The aroma of fresh baked bread and soup met them. Then, with a swift glance behind him into the dimness of the Blessed Chapel, Gamache closed the door.
“He is in charge, Jean-Guy.”
“Oh, come on.”
But the laughter died on Beauvoir’s lips. The Chief was serious.
“He’s the Chief Superintendent of the S?reté,” said Gamache. “I’m … not. He’s my boss. He’ll always be in charge.”
At the thunderous look on Beauvoir’s face Gamache smiled. “It’ll be all right.”
“I know it will, patron. After all, nothing bad ever happens when a senior S?reté officer starts abusing his power.”
“Exactly, mon vieux,” the Chief grinned and caught Beauvoir’s eye. “Please, Jean-Guy. Stay out of it.”
Beauvoir didn’t need to ask “Out of what?” Chief Inspector Gamache’s calm brown eyes held his. There was a plea in them. Not for help, but for the opposite. To be left alone to deal with Francoeur.
Beauvoir nodded. “Oui, patron.”
But he knew he’d just lied.