“You’ll slap yourself for not knowing,” said Frère Simon, almost giddy.
“I’m sure I will.”
“It’s the Chantecler.”
Frère Simon said it with such triumph Gamache almost did slap himself for not guessing. Before realizing he’d never heard of the breed before.
“Of course,” he said, “the Chantecler. What a fool I am. A fabulous chicken.”
“You’re right.”
For the next ten minutes Gamache listened as Frère Simon gestured, drew pictures with his stubby finger on the wooden table, and spoke nonstop about the Chantecler. And his own prize rooster, Fernando.
“Fernando?” Gamache had to ask.
Simon actually laughed, to the surprise and near consternation of the monks directly around him. It was doubtful they’d ever heard that sound before.
“Truthfully?” asked Simon, leaning toward Gamache. “I had the Abba song in mind.”
The monk sang the familiar tune, a single phrase about drums and guns. Gamache felt his heart leap, as though it wanted to attach itself to this monk. Here was an extraordinarily beautiful voice. Where others were glorious for their clarity, Simon’s was beautiful for its tonality, its richness. It elevated the simple pop lyric into something splendid. The Chief found himself wishing Brother Simon also had a chicken named Mama Mia.
Here was a man filled with passion. Granted, it was for chickens. Whether he was passionate about music, or God, or monastic life was another question.
All the doo-dah day.
*
“Your boss seems to have made a conquest,” said Frère Charles, leaning into Beauvoir.
“Oui. I wonder what they’re talking about.”
“I do too,” said the doctor. “I’ve never been able to get more than a grunt out of Frère Simon. Though that makes him a great gatekeeper.”
“I thought Frère Luc was the gatekeeper.”
“He’s the portier, the doorkeeper. Simon has another job. He’s the abbot’s guard dog. No one gets to Dom Philippe except through Frère Simon. He’s devoted to the abbot.”
“And you? Are you devoted?”
“He’s the abbot, our leader.”
“That’s not an answer, mon frère,” said Beauvoir. He’d managed to turn away from Frère Raymond toward the medical monk, when the maintenance monk had reached for more cider.
“Are you one of the abbot’s men, or the prior’s men?”
The doctor’s gaze, friendly before, now sharpened, examining Beauvoir. Then he smiled again.
“I’m neutral, Inspector. Like the Red Cross. I just tend to the wounded.”
“Are there many? Wounded, I mean.”
The smile left Frère Charles’s face. “Enough. A rift like that in a previously happy monastery hurts everyone.”
“Including yourself?”
“Oui,” the doctor admitted. “But I really don’t take sides. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Was it appropriate for anyone?”
“It wasn’t anyone’s first choice,” said the doctor, an edge of impatience in his friendly voice. “We didn’t wake up one morning and pick teams. Like a game of Red Rover. This was excruciating and slow. Like being eviscerated. Gutted. A civil war is never civil.”
Then the monk’s gaze left Beauvoir and looked first at Francoeur, beside the abbot, then across the table to Gamache.
“As perhaps you know.”
A denial was on Beauvoir’s lips, but he stopped it. The monk knew. They all knew.
“Is he all right?” Frère Charles asked.
“Who?”
“The Chief Inspector.”
“Why shouldn’t he be?”
Brother Charles hesitated, searching Beauvoir’s face. Then he looked down at his own steady hand. “The tremble. In his right hand.” He returned his eyes to Beauvoir. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“I have and he’s fine.”
“I’m not asking just to be nosy, you know,” Frère Charles persisted. “A tremble like that can be a sign of something seriously wrong. It comes and goes, I notice. For instance, his hand seems steady right now.”
“It happens when the Chief is tired, or stressed.”
The doctor nodded. “Has he had it long?”
“Not long,” said Beauvoir, careful not to sound defensive. He knew the Chief didn’t seem to care who saw the occasional quiver in his right hand.
“So it’s not Parkinson’s?”
“Not at all,” said Beauvoir.
“Then what caused it?”
“An injury.”
“Ahh,” said Frère Charles, and again he looked across at the Chief Inspector. “The scar near his left temple.”
Beauvoir was silent. Regretting turning away from Frère Raymond and the long list of structural disasters, and other disasters, visited upon the abbey by incompetent abbots, Dom Philippe prominent among them. Now he wanted to turn back. To hear about artesian wells, and septic systems and load-bearing walls.
Anything was better than discussing the Chief’s injuries. And, by association, that terrible day in the abandoned factory.
“If you think he needs anything, I have some things that might be helpful in the infirmary.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure he will.” Frère Charles paused and his eyes held Beauvoir’s. “But we all need help sometimes. Including your Chief. I have relaxants and painkillers. Just let him know.”
“I will,” said Beauvoir. “Merci.”
Beauvoir turned his attention to his meal. But as he ate, the words drifted in through Beauvoir’s own wounds. Sinking deeper and deeper.
Relaxants.
Until they finally hit bottom, and came to rest in Beauvoir’s hidden room.
And painkillers.