TWENTY-ONE
When lunch was over Chief Inspector Gamache and Beauvoir walked back to the prior’s office, comparing notes.
Beauvoir on foundations and Gamache on chickens.
“These aren’t ordinary chickens, but the Chantecler,” said Gamache, with enthusiasm. Beauvoir was never sure if the Chief really was that interested, or just pretending, but he had his suspicions.
“Ahh, the noble Chantecler.”
Gamache smiled. “Don’t mock, Jean-Guy.”
“Me, mock a monk?”
“It seems our Frère Simon is a world expert on the Chantecler. It was bred right here in Québec. By a monk.”
“Really?” Despite himself, Beauvoir was interested. “Right here?”
“Well, no, not in Saint-Gilbert, but in a monastery just outside Montréal, about a hundred years ago. The climate was too harsh in Canada, he thought, for the regular chickens to survive, so he spent his lifetime developing a native Canadian breed. The Chantecler. They almost went extinct, but Frère Simon is bringing them back.”
“Just our luck,” said Beauvoir. “Every other monastery makes alcohol. Brandy and Bénédictine. Champagne. Cognac. Wines. Ours sings obscure chants and breeds near extinct chickens. No wonder they almost went the way of the dodo. But that brings me to my lunch table conversation with Frère Raymond. Thank you for that, by the way.”
Gamache grinned. “Talkative, was he?”
“You couldn’t get your monk started and I couldn’t get mine to stop. But wait ’til you hear what he had to say.”
They were in the Blessed Chapel now. The monks had dispersed, off to do more work, or read, or pray. The afternoons seemed less structured than the mornings.
“The foundations of Saint-Gilbert are crumbling,” said Beauvoir. “Frère Raymond says he discovered it a couple of months ago. The abbey won’t stand another ten years if something isn’t done right away. The first recording made them lots of money, but not enough. They need more.”
“You mean, the entire abbey might collapse?” asked Gamache, who stopped dead in his tracks.
“Boom, gone,” said Beauvoir. “And he blames the abbot.”
“How so? Surely the abbot hasn’t been undermining the abbey, at least not literally.”
“Frère Raymond says if they don’t get the money from a second recording and a concert tour they can’t save the monastery. And the abbot won’t allow either.”
“Dom Philippe knows about the foundations?”
Beauvoir nodded. “Frère Raymond says he told the abbot, but no one else. He’s been begging Dom Philippe to take it seriously. To raise the money to repair the foundations.”
“And no one else knows?” Gamache confirmed.
“Well, Brother Raymond didn’t tell anyone. The abbot might’ve.”
Gamache walked a few paces in silence, thinking. Then he stopped.
“The prior was the abbot’s right hand. I wonder if Dom Philippe told him.”
Beauvoir thought about that. “It seems the sort of thing you tell your second in command.”
“Unless you were at war with him,” said Gamache, lost in thought. Trying to see what might have happened. Did the abbot tell the prior that Saint-Gilbert was literally crumbling? But then continued to hold firm against another recording. And continued, even in the face of this news, to refuse to break the silence that would allow the monks to tour and give interviews. To make the millions and millions it would take to save the abbey.
Suddenly the second recording of Gregorian chants went from a possible vanity project on the part of the monks and Frère Mathieu, to something vital. It wouldn’t simply put Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups on the map, it would save the entire abbey.
This had become no mere philosophical difference between the abbot and the prior. The very survival of the abbey was in the balance.
What would Frère Mathieu have done had he known?
“Their relationship was already strained,” said Gamache, starting to walk again, but slowly. Thinking out loud. His voice low, to avoid being overheard. It gave them the appearance of conspirators in the Blessed Chapel.
“The prior would’ve been in a fff…” On seeing Gamache’s face, Beauvoir shifted his words. “In a rage.”
“He was already in an effin’ rage,” agreed the Chief. “This would’ve propelled him right over the edge.”
“And if, faced with all this, the abbot continued to refuse a second recording? I bet Frère Mathieu would’ve threatened to tell the other monks. And then the shhh … the…” But Beauvoir could think of no other way of putting it.
“It certainly would,” agreed Gamache. “So…”
The Chief stopped again and stared into space. Putting the pieces together to form a similar, but different, image.
“So,” he turned to Beauvoir, “maybe Dom Philippe didn’t tell his prior that the foundations were crumbling. He’s smart enough to know what Frère Mathieu would do with that. He’d be handing his adversary a nuclear bomb of information. The cracked and rotting foundations would be the last and most potent argument the prior and his men would need.”
“You think the abbot kept the information to himself?”
“I think it’s possible. And he swore Frère Raymond to secrecy.”
“But if he told me,” said Beauvoir, “wouldn’t he have told the other monks?”
“Perhaps he felt the promise he made to the abbot only extended to the community. Not to you.”
“And maybe he’s had enough of silence,” said Beauvoir.
“And maybe,” said Gamache, “maybe Frère Raymond lied to you, and he did tell one other person.”
Beauvoir considered that for a moment. They heard the soft shuffling of monk feet in the Blessed Chapel and saw monks walking here and there, hugging the old walls. As though afraid to show themselves.
Gamache and Beauvoir had kept their voices low. Low enough, Beauvoir hoped. But if not, it was too late now.
“The prior,” said Beauvoir. “If Frère Raymond was going to break his promise to the abbot, he’d have gone to Frère Mathieu. He’d have felt justified, if he thought the abbot wasn’t going to act.”
Gamache nodded. It made sense. In the logical little world they’d just created. But so much about the lives of the monks didn’t seem logical. And the Chief Inspector had to remind himself not to confuse what should have been, what could have been, with what actually was.
They needed facts.
“If Frère Raymond told the prior, patron, what do you think would happen next?”
“I think we can guess. The prior would’ve been enraged—”
“—or maybe not,” Beauvoir interrupted and the Chief looked at him. “Well maybe the abbot, in staying silent about something so vital, had finally given the prior the weapon he needed. The prior might have pretended to be angry, but in fact, he might have been ecstatic.”
Gamache imagined the prior. Saw him getting the news about the crumbling foundations. The fact the abbot knew, and was apparently doing nothing. Except praying. What would the prior then do?
Would he tell anyone else?
Gamache thought not. At least, not right away.
In a silent order, information became a powerful currency, and Frère Mathieu was almost certainly a miser. He’d never have shared that information so quickly. He’d have hoarded it. Waited for the perfect moment.
Gamache couldn’t be sure, but he thought the prior would probably ask for a meeting with the abbot. Someplace private. Not overlooked. Not overheard. With only the birds, and the old-growth maple, and the black flies as witnesses. If you didn’t count God.
Again, though, the Chief shook his head. It didn’t fit all the facts. One fact, supported by witnesses, was that it was the abbot who had sought out the prior. Not the other way around.