TWENTY-TWO
Jean-Guy Beauvoir grabbed the rolled-up plans of the monastery off the desk in the prior’s office. As he did he glanced at Gamache, who sat in the visitor’s chair. On his lap were the coroner’s and forensic reports.
Francoeur was waiting for Beauvoir in the Blessed Chapel and he had to hurry back. But still, he paused.
Gamache put his half-moon reading glasses on, then looked at Beauvoir.
“I’m sorry if I overstepped, Chief,” said Beauvoir. “I just…”
“Yes, I know what you ‘just.’” Gamache’s voice was unyielding. Little warmth left in it. “He’s no fool, you know, Jean-Guy. Don’t treat him like that. And never treat me like that.”
“Désolé,” said Beauvoir, and meant it. When he’d offered to take the Superintendent off Gamache’s hands he never dreamed this would be the Chief’s reaction. He thought the Chief would be relieved.
“This isn’t a game,” said Gamache.
“I know it isn’t, patron.”
Chief Inspector Gamache continued to stare at Beauvoir.
“Do not engage with Superintendent Francoeur. If he taunts, don’t respond. If he pushes you, don’t push back. Just smile and keep your eye on the goal. To solve the murder. That’s all. He’s come here with some agenda, we both know that. We don’t know what it is, and I for one don’t care. All that matters is solving the crime and getting home. Right?”
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “D’accord.”
He nodded to Gamache and left. If Francoeur had an agenda, so did Beauvoir. And it was simple. To just keep the Superintendent away from the Chief. Whatever Francoeur had in mind, it had something to do with Gamache. And Beauvoir was not going to let that happen.
“For God’s sake, be careful.”
The Chief’s final words followed Beauvoir down the corridor and into the Blessed Chapel. As did his last view of Gamache, sitting in the chair, the dossiers on his lap. A paper in his hand.
And the slight tremor of the page as a draft caught it. Except that the air was completely still.
At first Beauvoir couldn’t see the Superintendent, then he found him by the wall, reading the plaque.
“So this’s the hidden door into the Chapter House,” said Francoeur, not looking up as Beauvoir approached. “The life of Gilbert of Sempringham isn’t interesting reading I’m afraid. Do you think that’s why they hid the room behind here? Knowing any possible invader would die of boredom on this very spot?”
Now Chief Superintendent Francoeur did look up, right into Beauvoir’s eyes.
There was humor there, Beauvoir saw. And confidence.
“I’m all yours, Inspector.”
Beauvoir regarded the Chief Superintendent and wondered why the man was so friendly to him. Francoeur knew without a doubt that Beauvoir was loyal to Gamache. Was one of the Chief’s men. And while Francoeur baited and goaded and insulted the Chief, he was only extremely pleasant, charming even, to Beauvoir.
Beauvoir grew even more guarded. A frontal attack was one thing, but this slimy attempt at camaraderie was something else. Still, the longer he could keep this man away from the Chief, the better.
“The stairs are over here.” The two S?reté men walked to the corner of the chapel, where Beauvoir opened a door. Worn stone steps led down. They were well lit and the men descended until finally they were in the basement. Beauvoir stood, not on dirt as he’d expected, but on huge slabs of slate.
The ceilings were high and vaulted.
“The Gilbertines don’t seem to do anything half-assed,” said Francoeur.
Beauvoir didn’t answer, but it was exactly what he’d been thinking. It was cooler down there, though not cold, and he suspected the temperature would stay much the same even as the seasons above changed.
Large wrought-iron candleholders were bolted to the stone, but the light came from naked bulbs strung along the walls and ceiling.
“Where to?” Francoeur asked.
Beauvoir looked this way. Then that. Not at all sure. His plan, he realized, hadn’t been thought all the way through. He’d expected to arrive in the basement and for some reason find Frère Raymond right there.
Now he felt a fool. If he’d been with Chief Inspector Gamache he’d have made a joke and they’d have gone looking for Frère Raymond together. But he wasn’t with Gamache. He was with the Chief Superintendent of the S?reté du Québec. And Francoeur was staring at Beauvoir. He wasn’t angry. Instead he looked patient, as though working with a rookie agent who was just doing his bumbling best.
Beauvoir could have slapped that look right off his face.
Instead he smiled.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
He was the one who’d invited the Superintendent along, after all. He had to at least appear happy to have him. To cover his uncertainty, Beauvoir walked over to one of the stone walls and put his hand on it.
“Frère Raymond told me over lunch that the foundations are cracking,” said Beauvoir, examining the stone, as though this was the plan all along. He mentally kicked himself for not making arrangements with the monk.
“Vraiment?” asked Francoeur, though he seemed less than interested. “What does that mean?”
“It means Saint-Gilbert is collapsing. He says it’ll fall down completely within ten years.”
Now he had Francoeur’s attention. The Superintendent walked over to the wall across from Beauvoir and examined it.
“Looks fine to me,” he said.
It looked fine to Beauvoir too. No gaping cracks, no roots breaking through. Both men peered around. It was magnificent. Another engineering marvel by Dom Clément.
The stone walls ran under the entire monastery. It reminded Beauvoir of the Montréal metro system, only without the humming subway trains. Four cavernous corridors, like tunnels, stretched away from them. All well lit. All swept clean. Nothing out of place.
No murder weapon lying around. And no pine forest growing out of the walls.
But if Frère Raymond was to be believed, Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups was falling in on itself. And while Beauvoir had no great fondness for monks or priests or churches or abbeys, he discovered he’d be sorry if this one disappeared.
And he’d be very sorry if it disappeared while they were standing in the basement.
The sound of a door closing echoed toward them, and Francoeur started walking in that direction, not waiting to see if Beauvoir followed. As though it didn’t matter to him, so insignificant and incompetent was Inspector Beauvoir.
“Shithead,” mumbled Beauvoir.
“Sound travels down here, you know,” said Francoeur, without turning around.
Despite Gamache’s warnings. Despite his own pledges, Beauvoir had already allowed himself to be goaded. Allowed his feelings to flare.
But maybe it was a good thing, thought Beauvoir, as he slowly followed Francoeur. Maybe Gamache was wrong, and Francoeur needed to know that Beauvoir wasn’t afraid of him. Francoeur needed to know he was dealing with a grown man, not some kid out of the academy, in awe of the title of Chief Superintendent. Some kid he could manipulate.
Yes, thought Beauvoir as he walked a few steps behind the striding Superintendent, that wasn’t a mistake at all.
They arrived at a closed door. Beauvoir knocked. There was a long pause. Francoeur reached for the handle just as the door opened. Frère Raymond stood there. He looked alarmed, but on seeing them his expression changed to one of exasperation.
“Are you trying to scare me to death? You could’ve been the murderer.”
“They rarely knock,” said Beauvoir.
He turned, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Superintendent looking at Frère Raymond, completely bewildered.
Francoeur appeared not just surprised but stunned by this rough-hewn subterranean monk, who spoke with the ancient dialect. It was as though the door had opened and a monk from the first congregation, from Dom Clément’s community, had stepped out.
“Where’re you from, mon frère?” Francoeur finally asked.
And now it was Beauvoir’s turn to be surprised. As was Frère Raymond.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur had asked the question in the same broad accent as the monk’s. Beauvoir examined the Superintendent, to see if he was making fun of the monk, but he wasn’t. In fact, his expression was one of delight.
“Saint-Felix-de-Beauce,” said Frère Raymond. “You?”
“Saint-Gédéon-de-Beauce,” said Francoeur. “Just down the road.”
What followed was a rapid exchange between the men that was almost unintelligible to Beauvoir. Finally Frère Raymond turned to Beauvoir.
“This man’s grandfather and my great-uncle rebuilt the church in Saint-Ephrem after the fire.”