“I paddled.”
Now it was Dom Philippe’s turn to stare, his mouth slightly open.
Frère Sébastien laughed. It was, like the rest of him, pleasant.
“I know. Not my most brilliant idea. A small plane got me to the local airfield but the fog was getting too thick and no one wanted to take me the rest of the way, so I decided to take myself.” He turned to look at Gamache, paused, perplexed, then looked back at the abbot. “You were much farther away than I realized.”
“You paddled all this way? From the village?”
“I did.”
“But that’s miles. How’d you even know where to go?” The abbot willed himself to be quiet, but he couldn’t seem to stop the questions.
“The boatman directed me. Said to keep going past three bays and to turn right at the fourth.” He seemed delighted by the directions. “But the mist got really heavy and I was afraid I’d made my last mistake. But then I heard your bells and followed the sound. When I got to the head of the bay I saw your lights. You have no idea how happy I am to find you.”
And he looked happy, thought Gamache. In fact, he looked ecstatic. He kept staring at the monks as though he wasn’t one himself. As though he’d never met a religieux.
“Have you come because of the prior?” asked Dom Philippe.
And Gamache had a sudden insight. He stepped forward, but it was too late.
“About his murder?” the abbot asked.
The abbot, a man who longed for great silence, had said too much.
Gamache took a deep breath and Frère Sébastien looked over at him, then his gaze shifted to Beauvoir, before finally resting on Superintendent Francoeur.
The smile slid from the young monk’s face, to be replaced by a look of great sympathy. He crossed himself and kissed his thumb, then folded his long hands in front of himself, and bowed slightly, his eyes grave.
“That’s why I was in such a rush. I came as soon as I heard. God rest his soul.”
Now all the monks crossed themselves, while Chief Inspector Gamache studied the newcomer. The man who’d paddled through the gathering darkness, through the gathering mist. Across an unfamiliar lake. And finally found the abbey by following the sound. And the light.
He’d traveled all the way from Rome.
Desperate, it would seem, to reach Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. So desperate, he’d taken his life in his hands. This young man, while making a joke about his foolish decision making, looked extremely competent to Gamache. So why had he taken such a risk? What couldn’t wait until morning?
It wasn’t the prior’s murder, Gamache was sure of that. He’d known in the instant Dom Philippe had asked that this stranger knew nothing about it. It was news to Frère Sébastien.
If he’d really come all the way from Rome because of the prior’s death he’d have been more solemn. Would have offered his sympathies right away.
Instead he’d laughed at his own folly, talked of his travels, said how happy he was to see them. Marveled at the monks. But hadn’t once mentioned Frère Mathieu.
No. Frère Sébastien had a reason to be there. And an important one. But it had nothing to do with Frère Mathieu’s death.
“Were those the Vesper bells?” Frère Sébastien asked. “I’m so sorry, mon père, to have interrupted. Please, continue.”
The abbot hesitated then turned and walked back down the long corridor, the newcomer behind him, looking this way and that.
Gamache watched him closely. It was as though the visitor had never been in a monastery before.
The Chief signaled Brother Charles to stay at the back of the procession, with him. He waited until the others were a good distance ahead, then turned to the doctor.
“Was it you who called Frère Sébastien the hound of the Lord?”
“Well, I didn’t mean him personally.”
The doctor looked pale, shaken. Not his jovial self. In fact, he looked considerably more upset about the live stranger than the dead prior.
“Then what did you mean?” insisted Gamache.
They were almost in the Blessed Chapel, and he wanted to finish this conversation before entering the church. Not out of some sense of religious propriety, but because of the astonishing acoustics.
This conversation must remain private.
“He’s a Dominican,” said Brother Charles, his voice also low, his eyes never leaving the head of the procession. Frère Sébastien and the abbot.
“How’d you know?”
“His robes and belt. Dominican.”
“But how does that make him the hound of the Lord?”
The head of the procession, like the head of a snake, had entered the Blessed Chapel and the rest were following.
“Dominican,” Brother Charles repeated. “Domini canis. Hound of the Lord.”
Then they too entered the Blessed Chapel and all conversation ended. Brother Charles gave Gamache a small nod and followed his fellow monks back onto the altar, where they took their places.
Frère Sébastien genuflected, crossed himself, then sat in a pew, craning his neck. Looking this way and that.
Beauvoir had returned to the pew and Gamache frowned as Superintendent Francoeur joined Jean-Guy. Gamache walked around and slid into the seat on the other side of Beauvoir, so that the Inspector was bracketed by his bosses.
But Beauvoir didn’t care. As Vespers began again he closed his eyes and imagined himself in Annie’s apartment. Lying together on the sofa in front of the fireplace.
She’d be in the crook of his arm. He’d be holding her secure.
Every other woman he’d dated, and Enid, whom he’d married, had been tiny. Slender, petite.
Annie Gamache was not. She was athletic, full bodied. Strong. And when she lay with him, clothed or not, they fit together perfectly.
“I never want this to end,” Annie would whisper.
“It won’t,” he’d assure her. “Never ever.”
“It’ll change, though, when people find out.”
“It’ll be even better,” he’d say.
“Oui,” Annie would agree. “But I like it like this. Just us.”
And he liked it like that too.
Now, in the Blessed Chapel, with its scent of incense and candles, he imagined he heard the murmur of the fireplace. Smelled the sweet maple logs. Tasted the red wine. And could feel Annie on his chest.
*
The music began. At once, from some signal invisible to Gamache, the monks went from still and silent to full voice.
Their voices filled the chapel like air in lungs. It seemed to emanate from the rocks of the walls. As though the Gregorian chants were as much a part of the abbey as the stones and slate and wooden beams.
In front of Gamache, Frère Sébastien stared. Transfixed. Unmoving.
His mouth was open slightly, and there was a glistening down his pale cheek.
Frère Sébastien listened to the Gilbertines sing their service, and wept, as though he’d never heard the voice of God before.
*
Dinner that night was an almost silent affair.
Since Vespers ended late, the brothers and their guests had gone directly to the dining hall. Tureens filled with brilliant pea and mint soup sat on the table, next to baskets of fresh, warm baguette.
A brother sang the prayer of thanksgiving for the meal, the monks crossed themselves, and then the only sound was of the soup being served and spoons against earthenware bowls.
And then, a low hum was heard. In any other environment it would’ve been inaudible, but here, in the silence, it sounded as loud as the boatman’s engine.
And it got louder. And louder.
The monks, one by one, stopped eating and soon the only sound in the long dining hall was the humming. Every head turned to see where it was coming from.
It came from Chief Inspector Gamache.
He sipped his soup, and he hummed. Looking down at his plate, apparently engrossed in the delicious meal. Then, perhaps sensing scrutiny, he looked up.
But the humming didn’t stop.
Gamache smiled a little as he hummed, and looked at the faces of the monks.
Some looked scandalized. Some looked worried, as though a madman had appeared. Some looked angry, to have their peace disturbed.