“He’s right.” The monk nodded agreement.
“What do you mean?” asked Beauvoir.
“The words, the syllables, match the notes. Like lyrics, or the words of a poem. The meter has to fit. These words fit the music, but make no sense otherwise.”
“So why’re they there?” Beauvoir asked. “They have to mean something.”
All three stared down at the sheet of music. But it told them nothing.
“Now it’s your turn, mon frère,” said Gamache. “We’ve told you about the music. It’s your turn to tell us the truth.”
“About why I’m here?”
“Exactly.”
“You think it’s not about the murder of the prior?” the Dominican asked.
“I do. The timing’s off. You couldn’t have come all the way from the Vatican this quickly,” said Gamache. “And even if you could, your reaction when you arrived wasn’t grief shared with fellow monks. It was delight. You greeted these monks as though you’d been looking for them a long time.”
“And I have. The Church has been looking. I mentioned the archives of the Inquisition and finding the warrant ordering the Gilbertines to be investigated.”
“Oui,” said Gamache, growing guarded.
“Well, the investigation never ended. I have scores of predecessors in the Congregation who spent their lifetimes trying to find the Gilbertines. When they died another took over. Not a year, not a day, not an hour has gone by since they disappeared that we haven’t been looking for them.”
“The hounds of the Lord,” said Gamache.
“C’est ?a. Bloodhounds. We never gave up.”
“But it’s been centuries,” said Beauvoir. “Why would you keep looking? Why would it matter?”
“Because the Church doesn’t like mysteries, except those of its own making.”
“Or God’s?” asked Gamache.
“Those the Church tolerates,” admitted the monk, again with a disarming smile.
“Then how’d you finally find them?” asked Beauvoir.
“Can you guess?”
“If I wanted to guess I would have,” snapped Beauvoir. The confined space was getting to him. He felt the walls closing in. Felt oppressed, by the monastery, by the monk, by the Church. All he wanted was to get out. Get some air. He felt he was suffocating.
“The recording,” said Gamache after a moment’s thought.
Frère Sébastien nodded. “That’s it. The image on the cover of the CD. It was a stylized monk in profile. Almost a cartoon.”
“The robes,” said Gamache.
“Oui. The robes were black, with a small bit of white for the hood and chest, and draping over the shoulders. It’s unique.”
“Some malady is coming upon us,” quoted Gamache. “Maybe that’s the malady.”
“The music?” asked Beauvoir.
“Modern times,” said Frère Sébastien. “That’s what came upon the Gilbertines.”
The Chief nodded. “For centuries they’ve sung their chants, in anonymity. But now technology allowed them to transmit it to the world.”
“And to the Vatican,” said Frère Sébastien. “And the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.”
The Inquisition, thought Gamache. The Gilbertines were finally found. Betrayed by their chants.
*
The bells rang out and the peals penetrated into the Chapter House.
“I need to hit the toilet,” said Beauvoir, as the three men left the small room. “I’ll catch you later.”
“Fine,” said Gamache and watched Jean-Guy walk back across the Blessed Chapel.
“There you are.”
Chief Superintendent Francoeur walked decisively toward them. He smiled at the monk and nodded, briefly, at Gamache.
“I thought perhaps we could sit together,” said Francoeur.
“With pleasure,” said the monk. He turned to Gamache. “Will you join us?”
“I think I’ll sit over here, quietly.”
Francoeur and Frère Sébastien took a pew near the front and Gamache sat a few rows back and across from them.
It was almost certainly discourteous, he knew. But he also knew he didn’t care. Gamache glared at the back of Francoeur’s head. His eyes drilling into it. He was grateful Jean-Guy had decided to pee instead of pray. One less contact with Francoeur.
God help me, Gamache prayed. Even in this peaceful place he could feel his rage grow at the very sight of Sylvain Francoeur.
He continued to stare, and Francoeur rolled his shoulders, as though feeling the scrutiny. Francoeur didn’t turn around. But the Dominican did.
Frère Sébastien turned his head and looked directly at Gamache. The Chief shifted his eyes from Francoeur to the monk. The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then Gamache returned to the Superintendent. Undeterred by the gentle inquiry of the monk.
Eventually, Gamache closed his eyes, and took deep breaths in. Deep breaths out. He smelled, again, the scent of Saint-Gilbert which was so familiar, but slightly different. A marriage of traditional incense, and something else. Thyme and monarda.
The natural and the manufactured, come together here, in this far-flung monastery. Peace and rage, silence and singing. The Gilbertines and the Inquisition. The good men and the not-so-good.
*
Hearing the bells had made Beauvoir almost giddy. Almost sick with anticipation.
Finally. Finally.
He’d hurried to les toilettes, peed, washed his hands then poured a glass of water. From his pocket he drew the small pill bottle and snapped off the top, no child-proof caps here, and shook two pills into his palm.
In one practiced move Beauvoir brought his hand to his mouth, and felt the tiny pills land on his tongue. One gulp of the water, and they were down.
Leaving the pissoire, he paused in the hallway. The bells were still sounding, but instead of returning to the Blessed Chapel, Beauvoir walked swiftly back to the prior’s office. He closed the door and leaned the new chair against the handle.
He could still hear the bells.
Sitting at the desk he dragged the laptop toward him and rebooted.
The bells had stopped, and there was silence now.
The DVD in the machine started up. Beauvoir turned down the sound. No need to draw attention. Besides he had the soundtrack in his mind. Always.
The images appeared.