“He’s the youngest here, probably the most recent arrival.”

“And a murder happens because something changes,” said Beauvoir. “Something provoked the murder of Frère Mathieu.”

“It was almost certainly building for a while, most murders take years to actually happen. But finally something, or someone, tips the balance.”

That was what Gamache and his team did. They sieved for that often tiny event. A word. A look. A slight. That final wound that released the monster. Something had made a man into a murderer. Had made a monk into a murderer, surely a longer journey than most.

“And what was the most recent change?” asked Gamache. “Perhaps the arrival of Frère Luc. Maybe that somehow upset the balance, the harmony, of the abbey.”

The Chief closed the door behind him and Beauvoir went back to work. As he tried to figure out what was wrong with the connection, his mind went back to the evidence locker. His hell. But he also thought about the door with the word “Porterie” stamped on it.

And the young man relegated to it.

Was he hated? Surely you had to be, to be stuck there. Every other job made sense in the abbey. Except his. After all, why have a porter for a door that never opened?

*   *   *

Gamache walked through the halls, meeting a monk here and there. He was beginning to recognize them, though he couldn’t yet put names to all the faces.

Frère Alphonse? Frère Felicien?

The monks’ faces were almost always in repose, their hands thrust up their drooping sleeves in a mannerism the Chief realized was just something monks did. When he passed, they always caught his eye and nodded. Some ventured small smiles.

All looked, at a distance, calm. Contained.

But up close, at that moment when they passed, to a man Gamache saw anxiety in their eyes. A plea.

For him to leave? To stay? To help? Or to go away?

When he’d arrived, not that many hours ago, the abbey of Saint-Gilbert had seemed peaceful. Restful. It was surprisingly beautiful. Its austere walls not cold, but soothing. The daylight refracted by the imperfect glass, broken into reds and purples and yellows. Apart they were individual colors, but together they made giddy light.

Like the abbey. Made up of individuals. Alone they were no doubt exceptional, but together they were brilliant.

Except for one. The shadow. Necessary, perhaps, to prove the light.

Gamache approached another monk as he made his way through the Blessed Chapel.

Frère Timothé? Frère Guillaume?

They passed and nodded and again Gamache caught something in this anonymous monk’s passing glance.

Perhaps each man had a private plea, different from the rest, depending who he was and what was his nature.

This man—Frère Joel?—clearly wanted Gamache to go away. Not because the monk was afraid, but because Gamache had become a walking billboard, advertising the murder of the prior. And their failure as a community.

They were supposed to do only one thing. Serve God. But instead, this abbey had gone in the opposite direction. And Gamache was the exclamation mark that drove that truth home.

The Chief turned right and walked down the long corridor toward the closed door. He was growing familiar with the abbey, comfortable even.

It was in the form of a cross, with the Blessed Chapel in the middle and arms out four sides.

It was now dark outside. The halls were dimly lit. It felt like midnight, but when he glanced at his watch the Chief saw it wasn’t yet six thirty.

The door marked “Porterie” was closed. Gamache knocked.

And waited.

Inside he heard a small sound. A paper, a page turned. Then silence again.

“I know you’re in there, Frère Luc,” said Gamache, lowering his voice. Trying to make himself sound less like the Big Bad Wolf. He heard more paper shuffling, and then the door opened.

Frère Luc was young, in his early twenties, perhaps?

“Oui?” the monk asked.

And Gamache realized it was the first time he’d heard this boy speak directly to him. Even in that short word, Gamache could hear that Frère Luc’s voice was full and rich. A lovely tenor almost certainly. While the man was reedy the voice was not.

“May we talk?” Gamache asked. His own voice was deeper than this boy’s.

Frère Luc’s brown eyes flicked this way and that, over Gamache’s shoulder.

“I believe we’re alone,” said the Chief.

“Oui,” he repeated, folding his hands in front of him.

It was a parody of the composure of the other monks. There was no calm here. This young man seemed torn between being afraid of Gamache and being relieved to see him. Wanting him to both leave and stay.