“An horarium,” said the abbot. “Simon, would you mind?”

It seemed Simon, while looking as though he minded breathing, in fact was willing to do anything the abbot asked of him. One of the abbot’s men, without a doubt, thought Gamache.

Simon withdrew and the two men leaned over the plan.

*   *   *

“So,” said Beauvoir, leaning against the doorjamb. “Do you spend all day here?”

“All day, every day.”

“And what do you do?”

Even to his ears it sounded like a lame pickup line in a dingy bar. “Come here often, sweet cheeks?” Next he’d be asking this young monk what his sign was.

Beauvoir was Cancer, which always annoyed him. He wanted to be Scorpio, or Leo. Or even that ram thing. Anything other than the crab that, according to the descriptions, was nurturing, nesting, and sensitive.

Fucking horoscopes.

“I read this.”

Frère Luc lifted the huge book an inch off his lap then dropped it again.

“What is it?”

Frère Luc gave him a suspicious look, as though trying to assess the motives of the man he met in the shower that morning. Beauvoir had to admit, he’d be suspicious of himself too.

“It’s the book of Gregorian chants. I study it. Learn my parts.”

It was the perfect “in.”

“You told me this morning that the prior had chosen you to be the new soloist in the next recording. You’d be replacing Frère Antoine. Did Frère Antoine know that?”

“Must have,” said Luc.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if Frère Antoine thought he was the soloist, he’d be studying the chants. Not me.”

“All the chants are in that one book?” Looking at it, balanced on Frère Luc’s thin knees, Beauvoir had an idea. “Who else knows about that?” Beauvoir nodded toward the old volume.

If knowledge was power, thought Beauvoir, that book was all-powerful. It held the key to their vocation. And now, it was also the key to all their wealth and influence. Whoever possessed this book had everything. It was their Holy Grail.

“Everyone. It’s kept on a lectern in the Blessed Chapel. We look at it all the time. Take it to our cells, sometimes. No big deal.”

Merde, thought Beauvoir. So much for the Holy Grail.

“We also copy out the chants ourselves,” Frère Luc pointed to a workbook on the narrow table. “So we all have our own copies.”

“It’s not a secret, then?” asked Beauvoir, to be sure.

“This?” The young monk laid his hand on it. “Many monasteries have one. Most have two or three, and far more impressive ones than ours. I guess because this is such a poor order we only have one. So we have to be careful with it.”

“Not read it in the bath?” asked Beauvoir.

Luc smiled. It was the first one Beauvoir had seen from the grim young monk.

“When were you supposed to do the new recording?”

“It wasn’t decided yet.”

Beauvoir thought about that for a moment. “What wasn’t decided? The timing of the recording, or if there’d even be one?”

“It wasn’t absolutely decided if there’d be another recording, but I don’t think there was much doubt.”

“But you led the Chief to believe the recording was going ahead, a fait accompli. Now you’re saying it wasn’t?”

“It was just a matter of time,” said Luc. “If the prior wanted something, it happened.”

“And Frère Antoine?” asked Beauvoir. “How do you think he took the news?”

“He’d have accepted it. He’d have to.”

Not because Frère Antoine was humble, thought Beauvoir. Not as a reflection of his faith, but because it was useless to argue with the prior. Easier, probably, to just kill the man.

Was that the motive? Had Frère Antoine smashed the prior’s head in because he was about to be replaced as soloist? In an order dedicated to Gregorian chant, the soloist would hold a special place.

More equal, as Orwell had it, than others. And people killed for that all the time.

FIFTEEN

The sunshine through the leaded-glass windows fell on the plan of the abbey of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. It was drawn on very old, very thick paper and showed the cruciform design of the abbey. Walled enclosures jutted off the two arms and the abbot’s garden hung off the bottom of the cross.

The Chief Inspector put on his reading glasses and leaned closer to the scroll. He studied the drawing in silence. He’d been in the abbot’s garden, of course. And had collected eggs with Frère Bernard a few hours ago in the walled enclosure with the goats and sheep and chickens, off the right arm of the cross.