Again Bernard laughed. “People come from miles around to hear my insights.” Then his smile disappeared completely. “For instance, this Francoeur, he doesn’t like your boss, does he?”

This too, they both knew, wasn’t exactly an incredible feat of perception.

Beauvoir wondered what to say. His impulse was always to lie. He’d have made, he thought, a good medieval architect. He immediately wanted to deny there was a problem, to cover the truth. To at the very least hide the scale of it. But he could see that would be useless. This man had seen clearly, as had everyone else, Francoeur’s easy dismissal of Gamache on the dock.

“It goes back a few years. They had a disagreement over a fellow officer.”

Frère Bernard didn’t say anything. He simply listened. His face calm, his eyes noncommittal and attentive. They walked slowly through the forest, their feet crackling on the twigs and leaves, fallen to the well-trodden path. The sun broke through the trees in patches and every now and then they heard the scrambling of a chipmunk or a bird or some other wild creature.

Beauvoir waited a moment, then went on. Might as well, he thought. It was all public knowledge anyway. Unless you lived in a monastery in the middle of nowhere.

What the monks knew and what everyone else knew seemed two very different things.

“The Chief arrested one of the superintendents of the Sûreté, even though Francoeur and the others had ordered him not to. His name was Arnot. He was actually the Chief Superintendent at the time.”

And now there was a small reaction on the monk’s placid face. A tiny lifting of the brows. And then they settled back into place. It was almost invisible. Almost.

“Arrested him for what?”

“Murder. Sedition. It came out that Arnot was encouraging officers on reserves to kill any native who made trouble. Or, at the very least, when a young native was shot or beaten to death, Arnot didn’t discipline the officers who did it. It was a short step from turning a blind eye, to actively encouraging the killings. It became, apparently—” Beauvoir spoke haltingly, finding it difficult to talk about something so shameful. “—almost a sport. An elderly Cree woman asked Gamache for help finding her missing son. That’s when he discovered what was going on.”

“And the rest of the Sûreté leadership wanted your boss to stay quiet about it?”

Beauvoir nodded. “They agreed to fire Arnot and the other officers, but they didn’t want a scandal. Didn’t want to lose the trust of the public.”

Frère Bernard didn’t drop his eyes, but Beauvoir had the impression they wavered.

“Chief Inspector Gamache arrested Arnot anyway,” said Frère Bernard. “He disobeyed orders.”

“It never occurred to him not to. He thought the mothers and fathers and loved ones of those who were killed deserved an answer. And a public trial. And an apology. It all came out. It was a mess.”

Bernard nodded. The Church knew from scandals, and knew from cover-ups and knew from messes.

“What happened?” the monk asked.

“Arnot and the others were convicted. They’re serving life sentences.”

“And the Chief Inspector?”

Beauvoir smiled. “He’s still Chief. But he’ll never make Superintendent and he knows it.”

“But he kept his job.”

“They couldn’t fire him. Even before this happened he was one of the most respected officers in the Sûreté. The trial made him hated by the big bosses, but adored by the rank and file. He restored their pride. And, ironically, the public trust. Francoeur couldn’t fire him. Though he wanted to. He and Arnot were friends. Good friends.”

Frère Bernard thought about that for a moment. “So did this Francoeur know what his friend was doing? They were both superintendents.”

“The Chief could never prove it.”

“But he tried?”

“He wanted to get all the rot out,” said Beauvoir.

“And did he?”

“I hope so.”

Both men thought back to that moment on the dock. Gamache’s extended hand, to help Francoeur from the plane. And Francoeur’s look. A glance.

There wasn’t just enmity there. There was hatred.

“Why’s the Chief Superintendent here?” asked Frère Bernard.

“I don’t know.” Beauvoir tried to keep his voice light. And it was the truth. He really didn’t know. But again he felt the worry in his stomach roll over and scrape his insides.