The Beautiful Mystery
“Oh, I can cope with the mess,” said Francoeur, his voice hard but steady. “I just didn’t expect you to handle it in quite that way.”
“Is that right?” said Beauvoir, his voice filled with contempt. No need to hide it now. “And how’d you expect me to handle it?”
“Like a man without balls.”
This so surprised Beauvoir he didn’t know what to say. Instead he stared as Francoeur walked past him and up the stairs.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Francoeur stopped, his back to Beauvoir. Then he turned. His face was serious as he examined the man in front of him.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me.”
Francoeur smiled, shook his head, and continued up the stairs. After a moment Beauvoir ran after him, taking the worn stone steps two at a time until he’d caught up.
Francoeur opened the door just as Beauvoir arrived. They heard the sound of hard shoes on the stone floor of the Blessed Chapel, and saw Chief Inspector Gamache walking with purpose toward the corridor leading to the abbot’s office and garden.
Both men, as though by mutual consent, stayed quiet until the door into the hallway had closed and the sound of steps vanished.
“Tell me,” Beauvoir demanded.
“You’re supposed to be a trained investigator with the Sûreté du Québec. You figure it out.”
“Supposed to be?” Beauvoir called to the retreating back. “Supposed to be?”
The words echoed and grew and bounced back to Beauvoir without apparently ever reaching Francoeur.
TWENTY-THREE
“There you are, Chief Inspector.”
Frère Simon came around the desk, his hand out.
Gamache took it and smiled. What a difference a chicken could make.
Doo-dah, doo-dah.
Gamache sighed to himself. Of all the literally divine music here, he had to have “Camptown Races” sung by a rooster stuck in his head.
“I was about to come looking for you,” Simon continued. “I have your paper.”
Frère Simon handed the yellowed page to the Chief Inspector and smiled. A smile would never, on that face, look completely at home. But it camped comfortably there for an instant.
Once again, in repose, the abbot’s secretary slipped back to severe.
“Merci,” said Gamache. “You were able to make a copy, obviously. Have you started transcribing the neumes into musical notes?”
“Not yet. I was planning on working at it this afternoon. I might ask some of the other brothers for help, if that’s all right with you.”
“Absolument,” agreed Gamache. “The sooner the better.”
Once again Frère Simon grinned. “I think your idea of time and ours is slightly different. We deal with millennia here, but I’ll try to make it quicker than that.”
“Believe me, mon frère, you don’t want us hanging around for that long. Do you mind?” Gamache indicated a comfortable chair and the abbot’s secretary nodded.
The two men sat facing each other.
“As you worked on this,” Gamache raised the page slightly, “did you translate any of the Latin?”
Frère Simon looked uneasy. “I’m not exactly fluent, and I suspect whoever wrote it wasn’t either.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because what little I could understand is ridiculous.”
He went to the desk and returned with a notebook.
“I jotted down some thoughts as I went. Even if we manage to figure out the neumes and turn them into notes, I don’t think we can possibly sing the words.”
“So it’s not a known hymn or chant or even a prayer?” Gamache glanced at the original.
“Not unless there was a prophet or apostle in need of medication.” Frère Simon consulted his notebook. “The first phrase, there,” Simon pointed to the top of the chant, “now I may be wrong but I translate it as saying, I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear.”
He said it so solemnly Gamache had to laugh. When he tried to suppress it, it bubbled up again. He looked down at the page, to cover up his amusement.
“What else does it say?” he asked, his voice slightly squeaky from the effort of keeping the laughter in.
“This isn’t funny, Chief Inspector.”
“No, of course not. It’s sacrilege.” But a little snort betrayed him and when he dared look at the monk again, he surprised on Frère Simon’s face a slender grin.