Frère Simon said nothing.

“They tell us who killed them, if at all possible.”

The monk’s cheeks reddened and his eyes narrowed slightly. “You think Frère Mathieu told me who killed him? And I’ve said nothing?”

Now it was Gamache’s turn to be silent. He examined the monk. Taking in the full, round face. Not fat, but cheeks like chipmunks’. The shaved head. The short, pug nose. The near permanent scowl of disapproval. And hazel eyes, like the bark of a tree. Mottled. And rough. And unyielding.

And yet, the voice of an archangel. Not simply a member of the celestial choir, but one of the Chosen. A favorite of God. Gifted beyond all others.

Except the other men in this monastery. Two dozen of them.

Was this place, Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, a golden moment? Between two worlds. It felt like it. Out of time, and place. A netherworld. Between the vibrant life of Québec. The bistros and brasseries, the festivals. The hardworking farmers and brilliant academics.

Between the mortal world, and Heaven. Or Hell. There was here.

Where quiet was king. And calm reigned. And the only sounds were the birds in the trees and plainchant.

And where, a day ago, a monk was killed.

Did the prior, at the very end, his back to the wall, break his vow of silence?

*   *   *

Jean-Guy Beauvoir propped the broken chair against the door into the prior’s office.

It wouldn’t stop anyone, but it would slow them down just enough. And it would certainly give Beauvoir warning.

Then he walked around the desk and sat in the chair Francoeur had just left. It was still warm from the Superintendent. The thought made Beauvoir slightly queasy, but he ignored it and pulled the laptop toward him.

It too was warm. Francoeur had been on it, but had closed it down when Beauvoir entered.

After he’d rebooted the laptop, Beauvoir tried to connect to the Internet.

It wouldn’t. There was still no satellite hookup.

So what was the Superintendent doing? And why had he shut it down so quickly?

Jean-Guy Beauvoir settled in to find the answer.

*   *   *

“Shall I tell you my thinking?” asked Gamache.

Frère Simon’s face screamed no. Gamache, of course, ignored it.

“It’s unorthodox,” admitted the Chief. “We generally like the people we’re talking to to do all the talking. But I think it might be sensible to be flexible, in this case.”

He looked, with some amusement, at the mule-like monk. Then his face grew solemn.

“This is what I think happened. I think Frère Mathieu was still alive when you went into the garden. He was curled against the wall, and it probably took you a minute or so to see him.”

As Gamache spoke an image sprang up between the two men, a vision of Frère Simon entering the garden with his gardening gear. More bright autumn leaves had fallen since he’d last raked, and some of the flowers were in need of deadheading. The sun was out and the day was crisp and fresh and filled with the scent of wild crab apple trees in the forest, their fruit baking in the late-season sun.

Frère Simon walked down the lawn, scanning the flower beds, looking at what needed to be cut down and put to bed for the harsh winter so obviously approaching.

And then he stopped. The grass at the far end of the garden had been mussed up. Disturbed. It wasn’t obvious. A casual visitor would have probably missed it. But the abbot’s secretary was not a casual visitor. He knew every leaf, every blade of grass. He tended it as he would a child in his care.

Something was wrong.

He looked around. Was the abbot here? But he knew the abbot was going to the basement, to look at the geothermal.

Frère Simon stood very still in the late September sunlight, his eyes sharp, his senses alert.

“Am I right so far?” Gamache asked.

The Chief Inspector’s voice had been so mesmerizing, his words so descriptive that Frère Simon had forgotten he was still sitting inside, in the office. He could almost feel the chill autumn air on his cheeks.

He looked at the Chief Inspector, sitting so composed across from him, and thought, not for the first time, that this was a very dangerous man.

“I’ll take your silence as assent,” said Gamache with a small smile, “though I realize that’s often a mistake.”

He continued his story, and once again the image between the men sprang up and began to move.

“You walked a few steps, trying to make out the lump at the far end of the garden, not yet concerned, but curious. Then you noticed the grass wasn’t just disturbed, but there was blood.”