The Beautiful Mystery
“Bedroom,” said Dom Philippe.
The three Sûreté officers looked around. It was roughly six feet wide by ten feet long. With a narrow single bed and a small chest of drawers that seemed to double as a private altar. On it was a carving of the Virgin Mary and Christ Child. A tall, slender bookcase was against one wall and beside the bed was a tiny wooden table with books. There was no window.
The men turned around. And around.
“Forgive me, mon père,” said Gamache. “But where is the body?”
Without a word the abbot tugged on the bookcase. All three men put out their arms in alarm, to grab the bookcase as it fell, but instead of tumbling over, it swung open.
Bright sunshine poured through the unexpected hole in the stone wall. And beyond it the Chief could see green grass scattered with autumn leaves. And bushes in different stages of fall colors. And a single, great tree. A maple. In the middle of the garden.
But Gamache’s eyes went directly to the far end of the garden, and the figure crumpled there. And the two robed monks standing motionless a few feet from the body.
The Sûreté officers stepped through the last door. Into this unexpected garden.
* * *
“Holy Mary, mother of God,” the monks intoned, their voices low and melodic. “Pray for us sinners…”
“When did you find him?” Gamache asked as he carefully approached the body.
“My secretary found him after Lauds.” On seeing the look on Gamache’s face, the abbot explained. “Lauds ends at eight fifteen. Brother Mathiew was found at about twenty to nine. He went to find the doctor, but it was too late.”
Gamache nodded. Behind him he could hear Beauvoir and Charbonneau unpacking the Scene of Crime equipment. The Chief looked at the grass, then reached out and gently guided the abbot back a few paces.
“Désolé, Dom Philippe, but we need to be careful.”
“I’m sorry,” said the abbot, stepping away. He seemed lost, bewildered. Not just by the body, but by the sudden appearance of men he didn’t know.
Gamache caught Beauvoir’s eye and subtly gestured to the ground. Beauvoir nodded. He’d already noticed the slight difference between the grass here and the rest of the garden. Here the blades were bent. And pointed to the body.
Gamache turned back to the abbot. The man was tall and slender. Like the other monks, Dom Philippe was clean-shaven, and his head, while not shaved to the scalp, had just a bristle of gray hair.
The abbot’s eyes were deep blue and he held Gamache’s thoughtful gaze as though trying to find a way in. The Chief didn’t look away, but he did feel quietly ransacked.
The abbot again slipped his hands up the sleeves of his robe. It was the same pose as the other two monks who were standing not far from the body, eyes closed and praying.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…”
The rosary. Gamache recognized it. Could say it himself in his sleep.
“… the Lord is with thee.…”
“Who is he, Père Abbé?”
Gamache had placed himself so that he was facing the body, and the abbot was not. In some cases the Chief wanted the suspects to be unable to avoid seeing the dead person. The murdered person. He wanted the sight to fray and tear and rend.
But not in this case. He suspected this quiet man would never forget that sight. And that perhaps kindness would be a more rapid road to the truth.
“Mathieu. Brother Mathieu.”
“The choirmaster?” asked Gamache. “Oh.”
The Chief Inspector lowered his head slightly. Death always meant loss. Violent death tore the hole wider. The loss seemed greater. But to lose this man? Armand Gamache looked back at the body on the ground, curled into a ball. His knees as far up to his chin as he could get them. Before he died.
Frère Mathieu. The choir director of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. The man whose music Gamache had been listening to on the flight there.
Gamache felt as though he knew him. Not by sight, obviously. No one had seen him. There were no photographs, no portraits of Frère Mathieu. But millions, including Gamache, felt they knew him in ways far more intimate than physical appearance.
This was indeed a loss, and not just to this remote and cloistered community.
“The choirmaster,” the abbot confirmed. He turned around and looked at the man on the ground. Dom Philippe spoke softly. Almost whispering. “And our prior.” The abbot turned back to Gamache. “And my friend.”
He closed his eyes and became very still. Then he opened them again. They were very blue. The abbot took a deep breath. Gathering himself, thought Gamache.