The Beautiful Mystery

Dom Philippe walked past them all. He tried not to rush. Told himself to be measured. To walk with purpose, but with containment.

The pounding continued. Not louder, not softer. Not faster, but neither did it slow. It kept an almost inhuman consistency.

And the abbot found himself rushing. Toward it. Desperate to make it stop. The noise that had shattered Vespers. And finally blown a hole through his determined calm.

Behind Dom Philippe the monks followed, in a long, thin line. Hands up sleeves, heads bowed. Feet hurrying along. Trying to keep up, while not appearing to run.

As the last monk left the altar, the Sûreté officers joined them, Gamache and Beauvoir a step behind Francoeur.

Dom Philippe exited the Blessed Chapel and turned down the long, long corridor. With the door at the very end. He knew it was a trick of his imagination, but the wood seemed to strain forward with each thump.

Lord have mercy, he prayed as he approached the door. It was the last prayer he’d said on the altar and the only one that had stayed with him, clinging on when everything else had fled. Lord have mercy. Oh, dear God, have mercy.

At the door, the abbot stopped. Should he look through the slat, to see who was there? But would it matter? Whoever was there wouldn’t stop, the abbot knew, until the heavy door had been opened.

He realized he didn’t have a key.

Where was the frère portier? Would he have to go all the way back to the Blessed Chapel, to get the key?

The abbot turned and was surprised to see the other monks, in a semi-circle, behind him. Like a choir about to sing Christmas carols. All ye faithful had come, but they were hardly joyful and triumphant. They looked more glum and distressed.

But they were there. The abbot was not alone. God did have mercy.

Frère Luc appeared beside him, the key shaking slightly in his slender hand.

“Give it to me, my son,” said the abbot.

“But it’s my job, mon père.”

Bang.

Bang.

Bang on the door.

Dom Philippe kept his hand out. “This job falls to me,” he said and smiled at the alarmed young monk. With trembling hands Frère Luc unclipped the heavy metal key and gave it to the abbot, then stepped back.

Dom Philippe, his own hand unsteady, thrust back the deadbolt. Then he tried to get the key in the lock.

Bang.

Bang.

He brought his other hand up, to steady the key, to help guide it.

Bang.

It slid into place, and he turned it.

The banging stopped. Whoever was on the other side had heard, through the banging, the thin metallic click as the door unlocked.

The gate opened.

It was twilight, the sun almost set. The mist was thicker now. Some light spilled out of the monastery, from the crack in the door, but no light came in.

“Oui?” said the abbot, wishing his voice sounded firmer, more authoritative.

“Dom Philippe?”

The voice was polite, respectful. Disembodied.

“Oui,” said the abbot, his voice still not his own.

“May I come in? I’ve come a long way.”

“Who are you?” asked the abbot. It seemed a reasonable question.

“Does it matter? Would you really turn a person away on a night like this?”

It seemed a reasonable answer.

But reason wasn’t the Gilbertines’ long suit. Passion, commitment, loyalty. Music. But not, perhaps, reason.

Still, Dom Philippe realized the voice was right. He couldn’t possibly shut the door now. It was far too late. Once opened, whatever was out there had to come in.

He stepped back. Behind him he heard, as one, the rest of the congregation step back. But out of his peripheral vision he noticed two people holding their ground.

Chief Inspector Gamache and his Inspector, Beauvoir.

A foot stepped in. Well shod, in black leather, with mud and a piece of bright, dead leaf stuck to it. And then the man was in.

He was slender and of medium height, slightly shorter than the abbot. His eyes were light brown, as was his hair, and his skin was pale, except for a slight flush from the cold.

“Merci, mon père.” He hauled in a duffel bag and turned to look at his hosts. He smiled then, fully and completely. Not with amusement, but with wonderment. “At last,” he said. “I found you.”

He wasn’t handsome, nor was he hideous. He was unremarkable, except for one thing.

What he wore.

He was also in a monk’s robes, but while the Gilbertines wore a white surplice on black, his robes were black on white.

“The hound of the Lord,” one of the monks whispered.