Gamache saw the fear in Luc’s eyes. A young man who sat alone all day, the only key to the outside world attached to a rope around his waist. The only way out was through him. If the murderer ever wanted to escape it might literally be over this young man’s dead body. Did Luc appreciate that?

The Chief Inspector leaned away, but not by much. “Tell me what you know.”

“All I know is that not everyone was happy about the recording.”

“The new one? The one the prior was about to make?”

Frère Luc paused then shook his head.

“The old one? The first one?”

Frère Luc nodded.

“Who was unhappy?”

Now Frère Luc looked miserable.

“You must tell me, son,” said Gamache.

Luc leaned forward. To whisper. His eyes darting into the dim corridor. Gamache also leaned forward. To hear.

But before he could say anything, Frère Luc’s eyes widened.

“There you are, Monsieur Gamache. Your Inspector said you’d be here. I’ve come to take you to dinner.”

Frère Simon, the abbot’s secretary, stood in the hallway, a few feet from the porter’s door. His hands up his sleeves, his head humbly bowed.

Had he heard their conversation? Gamache wondered.

This was the monk whose eyes never seemed to quite close. Who watched everything, and who, Gamache suspected, heard everything.

ELEVEN

Two monks came out of the kitchens carrying bowls of small new potatoes, drizzled with butter and chives. Broccoli and sweet squash and casseroles followed. Cutting boards with warm baguettes dotted the long refectory table and platters of cheeses and butter were silently passed up and down the long benches of monks.

The monks, though, took very little. Passing the bowls and bread, but only taking enough to be symbolic.

They had no appetite.

This left Beauvoir in a quandary. He wanted to drop huge spoonfuls of everything onto his plate until he could no longer see above it. He wanted to make an altar of the food, then eat it. All.

When the first casserole, a fragrant cheese and leek dish with a crunchy crumble top, came by he paused, looking at the modest amounts everyone else had taken.

Then he took the biggest scoop he could manage and plopped it onto his plate.

Bite me, he thought. And the monks looked like they might.

The abbot broke the silence with grace. And then another monk rose after the meal had been served, and walked to a lectern. There he read from a prayer book.

Not a word was said in conversation.

Not a word was said about the hole in their ranks. The missing monk.

But Frère Mathieu was very much present, hanging over them like a haunting. Taking advantage of the silence to grow until he finally filled the room.

Gamache and Beauvoir were not seated together. Like children who couldn’t be trusted, they were at opposite ends of the table.

Near the end of the meal, the Chief folded his cloth napkin and rose.

Frère Simon, across from him, motioned, at first subtly then with more vigor, for the Chief to sit back down.

Gamache met the man’s eyes, and also motioned. That he’d received the message, but was going to do what he needed to do anyway.

Down the bench, Beauvoir, seeing the Chief rise, also got to his feet.

There was perfect silence now. Not even the discreet clink of cutlery. All forks and knives were either put down, or suspended. All eyes were on the Chief.

He walked slowly to the lectern and looked down the table. Twelve monks on one side. Eleven monks on the other. The room, the community, out of balance.

“My name is Armand Gamache,” he said into the shocked silence. “Some of you I’ve already met. I’m the Chief Inspector of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec. This is my second in command, Inspector Beauvoir.”

The monks looked anxious. And angry. At him.

Gamache was used to this transference. They couldn’t yet blame the killer, so they blamed the police for turning their lives upside down. He felt a rush of sympathy.

If they only knew how bad it would get.

“We’re here to investigate what happened this morning. The death of Frère Mathieu. We’re grateful for your hospitality, but we need more than that. We need your help. I suspect whoever killed your prior had no intention of hurting others.” Gamache paused. Then his voice grew more intimate. More personal. “But others will be hurt, very badly, before this is over. Things that you want to remain private will be made public. Relationships, quarrels. All your secrets will come out as Inspector Beauvoir and I hunt for the truth. I wish it wasn’t so, but it is. Just as you wish Frère Mathieu wasn’t dead.”