The Beautiful Mystery

Things appeared equal that weren’t.

SIXTEEN

Inspector Beauvoir left Frère Luc to the massive book resting on his skinny knees. He’d arrived thinking the poor bastard must want company, and left realizing he’d been simply an intrusion. All the young monk really wanted was to be left alone with his book.

Jean-Guy went off in search of Frère Antoine, but paused in the Blessed Chapel to check his BlackBerry.

Sure enough, there were two messages from Annie. Both short. Responding to his email from early that morning, and a more recent one, describing her day so far. Beauvoir leaned against the cool stones of the chapel and smiled as he wrote back.

Something rude and suggestive.

He was tempted to tell her about her father’s adventures that morning, in his pajamas and bathrobe, being found by the monks on their altar. But it was too good a story to waste in an email. He’d take her to one of the terrasses not far from her home and tell her over a glass of wine.

When he’d finished his vaguely erotic message to Annie he turned right and looked in the chocolate factory. Brother Bernard was there, fishing tiny wild blueberries out of a vat of dark chocolate.

“Frère Antoine?” said Bernard, responding to the Sûreté officer’s question. “Try either the kitchen or the garden.”

“The garden?”

“Through the door at the end of the hall.” He waved a wooden spoon and dribbled chocolate on his apron. He looked like he wanted to swear and Beauvoir paused, wondering how monks cursed. Like the rest of the Québécois? Like Beauvoir himself? Did they curse the Church? Câlice! Tabernac! Hostie! The Québécois had turned religious words into dirty words.

But the monk remained silent and Beauvoir left, glancing into the gleaming stainless-steel kitchen next door. It was easy to see where some of the music money had been spent. There was no Frère Antoine. Only the aroma of a soup simmering, and bread baking. Finally Beauvoir reached the large wooden door at the very end of the corridor. And opened it.

He felt a rush of autumn air, cool and fresh. And the sunshine on his face.

He’d had no idea how much he missed the sun, until it was back. And now he took a deep breath and stepped into the garden.

*   *   *

The abbot’s bookcase swung open to reveal to Gamache a bright, fresh world. Of green grass and the last of the blooms, of neat shrubs and the huge maple in the middle, losing its autumn leaves. As the Chief watched, a single bright orange leaf lost its grip and wafted back and forth, gently falling to the ground.

This was a walled world. With a pretense of control, without the reality of it.

Gamache felt his foot sink into the soft grass and smelled musky autumn in the morning air. Insects buzzed and droned, almost drunk on the mid-September nectar. It was chilly, but milder than the Chief had expected. The walls, he supposed, acted as a wind barrier and a sun trap. Creating their own environment.

Gamache had asked to come into the garden not simply because he yearned for fresh air and sunshine, but because this was almost the exact moment, twenty-four hours earlier, when two other men had stood here.

Frère Mathieu and his killer.

And now the Chief Inspector of homicide and the abbot of Saint-Gilbert stood there.

Gamache looked at his watch. Just after half past eight in the morning.

When exactly had the prior’s companion known what he was going to do? Had he come into the garden, stood where the Chief now stood, with murder in mind? Had he stooped and picked up a stone, and bashed in the prior’s skull, on impulse? Or had that been his plan all along?

When was the decision made to murder?

And when did Frère Mathieu know he was about to be killed? Had been killed, in fact. It had clearly taken him a few minutes, after the blow was struck, to die. He’d crawled to the far wall. Away from the abbey. Away from the bright and warm sunshine. Into the darkness.

Was it simply instinct, as someone had suggested? An animal wanting to die alone. Or was something else at work? Had the prior one last service to perform?

To protect the yellowed page against the monks. Or the monks from the yellowed page?

“You were inspecting the new geothermal system yesterday morning at this time,” said Gamache. “Alone?”

The abbot nodded. “The morning’s a busy time in the abbey. The brothers are in the garden, or tending the animals, doing all sorts of chores. It takes near constant work to keep the abbey up.”

“Is one of your monks in charge of the physical plant?”

The abbot nodded. “Frère Raymond. He looks after the infrastructure. The plumbing and heating and electrics. That sort of thing.”