The Beautiful Mystery
The Chief Inspector’s offer was either not noticed or ignored. A fine black leather shoe appeared, then a second, and a man stood for a moment on the pontoon, then strolled casually onto the dock, as though into an opera house or an art gallery.
He looked around, taking in his surroundings.
Not an explorer, landed in a new world, but a conqueror.
He was in late middle age, sixty perhaps. His hair was gray, his face was clean-shaven, handsome and assured. No weakness there. Neither was it the face of a bully. He appeared to be completely at home, composed and comfortable. While most men would look slightly ridiculous arriving in the wilderness in a fine suit and tie, this man made it seem perfectly natural. Even enviable.
And Gamache suspected, if the visitor stayed long enough, the monks would eventually be in suits and ties themselves. And thanking the visitor.
He had that effect on people. Not adjusting to the world, but having the world adjust to him. Which it did. With few, but notable, exceptions.
The man stood on the dock and looked around, his eyes sweeping over Gamache. Over and through and by him. And came to rest on the abbot.
“Dom Philippe?”
The abbot bowed, but didn’t take his blue eyes off the stranger.
“My name is Sylvain Francoeur.” The man put out his hand. “I’m the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté du Québec.”
The abbot’s eyes shifted, for a moment. To Gamache. Then back again.
Armand Gamache knew his own expression was relaxed, attentive. Respectful.
But had Dom Philippe, so good at neumes, read the tiny lines on the Chief Inspector’s face, and seen how Gamache really felt?
* * *
“What the fuck is this about?” whispered Beauvoir, as they walked back down the corridor a few feet behind the abbot and Chief Superintendent Francoeur.
Gamache shot Beauvoir a warning. Not a slight visual reprimand, but a club to the head. Shut up, said the stern expression. Hold your tongue now, if you’ve never held it before.
Beauvoir shut up. But that didn’t stop him from watching, and listening. As they progressed they walked through the clouds of conversation created by the two men ahead.
“A terrible shame, mon père,” the Chief Superintendent was saying. “The prior’s death is a national tragedy. I can assure you, though, that we’ll solve this quickly and you’ll have your privacy to grieve. I’ve ordered my people to keep Frère Mathieu’s death quiet for as long as possible.”
“Chief Inspector Gamache said that wouldn’t be possible.”
“And he was quite correct, of course. He couldn’t do it. I have the highest respect for Monsieur Gamache, but his powers are limited.”
“And yours are not?” asked the abbot.
Beauvoir smiled and wondered if the abbot knew who he was dealing with.
Superintendent Francoeur laughed. It was relaxed and good-humored.
“By your measurement, Dom Philippe, my powers are pretty puny. But measured in mortal terms they’re substantial. And are at your disposal.”
“Merci, mon fils. I’m most grateful.”
Beauvoir turned a disgusted face to Gamache and opened his mouth, but shut it again upon seeing the Chief’s expression. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even upset.
Chief Inspector Gamache was puzzled. As though trying to work out some complex mathematical formula that didn’t add up.
Beauvoir had a question of his own.
What the fuck is this about?
* * *
“Can I say it now?” Beauvoir leaned against the closed door.
“No need,” said the Chief, taking a chair in the prior’s cramped office. “I know the question, but not the answer.”
“Like Jeopardy,” said Beauvoir, crossing his arms over his chest and continuing to lean against the door. A human deadbolt. “I’ll take ‘What the Fuck’ for two hundred, Alex.”
Gamache laughed. “It is puzzling,” he admitted.
And, thought Beauvoir, it might also be jeopardy.
They’d last seen Superintendent Francoeur walking through the Blessed Chapel, deep in conversation with the abbot. The homicide agents and the monks had been dismissed but had, for a moment, stood together watching these two men progress through the church and down the long corridor toward the abbot’s office.
Francoeur’s head, with its distinguished gray hair, was bent toward the abbot’s shaved head. Two extremes. One finely dressed, the other in austere robes. One forceful, the other a study in humility.