The Beautiful Mystery

“And that’s why he was killed?”

“I think it’s possible.”

Beauvoir considered what the Chief had said. “So the abbot’s kinda screwed. Frère Antoine called him a frightened old man. Do you think he killed Frère Mathieu?”

“I honestly don’t know. But if Dom Philippe’s filled with fear, he isn’t the only one,” said Gamache. “I think most of them are.”

“Because of the murder?”

“No. I’m not sure these men are really afraid of death. I think they’re afraid of life. But here, in Saint-Gilbert, they finally found where they belonged.”

Beauvoir thought of the field of giant mushrooms, with the floppy hats. And how he’d felt the odd one out, in his pressed slacks and merino wool sweater.

“So if they finally found where they belong, what’re they afraid of?”

“Losing it,” said the Chief. “They’d been in purgatory. Many have probably been in Hell. And once you’ve been there, you sure don’t want to go back.”

Gamache paused and the two men held each other’s eyes. Beauvoir could see the deep scar by the Chief’s temple. And could feel the ache gnawing his own gut. He saw the bottle of tiny pills he kept hidden in his apartment. Just in case.

Yes, thought Beauvoir. You sure don’t want to slip back into Hell.

The Chief leaned forward, put on his glasses, and unrolled a large cylinder of paper on the desk.

Beauvoir watched Gamache, but saw something else. Superintendent Francoeur stepping from the plane that had descended so quickly from the sky. The Chief had offered his hand, but Francoeur had turned his back on Gamache, for all to see. For Beauvoir to see.

The sick feeling sat like a fist in Beauvoir’s stomach. It had found a home there. Was settling in. And growing.

“The abbot gave us a plan of the monastery.” Gamache stood and leaned over the desk.

Beauvoir joined him.

The drawing looked exactly as Beauvoir imagined the abbey in his mind, after walking the halls for twenty-four hours. Shaped like a cross, with the chapel in the very center and the bell tower above that.

“Here’s the Chapter House,” said Gamache. The room was shown on the drawing, attached to the side of the chapel. There was no attempt to hide it in the design. But in real life it was hidden, behind the plaque to Saint Gilbert.

The abbot’s garden was also on the plan, plain to see in ink, but not in real life. It too was hidden but not secret.

“Are there other hidden rooms?” Beauvoir asked.

“The abbot doesn’t know of any, but he admits there’re rumors of secret rooms, and something else.”

“What?” asked Beauvoir.

“Well, it’s almost embarrassing to say,” admitted Gamache, taking off his glasses and looking at Beauvoir.

“I would have thought a man caught in his pajamas on a church altar would have a high tolerance for embarrassment.”

“You make a good point.” The Chief smiled. “Treasure.”

“Treasure? Are you kidding? The abbot says there’s a treasure hidden here?”

“He doesn’t say it,” said Gamache, “he says those are the rumors.”

“Have they looked?”

“Unofficially. I think monks aren’t supposed to care about such things.”

“But men do,” said Beauvoir, looking back down at the plan.

An old abbey with a hidden treasure, thought Beauvoir. It was too ridiculous. No wonder the Chief was embarrassed to say it. But while he ridiculed the idea, Beauvoir’s eyes were bright as he scanned the drawing.

What child, boy or girl, hadn’t dreamed of hidden treasure? Hadn’t lapped up stories of derring-do, of galleons and pirates and fleeing princes and princesses, burying something precious. Or, better yet, finding something precious.

As ridiculous and far-fetched as a hidden room with treasure almost certainly was, Beauvoir couldn’t help but be sucked into the fantasy. In an instant he found himself wondering what the treasure could be. The riches of the medieval Church? Chalices, paintings, coins. Priceless jewels brought back by Crusaders.

Then Jean-Guy imagined finding it.

Not for the sake of the fortune. Or, at least, not entirely for that. But for the fun of finding it.

Instantly he saw himself telling Annie. He could see her watching him, listening. Hanging on his every word. Reacting to each twist in the tale. Her face expressive as he told her about the search. Gasping. Laughing.

They’d talk about it for the rest of their lives. Tell their children and grandchildren. About the time Grandpapa found the treasure. And returned it to the Church.