The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)
Page 101The thick accent was gone.
He spoke now in the cultured French of scholars and diplomats. The lingua franca.
Was he finally speaking the truth? Beauvoir wondered. Did Frère Raymond want to make sure, after all this struggle, he wasn’t misunderstood? That Beauvoir would grasp each and every painful word?
But far from having the impression Frère Raymond had dropped the act, Beauvoir suspected the monk had just assumed one. This was the voice his grandmother had used when she spoke to the new neighbors. And the notary. And the priests.
It was not her real voice. That she kept for people she trusted.
“When did you decide to defy your abbot?” Beauvoir asked.
Frère Raymond hesitated. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do. When did you realize he wasn’t going to change his mind and agree to the recordings?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“But you were afraid that’s what he’d announce. In the Chapter House. That there’d be no second recording. And once the abbot pronounced, it was game over.”
“I’m not his confidant,” said Raymond. “I didn’t know what the abbot was going to do.”
“I didn’t.”
“Of course you did. You hated the abbot. And you love the abbey. You know it better than anyone, don’t you? You know every stone, every inch, every chip. And every crack. You could save Saint-Gilbert. But you needed help. The abbot was a fool. Praying for a miracle that had already happened. You’d been given the means to repair the foundation. Your voices. The recordings. But the abbot wasn’t listening. So you switched your loyalty to the prior. To the one man who might save Saint-Gilbert.”
“No,” Frère Raymond insisted.
“You told the prior.”
“No.”
“How many times are you going to deny it, mon frère?” Beauvoir growled.
“I never told the prior.”
The monk was almost weeping now, and finally Beauvoir stepped back. He glanced at Superintendent Francoeur, who was looking grave. Then he looked back at Frère Raymond.
“You told the prior, hoping to save Saint-Gilbert, but instead you sent him to his death.” Beauvoir’s voice was matter-of-fact. “And now you hide down here and pretend that isn’t true.”
Beauvoir turned and picked up the old plans.
The monk’s lips were moving but no sound came out.
“Tell me.”
He stared at the monk, whose eyes were now closed.
“Speak,” demanded Beauvoir. Then he heard a soft murmur.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…”
Frère Raymond was praying. But for what? Beauvoir wondered. For the prior to rise up? For the cracks to close?
The monk’s eyes opened and he looked at the Inspector with such gentleness, Beauvoir almost had to steady himself against the wall. They were his grandmother’s eyes. Patient and kindly. And forgiving.
Beauvoir saw then that Frère Raymond was praying for him.
* * *
Armand Gamache slowly closed the last dossier. He’d read it twice, pausing each time over one phrase in the coroner’s report.
Of course, they already knew that. They could see that he’d crawled away, until there was no more “away” left. And there the dying man had curled into a ball. The very shape his mother had carried. Had comforted, when he’d entered this world, naked and crying.
And yesterday, Mathieu had curled up again, to leave this world.
Yes, it had been clear to Gamache and all the other investigators, and probably the abbot and the monks who’d prayed over the body, that Frère Mathieu had taken some time to die.
But they didn’t know how long.
Until now.
Chief Inspector Gamache got up and, taking the dossier with him, he left the prior’s office.
* * *
“Inspector Beauvoir,” Superintendent Francoeur’s voice was raised, “I need to speak with you.”
Beauvoir took another few steps along the basement corridor, then turned around.
“What the fuck did you expect me to do?” he demanded. “Just let him lie? This is a murder investigation. If you don’t like how messy it gets, then get out of the way.”