The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)
Page 92“I have and he’s fine.”
“I’m not asking just to be nosy, you know,” Frère Charles persisted. “A tremble like that can be a sign of something seriously wrong. It comes and goes, I notice. For instance, his hand seems steady right now.”
“It happens when the Chief is tired, or stressed.”
The doctor nodded. “Has he had it long?”
“Not long,” said Beauvoir, careful not to sound defensive. He knew the Chief didn’t seem to care who saw the occasional quiver in his right hand.
“So it’s not Parkinson’s?”
“Not at all,” said Beauvoir.
“Then what caused it?”
“An injury.”
“Ahh,” said Frère Charles, and again he looked across at the Chief Inspector. “The scar near his left temple.”
Beauvoir was silent. Regretting turning away from Frère Raymond and the long list of structural disasters, and other disasters, visited upon the abbey by incompetent abbots, Dom Philippe prominent among them. Now he wanted to turn back. To hear about artesian wells, and septic systems and load-bearing walls.
“If you think he needs anything, I have some things that might be helpful in the infirmary.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure he will.” Frère Charles paused and his eyes held Beauvoir’s. “But we all need help sometimes. Including your Chief. I have relaxants and painkillers. Just let him know.”
“I will,” said Beauvoir. “Merci.”
Beauvoir turned his attention to his meal. But as he ate, the words drifted in through Beauvoir’s own wounds. Sinking deeper and deeper.
Relaxants.
Until they finally hit bottom, and came to rest in Beauvoir’s hidden room.
And painkillers.
TWENTY-ONE
When lunch was over Chief Inspector Gamache and Beauvoir walked back to the prior’s office, comparing notes.
“These aren’t ordinary chickens, but the Chantecler,” said Gamache, with enthusiasm. Beauvoir was never sure if the Chief really was that interested, or just pretending, but he had his suspicions.
“Ahh, the noble Chantecler.”
Gamache smiled. “Don’t mock, Jean-Guy.”
“Me, mock a monk?”
“It seems our Frère Simon is a world expert on the Chantecler. It was bred right here in Québec. By a monk.”
“Really?” Despite himself, Beauvoir was interested. “Right here?”
“Well, no, not in Saint-Gilbert, but in a monastery just outside Montréal, about a hundred years ago. The climate was too harsh in Canada, he thought, for the regular chickens to survive, so he spent his lifetime developing a native Canadian breed. The Chantecler. They almost went extinct, but Frère Simon is bringing them back.”
“Just our luck,” said Beauvoir. “Every other monastery makes alcohol. Brandy and Bénédictine. Champagne. Cognac. Wines. Ours sings obscure chants and breeds near extinct chickens. No wonder they almost went the way of the dodo. But that brings me to my lunch table conversation with Frère Raymond. Thank you for that, by the way.”
Gamache grinned. “Talkative, was he?”
“You couldn’t get your monk started and I couldn’t get mine to stop. But wait ’til you hear what he had to say.”
“The foundations of Saint-Gilbert are crumbling,” said Beauvoir. “Frère Raymond says he discovered it a couple of months ago. The abbey won’t stand another ten years if something isn’t done right away. The first recording made them lots of money, but not enough. They need more.”
“You mean, the entire abbey might collapse?” asked Gamache, who stopped dead in his tracks.
“Boom, gone,” said Beauvoir. “And he blames the abbot.”
“How so? Surely the abbot hasn’t been undermining the abbey, at least not literally.”
“Frère Raymond says if they don’t get the money from a second recording and a concert tour they can’t save the monastery. And the abbot won’t allow either.”
“Dom Philippe knows about the foundations?”
Beauvoir nodded. “Frère Raymond says he told the abbot, but no one else. He’s been begging Dom Philippe to take it seriously. To raise the money to repair the foundations.”