The Beautiful Mystery

Frère Raymond made no sound. Made no movement. Did not recoil as Beauvoir advanced.

“You think the abbot wasn’t alone in his garden.”

Beauvoir’s voice was rising. Filling the cavern. Bouncing off the walls. In his peripheral vision he could see the Superintendent, and thought he heard a cough. A clearing of his throat. No doubt to stop this audacious and inappropriate agent.

To correct him. To get Beauvoir to back down, back away, back off this religieux.

But Beauvoir would not. Frère Raymond, for all his gentleness, all his passion for mechanical things, for all he sounded like Beauvoir’s grandfather, was hiding something. In a convenient silence.

“You think the prior was there as well.”

Beauvoir’s words were clipped, hard. Like pelting the stone monk with pebbles. The words bounced off Frère Raymond, but they were having an effect. Beauvoir took another step forward. He was close enough now to see alarm in Frère Raymond’s eyes.

“You’ve all but led us to this conclusion,” said Beauvoir. “Have the guts to go all the way. To say what you really think.”

The only way to break a stone, Beauvoir knew, was to pound it. And keep pounding.

“Or do you just insinuate, hint, gossip?” sneered Beauvoir. “And expect braver men to do your dirty work. You’re willing to throw the abbot to the wolves, you just don’t want it on your conscience. Instead you imply, suggest. You all but wink at us. But you don’t have the guts to stand up and say what you really believe. Fucking hypocrite.”

Frère Raymond took a step back. The pebbles had turned to stones. And Beauvoir was making direct hits.

“What a pathetic excuse for a man you are,” Beauvoir continued. “Look at you. You pray and sprinkle holy water and light incense and pretend to believe in God. But you only stand up to run away. Just like the old monks ran away. They came to Québec, to hide, and you’ve come down here. Hiding in your basement. Organizing things, cleaning, tidying. Explaining. While up above the real work is happening. The messy work of finding God. The messy fucking work of finding a murderer.”

Beauvoir was so close to Frère Raymond he could smell the brandy and Bénédictine on his breath.

“You think you know who did it? Well, tell us. Say the words.” Beauvoir’s voice was rising until he was shouting into Frère Raymond’s face. “Say the words.”

Now Frère Raymond looked frightened.

“You don’t understand,” he stammered. “I’ve said too much.”

“You haven’t even begun. What do you know?”

“We’re supposed to be loyal to our abbots,” Raymond said, sliding away from Beauvoir. He turned to look at Francoeur, his voice pleading. “When we join a monastery, our loyalty isn’t to Rome or even to the local archbishop or bishop. It’s to the abbot. It’s part of our vows, our devotion.”

“Look at me,” Beauvoir demanded. “Don’t look at him. It’s me you’re answering to now.”

Frère Raymond really did look frightened, and Beauvoir wondered if this monk actually believed in God. And he wondered if Frère Raymond believed God would strike him dead for speaking. And he wondered who could be loyal to a God like that.

“I never thought it would go this far,” Frère Raymond whispered. “Who could’ve known?”

He was pleading with Beauvoir now. But for what? Understanding? Forgiveness.

He’d get neither from Beauvoir. The Inspector wanted only one thing. To solve the murder and get home, as Gamache said. Just get the fuck out of there. And away from Francoeur, who’d sat cross-legged and remotely interested throughout.

“What did you think would happen?” Beauvoir pushed.

“I thought the prior would win.”

Frère Raymond had finally cracked. And now the words tumbled out.

“I thought after some debate the abbot would come to his senses. He’d finally see that doing another recording was the right thing to do. Even without the issue of the foundations.” Frère Raymond sunk to his seat and looked stunned. “We’d already done one recording, you see. How much harm could another do? And it would save the monastery. It would save Saint-Gilbert. How could that possibly be wrong?”

He searched Beauvoir’s eyes, as though expecting to find an answer there.

There was none.

In fact, Beauvoir was unexpectedly faced with a new mystery. When Frère Raymond had cracked more than just words had come out. A whole new voice had rushed out of the monk. One without the ancient dialect.