The Beautiful Mystery
Page 23“All fingerprinted,” said Beauvoir. “And we did the initial interviews. After the seven thirty service they go to their chores. Now,” Beauvoir consulted his notes, “there’re four main areas of work at the monastery. The vegetable garden, the animals, the physical repairs to the monastery, which are endless, and the cooking. The monks have an area of expertise, but they also rotate. We found out who was doing what at the crucial time.”
At least, thought Gamache, listening to the report, the time of death was fairly clear. Not before Lauds finished at quarter past eight, and not after twenty to nine, when Frère Simon found the body.
Twenty-five minutes.
“Anything suspicious?” he asked.
Both men shook their heads. “They were all at their work,” said Charbonneau. “With witnesses.”
“But that’s not possible,” said Gamache, calmly. “Frère Mathieu didn’t kill himself. One of the brothers wasn’t doing what he was assigned to do. At least, I hope it wasn’t an assignment.”
Beauvoir raised a brow. He presumed the Chief was joking, but perhaps it was worth considering.
“Let’s try to get at this another way,” suggested the Chief. “Did any of the monks tell you about a conflict? Was anyone fighting with the prior?”
Inspector Beauvoir shook his head. “They believe in a virgin birth, a resurrection, walking on water and some old guy with a white beard floating in the sky and running the world, but this they find unbelievable?”
Gamache was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “It is interesting,” he agreed, “what people choose to believe.”
And what they’d do in the name of that faith.
How did the monk who’d done this reconcile the murder with his faith? What, in his quiet moments, did the murderer say to the old man with the white beard floating in the sky?
Not for the first time that day, the Chief Inspector wondered why this monastery had been built so far from civilization. And why it had such thick walls. And such high walls. And locked doors.
Was it to keep the sins of the world out? Or to keep something worse in?
“So,” he said, “according to the monks, there were no conflicts at all.”
“Someone is lying,” said Beauvoir. “Or all of them are.”
“There is another possibility,” said Gamache. He brought the yellowed page toward him, from the middle of the table. Examining it for a moment he lowered it again and looked into their faces.
“Maybe the murder had nothing to do with the prior himself. Maybe there really was no conflict. Maybe he was killed because of this.”
The Chief placed the page on the table again. And again he saw the body, as he’d first seen it. Curled into a shady corner in the bright garden. He hadn’t known then, but he did now, that at the very center of that dead body was a piece of paper. Like a pit in a peach.
Was this the motive?
“None of the monks noticed anything odd this morning?” Gamache asked.
“Nothing. Everyone seemed to be doing what they were meant to do.”
“Be here, in his study. Working on the music,” said Beauvoir. “And that’s the only interesting thing that came up. Frère Simon, the abbot’s secretary, says he returned to the abbot’s office right after Lauds, then he had to go to his work at the animalerie. But on his way he stopped by here.”
“Why?” Gamache sat forward and removed his glasses.
“To deliver a message. The abbot apparently wanted to meet with the prior this morning after the eleven A.M. mass.” The words sounded strange on Beauvoir’s tongue. Abbots and priors and monks, oh my.
They weren’t part of the vocabulary of Québec anymore. Not part of daily life. In just a generation those words had gone from respected to ludicrous. And soon they’d disappear completely.
God might be on the side of the monks, thought Beauvoir, but time wasn’t.
“Frère Simon says when he came to make the appointment, no one was in.”
“That would’ve been at about twenty past eight,” said the Chief, making a note. “I wonder why the abbot wanted to see the prior?”