The Beautiful Mystery

Gamache looked at the time. It was just after four. They had an hour before the boatman left. A murder investigation was never a leisurely pursuit, but there was even more urgency about this one. They were chasing daylight and the boatman’s deadline.

Once the sun set, they would all be trapped in the monastery. Along with the evidence and the body. And Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t want that.

*   *   *

Dom Philippe made the sign of the cross over his community. They crossed themselves.

And then he sat. And they sat. Like shadows, mimicking his every move. Or children, he thought. More charitable, and perhaps more accurate.

Though some of the monks were considerably older than the abbot, he was their father. Their leader.

He was far from convinced he was a very good one. Certainly not as good as Mathieu. But he was all they had right now.

“As you know, Frère Mathieu has died,” began the abbot. “Unexpectedly.”

But it got worse. More words were appearing. Lining up. Crushing forward.

“He was killed.”

Dom Philippe paused before that last word.

“Murdered.”

Let us pray, he thought. Let us pray. Let us chant. Let us close our eyes and chant the psalms and lose ourselves. Let us retreat to our songs and our cells, and let that police officer worry about this mess.

But this was not the time for retreating. Nor was it the time for plainchant. It was the time for plain speech.

“The police are here. Most of you have been interviewed by them. We must cooperate. We must have no secrets. That means letting them not only into our cells and our workplaces, but into our thoughts and hearts.”

As he spoke these unfamiliar words he noticed a few nods. And then a few more. And the flat faces of concealed panic began to give way to understanding. To agreement even.

Should he go further? Dear Lord, he silently pleaded, should I go further? Surely this was far enough. Did the rest really need to be said? And done?

“I’m lifting the rule of silence.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. His brother monks looked as though he’d just stripped them of their clothing. Left them naked, exposed.

“It must be done. You’re free to talk. Not idle chatter. Not gossip. But to help those officers get at the truth.”

Now their faces were filled with anxiety. Their eyes holding his. Trying to grab his glance.

And while their fear was painful for him to see, he knew it was far more natural than the guarded, empty expressions he’d seen before.

And then the abbot took that last, irrevocable step.

“Someone in this monastery killed Brother Mathieu,” said Dom Philippe, feeling himself plunging. The problem with words, he knew, was that they could never be taken back. “Someone in this room killed Brother Mathieu.”

He’d wanted to comfort them, but all he’d managed to do was strip them naked and terrify them.

“One of us has a confession to make.”

EIGHT

It was time to go.

“You have everything?” Gamache asked Captain Charbonneau.

“Everything except the body.”

“Best not to forget that,” agreed the Chief.

Five minutes later the two Sûreté agents were carrying the covered body of Frère Mathieu on a stretcher from the infirmary. Gamache had looked for the doctor, Frère Charles, to let him know. But there was no sign of the médecin. Nor was there any sign of Dom Philippe.

He’d disappeared.

As had the abbot’s secretary, the taciturn Frère Simon.

As had all the dark-robed monks.

All gone.

The monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups felt not simply quiet, but empty.

As they carried Frère Mathieu through the Blessed Chapel, Gamache scanned the large room. The pews were empty. The long choir benches were empty.

Even the playful light had left. No more rainbows. No more prisms.

The absence of light wasn’t simply darkness. There was a gloom about the place, as though something else was gathering at the edges of the day. As cheerful as the light had been, something equally foreboding was waiting to fill the void.

Balance, thought Gamache, as their feet echoed on the slate floors. As they escorted a murdered monk across the church. Équilibre. Yin and yang. Heaven and Hell. Every faith had them. Opposites. Providing balance.

They’d had the daylight. And now the night was coming.

They passed out of the church and into the final, long corridor. Gamache could see the heavy wooden door at the far end. He could see the wrought-iron deadbolt rammed in place.