The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)

The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8) Page 117

That brought Frère Simon up short, and again he reverted to silence.

He also, thought Gamache, has a convenient vow of silence.

“Why didn’t you tell us the prior had said ‘homo’ just before he died?”

“Because I knew it’d be misunderstood.”

“Because we’re stupid, you mean? Not given to the nuance of mind so obvious in les religieux? Why did you hide the murder weapon?”

“I didn’t hide it, it was in plain sight.”

“Enough of this,” snapped Gamache. “I know you’re frightened. I know you’re cornered. Stop playing these games and tell me the truth and let’s end this. Have the decency and courage to do that. And trust us. We’re not the fools you’re afraid we are.”

“Désolé,” said the monk, with a sigh. “I’ve been trying so hard to convince myself what I did wasn’t wrong, I almost forgot that it was. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. And God knows, I should never have taken the knocker away.”

“Why did you?”

Frère Simon stared into Gamache’s eyes.

“You suspect someone, don’t you,” said the Chief, holding that stare.

The monk’s eyes held a plea. A desperate plea for this interrogation to stop. For the questions to stop.

But they both knew it couldn’t. This conversation was destined to happen, from the moment the blow fell, and Frère Simon heard a dying man’s last words, and took the murder weapon. He knew, one way or another, he’d have to answer for his actions.

“Who do you think did this?” Gamache asked.

“I can’t tell you. I can’t say the words.”

And he looked as though, physically, he couldn’t.

“We’ll stand here for eternity, then, mon frère,” said Gamache. “Until you say the words. And then we’ll both be free.”

“But not…”

“The man you suspect?” Gamache’s eyes, and voice, softened. “You think I don’t know?”

“Then why force me to say it?” The monk was almost in tears.

“Because you must. It’s your burden, not mine.” He looked at Frère Simon with sympathy, as one brother to another. “Believe me, I have my own.”

Simon paused, and looked at Gamache.

“Oui. C’est la vérité.” He took a breath. “I didn’t tell you that the prior said ‘homo’ just before he died, then I hid the murder weapon, because I was afraid the abbot had done it. I thought Dom Philippe had killed Frère Mathieu.”

“Merci,” said Gamache. “And do you still think that?”

“I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what else to think.”

The Chief nodded. He didn’t know if Frère Simon was telling the truth, but he did know these words had cost the monk. Simon had, in effect, thrown the abbot to the Inquisition.

The question Gamache asked himself now, that the Inquisitors had failed to ask, was whether this was the truth. Or was this poor man so terrified he’d say anything? Did Frère Simon name the abbot to save himself?

Gamache didn’t know. What he did know was that Frère Simon, the taciturn monk, had loved the abbot. Still did.

Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?

Had Frère Simon rid the abbot of the troublesome prior? Had he taken some subtle look, a raised brow, a twitch of the hand, as a plea from the abbot? And acted upon it? And now, consumed with guilt and flailed by his conscience, was Frère Simon trying to blame the abbot himself?

The prior might have been troublesome, but it was nothing compared to an aroused conscience. Or the trouble created when the head of homicide knocked at the door.

The monks’ external lives in Saint-Gilbert might be simple, ruled by the bell and the chants and the changing seasons. But their internal life was a quagmire of emotions.

Emotions, Gamache knew from years of kneeling beside corpses, were what made the body. Not a gun, not a knife. Not a length of old iron.

Some emotion had slipped the leash and killed Frère Mathieu. And to find his killer, Armand Gamache needed to use his logic, but also, his own feelings.

The abbot had said, Why didn’t I see this coming?

The question had seemed genuine, the angst certainly was. He hadn’t seen that one of his community, his flock, wasn’t a sheep at all. But a wolf.

But suppose the question, filled with wonder and shock, wasn’t aimed at one of the brothers? Maybe the abbot was asking it of himself. Why didn’t I see this coming? Not the murderous thoughts and actions of another, but of himself.