The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)

The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8) Page 126

“Was it you who called Frère Sébastien the hound of the Lord?”

“Well, I didn’t mean him personally.”

The doctor looked pale, shaken. Not his jovial self. In fact, he looked considerably more upset about the live stranger than the dead prior.

“Then what did you mean?” insisted Gamache.

They were almost in the Blessed Chapel, and he wanted to finish this conversation before entering the church. Not out of some sense of religious propriety, but because of the astonishing acoustics.

This conversation must remain private.

“He’s a Dominican,” said Brother Charles, his voice also low, his eyes never leaving the head of the procession. Frère Sébastien and the abbot.

“How’d you know?”

“His robes and belt. Dominican.”

“But how does that make him the hound of the Lord?”

The head of the procession, like the head of a snake, had entered the Blessed Chapel and the rest were following.

“Dominican,” Brother Charles repeated. “Domini canis. Hound of the Lord.”

Then they too entered the Blessed Chapel and all conversation ended. Brother Charles gave Gamache a small nod and followed his fellow monks back onto the altar, where they took their places.

Frère Sébastien genuflected, crossed himself, then sat in a pew, craning his neck. Looking this way and that.

Beauvoir had returned to the pew and Gamache frowned as Superintendent Francoeur joined Jean-Guy. Gamache walked around and slid into the seat on the other side of Beauvoir, so that the Inspector was bracketed by his bosses.

But Beauvoir didn’t care. As Vespers began again he closed his eyes and imagined himself in Annie’s apartment. Lying together on the sofa in front of the fireplace.

She’d be in the crook of his arm. He’d be holding her secure.

Every other woman he’d dated, and Enid, whom he’d married, had been tiny. Slender, petite.

Annie Gamache was not. She was athletic, full bodied. Strong. And when she lay with him, clothed or not, they fit together perfectly.

“I never want this to end,” Annie would whisper.

“It won’t,” he’d assure her. “Never ever.”

“It’ll change, though, when people find out.”

“It’ll be even better,” he’d say.

“Oui,” Annie would agree. “But I like it like this. Just us.”

And he liked it like that too.

Now, in the Blessed Chapel, with its scent of incense and candles, he imagined he heard the murmur of the fireplace. Smelled the sweet maple logs. Tasted the red wine. And could feel Annie on his chest.

*   *   *

The music began. At once, from some signal invisible to Gamache, the monks went from still and silent to full voice.

Their voices filled the chapel like air in lungs. It seemed to emanate from the rocks of the walls. As though the Gregorian chants were as much a part of the abbey as the stones and slate and wooden beams.

In front of Gamache, Frère Sébastien stared. Transfixed. Unmoving.

His mouth was open slightly, and there was a glistening down his pale cheek.

Frère Sébastien listened to the Gilbertines sing their service, and wept, as though he’d never heard the voice of God before.

*   *   *

Dinner that night was an almost silent affair.

Since Vespers ended late, the brothers and their guests had gone directly to the dining hall. Tureens filled with brilliant pea and mint soup sat on the table, next to baskets of fresh, warm baguette.

A brother sang the prayer of thanksgiving for the meal, the monks crossed themselves, and then the only sound was of the soup being served and spoons against earthenware bowls.

And then, a low hum was heard. In any other environment it would’ve been inaudible, but here, in the silence, it sounded as loud as the boatman’s engine.

And it got louder. And louder.

The monks, one by one, stopped eating and soon the only sound in the long dining hall was the humming. Every head turned to see where it was coming from.

It came from Chief Inspector Gamache.

He sipped his soup, and he hummed. Looking down at his plate, apparently engrossed in the delicious meal. Then, perhaps sensing scrutiny, he looked up.

But the humming didn’t stop.

Gamache smiled a little as he hummed, and looked at the faces of the monks.

Some looked scandalized. Some looked worried, as though a madman had appeared. Some looked angry, to have their peace disturbed.

Beauvoir looked blank, his soup untouched in front of him, his appetite gone. Francoeur shook his head slightly, as though ashamed.