The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)

The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8) Page 82

“Just wondered.”

“You’re not telling me everything, Frère Bernard.”

Bernard remained silent. Swallowing his thoughts and opinions and words along with the berries.

But Beauvoir had a pretty good idea what he meant.

“You’d have wondered at their relationship.”

Bernard’s mouth clamped shut, the muscles around his jaw bulging with the effort of keeping the words in.

“You’d have wondered,” Beauvoir pressed, “what was going on between the older prior and the new recruit.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Of course it is. You and the other monks would have wondered what happened after choir practice. When the rest of you went back to your cells.”

“No. You’re wrong.”

“Is that how Antoine got his job? Was he more than just a soloist, and Frère Mathieu more than just the choirmaster?”

“Stop,” snapped Frère Bernard. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“You’re making the chants, the choir, sordid. Mathieu was a deeply unpleasant man. I didn’t like him at all. But even I know that never,” Bernard hissed the words, “never would he have chosen a soloist in exchange for sex. Frère Mathieu loved the chants. Above all else.”

“But still,” said Beauvoir, his voice very quiet now. “You would have wondered.”

Frère Bernard stared at Beauvoir, his eyes wide. His hand around the handle of the basket showed a strip of white knuckles.

“Did you know that the abbot has made Frère Antoine the new choirmaster?”

Beauvoir’s voice was friendly. Conversational. As though the confrontation hadn’t just happened. It was a trick he’d learned from Gamache. Don’t keep attacking. Move forward, back, sideways. Stand still.

Be unpredictable.

Slowly Frère Bernard gathered himself. And took a deep breath in.

A deep breath out.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” he finally said. “It’s the sort of thing the abbot would do.”

“Go on.”

“A few minutes ago you asked why I’m the abbot’s man. This is why. Only a saint or a fool would promote an adversary. Dom Philippe’s no fool.”

“You think he’s a saint?”

Frère Bernard shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think he’s the closest we have. Why do you think he was elected abbot? What did he have to offer? He was just a quiet little monk going about his day. He wasn’t a leader. He wasn’t a great administrator. He wasn’t a fine musician. He brought almost no actual skills to the community. He wasn’t a plumber or carpenter or stonemason.”

“Then what is he?”

“He’s a man of God. The real deal. He believes with all his heart and soul. And he inspires that in others. If people hear the Divine when we sing, Dom Philippe put it there. He makes us better men and better monks. He believes in God and he believes in the power of love and forgiveness. And not just a faith of convenience. If you ever needed proof, look at what he just did. He made Frère Antoine choirmaster. Because it was the right thing to do. For the choir, for the chants and for the peace of the community.”

“That just makes him a savvy politician, not a saint.”

“You’re a skeptic, Monsieur Beauvoir.”

“And for good reason, Frère Bernard. Someone killed your prior. Bashed his head in in the abbot’s pretty little garden. You talk of saints. Where was the saint then? Where was God then?”

Bernard said nothing.

“Oui,” snapped Beauvoir. “I’m a skeptic.”

Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?

Someone had.

“And your precious abbot wasn’t simply elected out of the blue,” Beauvoir reminded him. “He chose to run. He wanted the job. Does a saint seek power? I thought they were supposed to be humble.”

They were within sight of the gate now. Inside were the long, light hallways. And small cells. And silent, gliding monks. And Chief Inspector Gamache. And Francoeur. Together. Beauvoir was a little surprised the walls and foundations of the monastery weren’t shaking.

They approached the door, made of thick wood, cut from this forest four hundred years ago. And then hinges were forged. And a deadbolt. And a lock.

On the rolled paper in Beauvoir’s hand Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups looked like a crucifix. But in reality?

It looked like a prison.