The drawing was dated 1634 and signed Dom Clément, Abbot of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. Below the signature were two figures Gamache had grown to recognize. Wolves, intertwined, apparently sleeping.
Entre les loups. Among the wolves. It suggested coming to an agreement, finding peace rather than banishment or massacre. Perhaps when you flee an Inquisition you’re less likely to visit those horrors on others. Even wolves.
Gamache compared the lettering. Both were simple, the letters not so much written as drawn. Calligraphied. They looked to be done by a similar hand. He’d need an expert to say if the plan and the chant were written by the same man. In 1634.
Dom Philippe shook his head. “It’s certainly the same type of paper. But is it the same vintage? I think the chant was written much more recently, and whoever did it used vellum to make it look old. We have sheets of vellum still, made by monks centuries ago. Before paper.”
“Where do you keep them?”
“Simon?” the abbot called and the monk appeared. “Can you show the Chief Inspector our vellum?”
Frère Simon looked put out, as though this was far too much effort. But he nodded and walked across the room, followed by Gamache. He pulled out a drawer filled with sheets of yellowed paper.
“Are any missing?” asked Gamache.
“Don’t know,” said Simon. “I never counted.”
“What do you use them for?”
“Nothing. They just sit here. In case.”
In case of what? Gamache wondered. Or just, in case.
“Who could’ve taken one?” he asked, feeling he was caught in a perpetual game of Twenty Questions.
“Anyone,” said Frère Simon, closing the drawer. “It’s never locked.”
“But is your office locked?” Gamache turned back to the abbot.
“Never.”
“It was locked when we arrived,” said the Chief.
“I did that,” said Frère Simon. “Wanted to make sure nothing was disturbed when I came to get you.”
“Did you also lock it when you went to find the doctor and the abbot?”
“Oui.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want anyone to come across the body.” The monk was getting defensive, his eyes darting from Gamache to the abbot, who sat quietly listening.
“Did you know it was murder at the time?”
“I knew it wasn’t natural.”
“How many people use the abbot’s garden?” the Chief asked and again saw the monk’s eyes shoot off to the abbot, then back again.
“No one,” said Dom Philippe, getting up and coming over. To the rescue? Gamache wondered. It had that feel. But he wasn’t clear why Frère Simon needed rescuing.
“As I believe I mentioned earlier, Chief Inspector, this is my private garden. A sort of sanctuary. Mathieu used to visit, and Frère Simon does the gardening, but beyond that it’s used only by me.”
“Why?” Gamache asked. “Most other spaces in the abbey are communal. Why’s your garden private?”
“You’d have to ask Dom Clément,” said the abbot. “He designed the abbey. He put in the garden and the hidden Chapter House and everything else. He was a master architect you know. Renowned in his time. You can see his brilliance.”
Gamache nodded. He could. And brilliance was exactly the right word. Not only in the simple, elegant lines, but in the placement of the windows.
Every stone was there for a reason. Nothing superfluous. Nothing ornate. All had a reason for being. And there was a reason the abbot’s garden was private, if not secret.
Gamache turned back to Frère Simon. “If no one else used the garden, why did you think one of the monks might stumble across the body of Frère Mathieu?”
“I hadn’t expected to find the prior there,” said Simon. “I didn’t know what else to expect.”
There was silence then, as Gamache studied the guarded monk.
Then the Chief nodded and turned back to the abbot.
“We were talking about the sheet of paper found on the body of the prior. You think the paper’s old, but the writing isn’t. Why do you say that?”
The two men returned to their chairs, while Frère Simon hovered in the background, tidying, shifting papers. Watching. Listening.
“The ink’s too dark, for one thing,” said Dom Philippe, as they studied the page. “Vellum soaks up liquid, over time, so that what’s left on the surface isn’t really ink anymore, but a stain, in the shape of the words. You can see that in the plan of the monastery.”
Gamache leaned over the scroll. The abbot was right. He’d thought with the passage of time and exposure to the sun the black ink had faded slightly, but it hadn’t. It had been absorbed into the vellum. The color was now trapped inside the page, not resting on top.
“But that,” the abbot waved to the yellowed paper, “hasn’t sunk in yet.”
Gamache frowned, impressed. He’d still consult a forensics expert, but he suspected the abbot might be right. The yellowed chant wasn’t old at all, just made to look that way. Made to deceive.
“Who would have done this?” Gamache asked.
“I can’t know.”
“Let me rephrase that, then. Who could have done this? I can tell you, not many people can sing a Gregorian chant, never mind write one, even a mockery of one, using these.”
He placed his index finger firmly over one of the neumes.
“We live in different realities, Chief Inspector. What’s obvious to you, isn’t to me.”
He left and returned a moment later with a workbook, clearly modern, and opened it. Inside, on the left page, were Latin text and the squiggled neumes. On the right was the same text, but this time instead of neumes there were musical notes.
“This is the same chant,” Dom Philippe explained. “One side’s in the old form, with neumes, and the other’s in modern notes.”
“Who did this?”
“I did. An early attempt to transcribe the old chants. Not very good, or accurate, I’m afraid. The later ones are better.”
“Where did you get the old chant?” Gamache pointed to the neume side.
“From our Book of Chants. Before you get excited, Chief Inspector—”
Yet again Gamache realized even slight shifts in his expression were readable by these monks. And a tiny ripple of interest was considered “excited” in this placid place.
“—let me tell you that many monasteries have at least one, often many books, of chants. Ours is among the least interesting. No illuminated script. No illustrations. Pretty dull, by church standards. All the impoverished Gilbertines could afford at the time, I suspect.”
“Where’s your Book of Chants kept?”
Was this the treasure? Gamache wondered. Kept hidden. Was one monk assigned to guard it? Perhaps even the dead prior. How powerful would that make Frère Mathieu?
“It’s kept on a lectern in the Blessed Chapel,” said the abbot. “It’s a huge book, left open. Though I think Frère Luc has it now in the porterie. Studying it.”
The abbot gave an infinitesimal smile. He could see the slight disappointment on the Chief’s face.
It was disconcerting, Gamache realized, to be so easily read. It also took away any assumed advantage an investigator had. That suspects didn’t know what the police were thinking. But it seemed this abbot knew, or could guess, just about everything.
Though Dom Philippe wasn’t all-seeing, all-knowing. After all, he hadn’t known he had a murderer among them. Or perhaps he had.
“You must read neumes well,” said the Chief, returning to the abbot’s workbook, “to have transcribed them into musical notes.”
“I wish that was true. I’m not the worst, but I’m far from the best. We all do it. When a monk arrives in Saint-Gilbert, it’s the first task he’s given. Like Frère Luc. To start transcribing the Gregorian chants from our old book into modern musical notes.”
“Why?”
“As a sort of test, first off. See h
ow dedicated the monk really is. For someone not truly passionate about Gregorian chant it’s a long and tedious chore. It’s a good way to weed out any dilettantes.”
“And for those who are passionate?”
“It’s heaven. We can hardly wait to get at the book. Since it sits on the lectern we can consult it whenever we want.”
The abbot dropped his eyes to the workbook and flipped through it, smiling, sometimes shaking his head and even tsking over some mistake. Gamache was reminded of his children, Daniel and Annie, looking through albums of photos taken when they were kids. Laughing and sometimes cringing. At hairstyle and clothing choices.
These monks had no photo albums. No family pictures. Instead, they had workbooks with neumes and notes. Chants had replaced family.
“How long does it take to do the whole Book of Chants?”
“A lifetime. It can take a year to transcribe a single chant. It becomes a surprisingly beautiful relationship, very intimate.”
The abbot seemed to detach, just for a moment. Go someplace else. A place without walls, and murder, and a Sûreté officer asking questions.
And then he came back. “Since the work is so long and complex, most of us die before we’re finished.”
“What happened just now?” asked Gamache.
“Pardon?”
“As you spoke about the music your eyes seemed to become unfocused. It felt as though you drifted off.”
The abbot turned his full attention, and very alert eyes, on the Chief. But said nothing.
“I’ve seen that look before,” said Gamache. “When you sing. Not just you, but all of you.”
“It’s joy, I suppose,” said the abbot. “When I even think of the chants I feel freed of cares. It’s as close to God as I can get.”
But Gamache had seen that look on other faces. In stinking, filthy, squalid rooms. Under bridges and in cold back alleys. On the faces of the living, and sometimes on the dead. It was ecstasy. Of sorts.
Those people got there not through chants, but through needles in the arm, crack pipes and little pills. And sometimes they never came back.
If religion was the opiate of the masses, what did that make chants?
“If you’re all transcribing the same chants,” said the Chief, thinking about what the abbot had been saying before he drifted off, “can’t you just copy off each other?”
“Cheat? You do live in a different world.”
“It was a question,” said Gamache with a smile, “not a suggestion.”
“I suppose we could, but this isn’t a chore. The point isn’t to transcribe the chants, it’s to get to know them, live inside the music, to see the voice of God in each note, each word, each breath. Anyone who’d want to take a shortcut wouldn’t want to dedicate his life to Gregorian chant, and spend it here in Saint-Gilbert.”
“Has anyone ever finished the whole Book of Chants?”
“A few monks, to my knowledge. No one in my lifetime.”
“And what happens to their workbooks, after they die?”
“They’re burned, in a ceremony.”
“You burn books?” The shock on Gamache’s face didn’t need much interpretation.
“We do. Just as Tibetan monks spend years and years creating their intricate works of art in sand, and then destroy them the moment they’re finished. The point is not to grow attached to things. The gift is the music, not the workbook.”
“But it must be painful.”
“It is. But faith is often painful. And often joyous. Two halves of a whole.”
“So,” Gamache turned his attention back to the yellowed page lying on the plan of the monastery. “You don’t think this is actually all that old?”
“I don’t.”
“What else can you tell me about it?”
“What’s clear, and why I showed you my workbook, is the difference between the chants.”
The abbot placed the yellowed page on his workbook so that it covered the modern translation. The two chants with neumes faced each other. The Chief Inspector studied them. He spent almost a minute in complete silence, staring. Looking from one to the other. At the words, and at the marks flitting all over the pages.
Then his eyes slowed and he stared longer at one. Then the other.
When he lifted his eyes there was the spark of discovery in them, and the abbot smiled, as he might to a bright postulant.
“The neumes are different,” said Gamache. “No, not different. But there’re more of them on the page we found on the prior. Far more. Now that I see the two examples side-by-side it seems obvious. The one in your notebook, copied from the original, has just a few neumes per line. But the one we found on the prior is thick with them.”
“Exactly.”
“So, what does it mean?”
“Again, I can’t be sure,” the abbot leaned over the yellowed page. “Neumes serve only one purpose, Chief Inspector. To give direction. Up, down, fast, slow. They’re signs, signals. Like the hands of a conductor. I think whoever wrote this means for there to be many voices, going in different directions. This isn’t plainchant. This is complex chant, multi-layered chant. It’s also quite fast, a strong tempo. And…”
Now the abbot hesitated.
“Yes?”
“As I say, I’m not exactly the resident expert. Mathieu was that. But I think this was also meant to have music. I think one of the lines of neumes is for an instrument.”
“And that would be different from Gregorian chants?”
“It would make it a new creature. Something never heard before.”
Gamache studied the yellowed page.
How odd, he thought, that monks never seen should possess something never heard.
And one of them, their prior, had been found dead, curled around it in the fetal position. Like a mother, protecting an unborn child. Or a brother-in-arms, curled around a grenade.
He wished he knew which it was. Divine or damned?
“Is there an instrument here?”
“There’s a piano.”
“A piano? Were you planning to eat it, or wear it?”
The abbot laughed. “One of the monks arrived with it years ago and we hadn’t the heart to send it back.” The abbot smiled. “We’re dedicated to Gregorian chants, passionate about them, but the fact is, we love all church music. Many of the brothers are fine musicians. We have recorders and violins. Or are they fiddles? I’m never sure what the difference is.”
“One sings, the other dances,” said Gamache.
The abbot looked at him with interest. “What a nice way of putting it.”
“A colleague told me that. I learned a great deal from him.”
“Would he like to become a monk?”
“I’m afraid he’s beyond that now.”
The abbot again correctly interpreted the look on Gamache’s face, and didn’t press.
Gamache picked up the page. “I don’t suppose you have a photocopy machine?”
“No. But we have twenty-three monks.”
Gamache smiled and handed it over to the abbot. “Can you have it transcribed? If you can make a copy that would be helpful, so I don’t need to keep carrying around the original. And perhaps one of you could transcribe the neumes into musical notes? Is that possible?”
“We can try.” Dom Philippe called his secretary over and explained what was needed.
“Transcribe it to musical notes?” Simon asked. He looked not very optimistic. The Eeyore of the monastery.
“Eventually. Just copy it for now so we can give the original back to the Chief Inspector. As accurately as possible, of course.”
“Of course,” said Simon. The abbot turned away, but Gamache caught the flash of a sour look on Simon’s face. Aimed at the abbot’s back.
Was he the abbot’s man after all? the Chief wondered.
Gamache glanced through the leaded-glass window. It made the world outside look slightly distorted. But still he yearned to step into it. And stand in the
sunshine. Away, even briefly, from this interior world of subtle glances and vague alliances. Of notes and veiled expressions.
Of vacant looks, and ecstasy.
Gamache longed to walk around the abbot’s garden. No matter how tilled and weeded and pruned it was, that control was an illusion. There was no taming nature.
And then he realized what had made him uncomfortable earlier, when he’d first seen the plan of the monastery.
He looked at it again.
The walled gardens. On the plan they were all the same size. But in reality, they weren’t. The abbot’s garden was much smaller than the animalerie. But on the plan they appeared exactly the same size.
The original architects had distorted the drawing. The perspectives were off.
Things appeared equal that weren’t.
SIXTEEN
Inspector Beauvoir left Frère Luc to the massive book resting on his skinny knees. He’d arrived thinking the poor bastard must want company, and left realizing he’d been simply an intrusion. All the young monk really wanted was to be left alone with his book.
Jean-Guy went off in search of Frère Antoine, but paused in the Blessed Chapel to check his BlackBerry.
Sure enough, there were two messages from Annie. Both short. Responding to his email from early that morning, and a more recent one, describing her day so far. Beauvoir leaned against the cool stones of the chapel and smiled as he wrote back.
Something rude and suggestive.
He was tempted to tell her about her father’s adventures that morning, in his pajamas and bathrobe, being found by the monks on their altar. But it was too good a story to waste in an email. He’d take her to one of the terrasses not far from her home and tell her over a glass of wine.
When he’d finished his vaguely erotic message to Annie he turned right and looked in the chocolate factory. Brother Bernard was there, fishing tiny wild blueberries out of a vat of dark chocolate.
“Frère Antoine?” said Bernard, responding to the Sûreté officer’s question. “Try either the kitchen or the garden.”