Louise Penny - The Beautiful Mystery

The men turned around. And around.

“Forgive me, mon père, ” said Gamache. “But where is the body?”

Without a word the abbot tugged on the bookcase. All three men put out their arms in alarm, to grab the bookcase as it fell, but instead of tumbling over, it swung open.

Bright sunshine poured through the unexpected hole in the stone wall. And beyond it the Chief could see green grass scattered with autumn leaves. And bushes in different stages of fall colors. And a single, great tree. A maple. In the middle of the garden.

But Gamache’s eyes went directly to the far end of the garden, and the figure crumpled there. And the two robed monks standing motionless a few feet from the body.

The Sûreté officers stepped through the last door. Into this unexpected garden.

“ Holy Mary, mother of God ,” the monks intoned, their voices low and melodic. “ Pray for us sinners…”

“When did you find him?” Gamache asked as he carefully approached the body.

“My secretary found him after Lauds.” On seeing the look on Gamache’s face, the abbot explained. “Lauds ends at eight fifteen. Brother Mathiew was found at about twenty to nine. He went to find the doctor, but it was too late.”

Gamache nodded. Behind him he could hear Beauvoir and Charbonneau unpacking the Scene of Crime equipment. The Chief looked at the grass, then reached out and gently guided the abbot back a few paces.

“ Désolé , Dom Philippe, but we need to be careful.”

“I’m sorry,” said the abbot, stepping away. He seemed lost, bewildered. Not just by the body, but by the sudden appearance of men he didn’t know.

Gamache caught Beauvoir’s eye and subtly gestured to the ground. Beauvoir nodded. He’d already noticed the slight difference between the grass here and the rest of the garden. Here the blades were bent. And pointed to the body.

Gamache turned back to the abbot. The man was tall and slender. Like the other monks, Dom Philippe was clean-shaven, and his head, while not shaved to the scalp, had just a bristle of gray hair.

The abbot’s eyes were deep blue and he held Gamache’s thoughtful gaze as though trying to find a way in. The Chief didn’t look away, but he did feel quietly ransacked.

The abbot again slipped his hands up the sleeves of his robe. It was the same pose as the other two monks who were standing not far from the body, eyes closed and praying.

“ Hail Mary, full of grace…”

The rosary. Gamache recognized it. Could say it himself in his sleep.

“… the Lord is with thee. …”

“Who is he, Père Abbé ?”

Gamache had placed himself so that he was facing the body, and the abbot was not. In some cases the Chief wanted the suspects to be unable to avoid seeing the dead person. The murdered person. He wanted the sight to fray and tear and rend.

But not in this case. He suspected this quiet man would never forget that sight. And that perhaps kindness would be a more rapid road to the truth.

“Mathieu. Brother Mathieu.”

“The choirmaster?” asked Gamache. “Oh.”

The Chief Inspector lowered his head slightly. Death always meant loss. Violent death tore the hole wider. The loss seemed greater. But to lose this man? Armand Gamache looked back at the body on the ground, curled into a ball. His knees as far up to his chin as he could get them. Before he died.

Frère Mathieu. The choir director of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. The man whose music Gamache had been listening to on the flight there.

Gamache felt as though he knew him. Not by sight, obviously. No one had seen him. There were no photographs, no portraits of Frère Mathieu. But millions, including Gamache, felt they knew him in ways far more intimate than physical appearance.

This was indeed a loss, and not just to this remote and cloistered community.

“The choirmaster,” the abbot confirmed. He turned around and looked at the man on the ground. Dom Philippe spoke softly. Almost whispering. “And our prior.” The abbot turned back to Gamache. “And my friend.”

He closed his eyes and became very still. Then he opened them again. They were very blue. The abbot took a deep breath. Gathering himself, thought Gamache.

He knew the feeling. When there was something deeply unpleasant, painful, to do. This was that instant, before the plunge.

On the exhale Dom Philippe did something unexpected. He smiled. It was subtle, almost not there. He looked at Armand Gamache with such warmth and openness the Chief Inspector found himself almost paralyzed.

“ All shall be well ,” said Dom Philippe, looking directly at Gamache. “ All shall be well; and all manner of thing shall be well. ”

It wasn’t at all what the Chief had expected the abbot to say and it took him a moment, looking into those startling eyes, to respond.

“ Merci . I believe that, mon père ,” said Gamache at last. “But do you?”

“Julian of Norwich wouldn’t lie,” said Dom Philippe, again with that slight smile.

“Probably not,” said Gamache. “But then Julian of Norwich wrote of divine love and probably never had a murder in her convent. You have, I’m afraid.”

The abbot continued to watch Gamache. Not, the Chief felt, in anger. Indeed, the same warmth was there. But the weariness had returned.

“That is true.”

“Would you excuse me, Père Abbé ?”

The Chief stepped around the abbot and examined the ground, picking his way carefully across the grass and through the flower bed. To Frère Mathieu.

There he knelt.

He didn’t reach out. Didn’t touch. Armand Gamache just looked. Taking in the evidence, but also the impressions.

His impression was that Frère Mathieu had not gone gently. Many people he knelt beside had been killed so quickly they barely knew what happened.

Not the prior. He knew what had happened, and what was going to happen.

Gamache looked back to the grass. Then to the dead man. The side of Frère Mathieu’s head had been bashed in. The Chief Inspector leaned closer. It looked like at least two, perhaps three blows. Enough to mortally wound. But not enough to kill instantly.

The prior, Gamache thought, must have had a hard head.

He sensed, rather than saw, Beauvoir kneel beside him. He looked over and saw Captain Charbonneau beside Beauvoir. They’d brought their evidence kits.

Gamache glanced back to the garden. Scene of Crime tape had been put up around the grass and outlined a trail to the flower bed.

The abbot had rejoined the other monks and together they were reciting the Hail Mary.

Beauvoir brought out his notebook. A fresh one for a fresh body.

Gamache himself did not take notes, but preferred to listen.

“What do you think?” the Chief asked, looking at Charbonneau.

The captain’s eyes widened. “ Moi? ”

Gamache nodded.

For a horrible moment Captain Charbonneau thought nothing. His mind went as blank as the dead man’s. He stared at Gamache. But far from being haughty or demanding the Chief Inspector was simply attentive. This was no trap, no trick.

Charbonneau felt his heart slow and his brain speed up.

Gamache smiled encouragingly. “Take your time. I’d rather have a thoughtful answer than a fast one.”

“… pray for us sinners…”

The three monks intoned while the three officers knelt.

Charbonneau looked around the garden. It was walled. The only entrance and exit through the bookcase. There was no ladder, no evidence anyone had climbed into or out of there. He looked up. The garden wasn’t overlooked. No one could have witnessed what had happened here.