Louise Penny - The Beautiful Mystery

And for themselves, who loved both young people.

The Gamaches had let them have their space. They knew Annie and Jean-Guy would tell them, when they were ready. He knew. But how did Francoeur? Someone must have told him. And if it wasn’t Jean-Guy and wasn’t Annie, then—

“The therapist’s notes,” said Gamache. “You read the files from Beauvoir’s therapy.”

They’d all been in therapy, since the raid. All the survivors. And now Gamache knew that Francoeur had violated not only Jean-Guy’s privacy, but his own as well. And all the others’. Everything they’d said in confidence this man knew. Their deepest thoughts, their insecurities. What they loved. And what they feared.

And all their secrets. Including Jean-Guy’s relationship with Annie.

“Don’t you bring my daughter into this,” said Gamache. With all his might he was restraining himself from thrusting out his hand. Not for Francoeur’s BlackBerry, but for his throat. Feeling the artery throb, then weaken. And stop.

He could, he knew. Kill this man. Leave his body for the wolves and bears. Walk back to the monastery and tell Frère Luc that the Superintendent went for a walk. He’d be back soon.

How easy it would be. How good it would feel. How much better the world would be if this man was dragged into the woods by wolves. And devoured.

Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest ?

The words of a king came back to him, and for the first time in his life he completely understood them. Understood how murder happened.

The malady was upon him. Cold, calculating, complete. It had overwhelmed Gamache, until he no longer cared about the consequences. He just wanted this man gone.

He stepped forward, then stopped himself. All the warnings he’d given to Beauvoir, he’d failed to heed himself. He’d let Francoeur under his skin. So that a man devoted to preventing murder had actually contemplated committing it.

Gamache closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again he spoke, leaning forward and whispering, perfectly calmly, into Francoeur’s face.

“You’ve gone too far, Sylvain. Exposed too much. Said too much. I might’ve had my doubts, but no longer.”

“You had your chance, Armand. Back when you arrested Arnot. But you hesitated. As you hesitated now. You might’ve gotten the BlackBerry out of my hand. You could’ve seen the message. Why do you think I’m here? For you?”

Gamache walked past Francoeur, away from the monastery and into the woods. He followed the path to the edge of the lake and stood facing the water and the suggestion of dawn in the distance. With the dawn would come the boatman, to take Jean-Guy back to Montréal. And then he’d be alone with Francoeur. And they could finally have it out.

Every sea has its shore, Gamache knew. He’d been at sea for a long time, but now he thought he could finally see the shore. The end of the journey.

“ Bonjour .”

Gamache, lost in thought, hadn’t heard the man arrive. He turned quickly and saw Frère Sébastien wave.

“I came to apologize for storming out of the Blessed Chapel this morning.” The Dominican picked his way over the large rocks until he reached the Chief Inspector.

“No need to apologize,” said Gamache. “I was rude.”

Both men knew it was both true, and intentional. They stood quietly on the rocky shore for a few moments, hearing the far-off call of a loon, and in the near complete silence a fish jumped. The forest smelled sweet. Of evergreens, and fallen leaves.

Gamache had been thinking about his confrontation with Francoeur. Now he brought his mind back to the monastery and the murder of Frère Mathieu.

“You said you’d been assigned the task of finding the Gilbertines. To finally close that centuries-old dossier, opened by the Inquisition. You said the image on the cover of their Gregorian chants gave them away.”

“That’s true.”

The voice was flat. It would skim and skip forever across this lake. Making barely a mark.

“But I think there’s more you aren’t telling me. Even the Church wouldn’t hold a grudge that long.”

“It wasn’t a grudge, it was an interest.” Frère Sébastien indicated the flat rock Gamache had been standing on, and the two men sat. “The lost children. Brothers driven away during a lamentable time. It was an effort to make amends. To find them and tell them they’re safe.”

“But are they? No man in his right mind would paddle on an unfamiliar lake, in the wilderness, at dusk, in a dense fog. Unless he had to. Unless there was either a lash at his back or a treasure in front of him. Or both. Why are you here? What’re you really looking for?”

Light was filling the sky. A cold gray light, not doing much to penetrate the mist. Would the boatman make it?

“We talked about neumes yesterday, but do you know what they are?” the Dominican asked.

While unexpected, the question didn’t totally surprise Gamache.

“It’s the first musical notation. Before there were notes there were neumes.”

“ Oui . We tend to think the five-line staff was always there. Clefs, treble clefs, notes and half notes. Chords and keys. But they didn’t just spring into the world. They evolved. From neumes. They were meant to mimic hand movements. To show the shape of the sound.”

Frère Sébastien lifted his hand and moved it back and forth, up and down. It glided through the chilly autumn air, graceful. As he moved his hand he hummed.

It was a lovely voice. Clear. Pure. With a soulful quality. And despite himself, Gamache felt himself drifting along with it. Entranced by the movement of the hand, and the calming sound.

Then the voice, and the hand, stopped.

“The word ‘neume’ comes from the Greek for ‘breath.’ The monks who first wrote down the chants believed that the deeper we breathe the more we draw God into ourselves. And there’s no deeper breath than when we’re singing. Have you ever noticed that the deeper you breathe, the calmer you get?” the monk asked.

“I have. As have Hindus and Buddhists and pagans for millennia.”

“Exactly. Every culture, every spiritual belief, has some form of chanting, or meditation. And at their core is the breath.”

“So where do neumes come in?” Gamache asked. He was leaning toward the Dominican, holding his large hands together for warmth.

“The first plainchants were learned orally. But then, around the tenth century a monk decided to write them down. But to do that he needed to invent a way of writing music.”

“Neumes,” said the Chief, and the monk nodded.

“For three centuries, generations of monks wrote down all the Gregorian chants. To preserve them.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Gamache. “Many monasteries were given Books of Chants.”

“How’d you know?”

“They have one here. Apparently not one of the more remarkable.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t,” said Gamache. “The abbot told me. He says most are illuminated editions. Very fine. But he suspects since the Gilbertines were a minor order and very poor, they ended up with the tenth-century equivalent of a factory second.”

“Have you seen the book?”

Frère Sébastien leaned toward Gamache. The Chief Inspector opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again and examined the Dominican.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Gamache finally said. “Not to find the Gilbertines, but to find their book.”

“Have you seen it?” Frère Sébastien repeated.

“ Oui . I held it.” There was no use denying it. The book wasn’t exactly a secret.

“My God,” Frère Sébastien exhaled. “Dear God.” He shook his head. “Can you show me? I’ve been looking all over for it.”