Louise Penny: The Beautiful Mystery

But he knew it wasn’t true. He unhooked the thought from his flesh and could almost see it drift away. But thoughts that dreadful came with a barb.

“ Bonjour .” The Chief looked up and noticed Jean-Guy’s eye open. “How’re you feeling?” He leaned over the bed and smiled. “You’re in the infirmary.”

Jean-Guy struggled to sit up, and managed it, with Gamache’s help. They were alone. The doctor had gone off to the eleven A.M. mass, leaving Gamache alone with his Inspector.

The Chief raised the head of the bed, put some pillows behind Beauvoir and helped him drink a glass of water, all without saying a word. Beauvoir began to feel human again. His daze cleared, slowly at first then with a rapid succession of memories.

The Chief was sitting again, his legs crossed.

Gamache wasn’t stern, wasn’t censorious, wasn’t angry. But he did want answers.

“What happened?” the Chief finally asked.

Beauvoir didn’t say anything but watched with dismay as the Chief reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. And opened it.

Jean-Guy nodded, then closed his eyes. So ashamed, he couldn’t look Gamache in the face. And if he couldn’t face the Chief, how was he ever going to face Annie?

The thought made him so sick he thought he’d vomit.

“It’s all right, Jean-Guy. It was a slip, nothing more. We’ll get you home and get help. Nothing that can’t be put right.”

Beauvoir opened his eyes and saw Armand Gamache looking at him not with pity. But with determination. And confidence. It would be all right.

“ Oui, patron ,” he managed. And he even found himself believing it. That this could be put behind him.

“Tell me what happened.” Gamache put the bottle away and leaned forward.

“It was just there, on the bedside table, with the note from the doctor. I thought…”

I thought it was a prescription. I thought it was all right since it was from the doctor. I thought I had no choice.

He held the Chief’s eyes and hesitated.

“… I didn’t think. I wanted them. I don’t know why, but I had a craving and they appeared and I took them.”

The Chief nodded and let Beauvoir gather himself.

“When was this?” Gamache asked.

Beauvoir had to think. When was it? Weeks ago, surely. Months. A lifetime.

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“It wasn’t the doctor who put them there. Do you have any idea who else might have?”

Beauvoir looked surprised. He’d given it no thought, completely accepting they were from the medical monk. He shook his head.

Gamache got up and got Beauvoir another glass of water. “Are you hungry? I can get you a sandwich.”

“ No, patron. Merci . I’m fine.”

“The abbot’s called the boatman and he’ll be here in just over an hour. We’ll leave together.”

“But what about the case? The murderer?”

“A lot can happen in an hour.”

Beauvoir watched Gamache leave. He knew the Chief was right. A lot could happen in an hour. And a lot could fall apart.

THIRTY-FOUR

Armand Gamache sat in a front pew and watched the monks at their eleven A.M. mass. Every now and then he closed his eyes and prayed that this would work.

Less than an hour now, he thought. In fact, the boatman might already be at the dock. Gamache watched the abbot leave his spot on the bench and walk to the altar, where he genuflected and sang a few lines of Latin prayer.

Then, one by one, the rest of the community joined in.

Call, response. Call. Response.

And then there was a moment when all sound was suspended and seemed to hang in mid-air. Not a silence, but a deep and collective inhale.

And then all their voices came in together in a chorus that could only be described as glorious. Armand Gamache felt it resonate in his core. Despite what had happened to Beauvoir. Despite what had happened to Frère Mathieu. Despite what was about to happen.

Unseen behind him, Jean-Guy Beauvoir arrived in the chapel. He’d drifted in and out of sleep since the Chief had left, then had finally surfaced. He’d ached all over, and far from getting better, it seemed to be getting worse. He’d walked down the long corridor as though he was an elderly man. Shuffling. Joints creaking. Breath shallow. But every step took him closer to where he knew he belonged.

Not in the Blessed Chapel necessarily. But beside Gamache.

Once in the chapel, he saw the Chief at the very front.

But Jean-Guy Beauvoir’s body had taken him as far as it could, and he slumped into the pew at the very back. He leaned forward, his hands hanging loosely on the pew in front. Not quite in prayer. But in a sort of netherworld.

The world seemed very far away. But the music didn’t. It was all around him. Inside and out. Supporting him. The music was plain and simple. The voices in unison. One voice, one song. The very simplicity of the chants both calmed and energized Beauvoir.

There was no chaos here. Nothing unexpected. Except their effect on him. That was completely unexpected.

Something strange seemed to come over him. He felt out of sorts.

And then he realized what it was.

Peace. Complete and utter peace.

He closed his eyes and let the neumes lift him, out of himself, out of the pew, out of the Blessed Chapel. They took him out of the abbey and out over the lake and the forest. He flew with them, free, unbound.

This was better than Percocet, better than OxyContin. There was no pain, no anxiety, no worry. There was no “us” and no “them,” no boundaries and no limits.

And then the music stopped, and Beauvoir descended, softly, to the earth.

He opened his eyes and looked around, wondering if anyone had noticed what had just happened to him. He saw Chief Inspector Gamache in one of the front pews, and across from him sat Superintendent Francoeur.

Beauvoir looked around the chapel. Someone was missing.

The Dominican. What had become of the man from the Inquisition?

Beauvoir turned to the altar and as he did he intercepted a brief glance from Gamache to Superintendent Francoeur.

Christ , thought Beauvoir. He really does despise the man .

Armand Gamache brought his gaze back to the monks. The chanting had stopped and the abbot was again standing front and center in the quiet church.

Then, into the silence, there came a single voice. A tenor. Singing.

The abbot looked at his monks. The monks looked at their abbot, then at each other. Their eyes wide, but their mouths shut.

And yet, the clear voice continued.

The abbot stood over the host and the goblet of wine. The body and blood of Christ. A wafer frozen in mid-blessing, offered to the air.

The beautiful voice was all around them, as though it had glided down the shafts of thin light and taken possession of the chapel.

The abbot turned to face the tiny congregation. To see if one of them had lost his wits and found his voice. But all he saw were the three officers. Scattered. Watching. Silent.

Then, from behind the plaque to Saint-Gilbert, the Dominican appeared. Frère Sébastien walked slowly, solemnly, to the center of the Blessed Chapel. There he paused.

“I can’t hear you,” he sang in an upbeat tempo, much faster, lighter, than any Gregorian chant ever heard in the chapel. The Latin words filled the air. “I have a banana in my ear.”

The music the prior died with had come to life.

“I am not a fish,” the Dominican chanted, as he walked down the center aisle. “I am not a fish.”

The monks, and the abbot, were paralyzed. Little rainbows danced around them as the morning sun burned through more mist. Frère Sébastien approached the altar, his head up, his arms thrust into his sleeves, his voice filling the void.