“And yet, every other monk came with a discipline. For instance, I understand Frère Alexandre is getting old, perhaps too old to look after the animals. Wouldn’t it make more sense to find a replacement for him?”
“Are you questioning my judgment?”
“I certainly am. I’m questioning everything. Why did you recruit Frère Luc when all he could bring was his voice?”
“I judged that his voice was enough at this stage. As I said, he can be taught other things, like animal husbandry from Frère Alexandre, if he shows an aptitude for it. We’re fortunate now.”
“How so?”
“We don’t need to beg other monks to come. Younger monks are interested. That was one of the great gifts of the recording. We now have a choice. And when they arrive we can train them. An older monk can mentor a younger, as Frère Roland was mentored and learned the trade of upholstering.”
“Perhaps Frère Luc can learn it too,” said Gamache, and saw the abbot smile.
“That’s not a bad idea, Chief Inspector.
Merci
.”
Still, thought Gamache, it didn’t quite explain the
volte-face
the abbot had made in recruiting. From choosing skilled and trained men, to choosing a novice. With only one outstanding skill. His extraordinary voice.
Gamache stared at the plan on the table in front of them. There was something wrong with it. Some sense he had, like in the fun house. A slight queasiness when he looked at it.
“Is there just the one hidden room?” he asked, his finger hovering over the Chapter House.
“As far as I know. There’re always rumors of long-forgotten tunnels and vaults with treasure, but no one’s ever found them. At least, not that I know of.”
“And what did the rumors say the treasure was?”
“That was conveniently unclear,” said the abbot with a smile. “Couldn’t have been much, since the original two dozen monks would have had to paddle it up the river all the way from Québec City. And I can tell you, if you couldn’t eat it or wear it, it probably didn’t come on the voyage.”
Since those were pretty much his own packing rules, Gamache accepted the abbot’s explanation. Besides, what could men who’d taken vows of silence, poverty and isolation possibly treasure? Though even as he asked himself that question he knew the answer. People always found things to treasure. For little boys it was arrowheads and cat’s-eye marbles. For adolescents it was a cool T-shirt and a signed baseball. And for big boys? Just because they were monks didn’t mean they had no treasures. It simply might not be what others found valuable.
He rested his hand on the end of the plan to keep the paper from curling up. Then looked over to where his fingers touched.
“It’s the same paper,” he said, caressing the plan.
“Same as what?” asked the abbot.
“As this.” Once again, the Chief brought the page from the book and laid it on top of the plan. “The chant is written on exactly the same paper as the plan for the monastery. Is it possible this,” he touched the chant, “is as old as that?” He nodded to the plan of the monastery. “Were they written at the same time?”
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 how 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.”