Read Page 75

“So,” said Gamache, rolling the plan back up. “I can leave this with you?”

He handed it to Beauvoir.Advertisement

“I’ll split everything with you, patron. Fifty-fifty.”

“I already have my treasure, thank you very much,” said Gamache.

“I don’t think a bag of chocolate-covered blueberries could be considered a treasure.”

“Non?” asked Gamache. “To each his own.”

A deep bell started ringing. Not a joyous celebration, but a solemn toll.

“Again?” said Beauvoir. “Can’t I just stay here?”

“Of course you can.” Gamache took from his breast pocket the horarium the abbot’s secretary had given him and examined it. Then he looked at his watch.

“Eleven A.M. mass,” he said and walked toward the closed door.

“Is it only eleven? Feels like bedtime.”

-- Advertisement --

pqdm.comads300x250--

For a place that ran like clockwork, time seemed to stand still.

Beauvoir opened the door for the Chief and after the smallest hesitation, and a whispered curse, he followed him down the corridor and back into the Blessed Chapel.

Gamache slipped into the pew, Beauvoir beside him. They sat quietly, waiting for the service to begin. Again, the Chief marveled at the light falling through the high windows. Split into all different colors. It spilled onto the altar and the benches and seemed to dance there. Waiting happily for the company of the monks.

The Chief glanced around the now familiar space. It felt as though he’d been there a very long time, and it came as a surprise he and Beauvoir hadn’t yet spent a full day at Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

The Blessed Chapel, Gamache now knew, was built to honor a saint so dull the Church couldn’t find some equally dull complaint to let him patronize.

Few prayed to Saint Gilbert.

And yet in his excruciatingly long life, Gilbert had done one spectacular thing. He’d stood up to a king. He’d defended his archbishop. Thomas had been killed, but Gilbert had stood up to tyranny, and survived.

Gamache remembered joking with the abbot that maybe Gilbert could become the Patron Saint of Fretters, since his monastery had such strong defenses and locked doors.

And so many places to hide.

But maybe he’d been wrong, done Gilbert a disservice. He might have fretted, but Gilbert had finally found more courage than anyone else. Sitting quietly in the refracted light, Gamache wondered if he’d have the same courage.

He spent a moment thinking about the new visitor, and praying to Saint Gilbert.

As the last note of the solemn bell resonated the monks entered. They appeared in single file. Singing. White hoods hid their faces. Hands were buried up to the elbows in their loose black sleeves. The singing grew as more voices entered the Blessed Chapel, until the empty space was filled with the plainchant. And the light.

And then someone else entered.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur bobbed, crossed himself, then, despite all sorts of empty pews, he slipped into the one directly in front of Gamache and Beauvoir, obscuring their view.

And once again the Chief Inspector tilted his head slightly to the side. Hoping to see more clearly. The monks. But also the motives of the man in front of him. Who’d dropped so precipitously from the skies, with a purpose.

As Beauvoir huffed and snorted beside him, Gamache closed his eyes and listened to the beautiful music.

And thought about tyranny, and murder.

And whether it was ever right to kill one for the sake of the many.

EIGHTEEN

“Are you lost?”

Beauvoir spun around to confront the voice.

“I only ask because it’s unusual to find someone here.”

A monk was standing in the thick forest, a few feet from Beauvoir. It was as though he’d suddenly materialized. Beauvoir recognized him. It was the monk from the chocolate factory, who’d been covered in dribbled dark chocolate the last time Beauvoir had seen him. Now he had on a clean cassock and was carrying a basket. Like Little Red Riding Hood. Entre-les-Loups, thought Beauvoir. Among the wolves.

“No, I’m not lost,” he said, and tried to quickly roll up the plan of Saint-Gilbert. But it was way too late for that. The monk was standing very still, just watching. It made Beauvoir feel foolish and wary. It was disconcerting to be around people who were so still and so quiet. And so stealthy.

“Can I help you with something?” asked the monk.

“I was just…” Beauvoir waved the semi-rolled plan.

“Looking?” he smiled. Beauvoir half expected to see long canine teeth, but instead it was a small, almost tentative grin. “I’m looking too,” said the monk, “but probably not for the same thing.” pqdm.com