“And to the Vatican,” said Frère Sébastien. “And the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.”
The Inquisition, thought Gamache. The Gilbertines were finally found. Betrayed by their chants.
* * *
The bells rang out and the peals penetrated into the Chapter House.
“I need to hit the toilet,” said Beauvoir, as the three men left the small room. “I’ll catch you later.”
“Fine,” said Gamache and watched Jean-Guy walk back across the Blessed Chapel.
“There you are.”
Chief Superintendent Francoeur walked decisively toward them. He smiled at the monk and nodded, briefly, at Gamache.
“I thought perhaps we could sit together,” said Francoeur.
“With pleasure,” said the monk. He turned to Gamache. “Will you join us?”
“I think I’ll sit over here, quietly.”
Francoeur and Frère Sébastien took a pew near the front and Gamache sat a few rows back and across from them.
It was almost certainly discourteous, he knew. But he also knew he didn’t care. Gamache glared at the back of Francoeur’s head. His eyes drilling into it. He was grateful Jean-Guy had decided to pee instead of pray. One less contact with Francoeur.
God help me, Gamache prayed. Even in this peaceful place he could feel his rage grow at the very sight of Sylvain Francoeur.
He continued to stare, and Francoeur rolled his shoulders, as though feeling the scrutiny. Francoeur didn’t turn around. But the Dominican did.
Frère Sébastien turned his head and looked directly at Gamache. The Chief shifted his eyes from Francoeur to the monk. The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then Gamache returned to the Superintendent. Undeterred by the gentle inquiry of the monk.
Eventually, Gamache closed his eyes, and took deep breaths in. Deep breaths out. He smelled, again, the scent of Saint-Gilbert which was so familiar, but slightly different. A marriage of traditional incense, and something else. Thyme and monarda.
The natural and the manufactured, come together here, in this far-flung monastery. Peace and rage, silence and singing. The Gilbertines and the Inquisition. The good men and the not-so-good.
* * *
Hearing the bells had made Beauvoir almost giddy. Almost sick with anticipation.
Finally. Finally.
He’d hurried to les toilettes, peed, washed his hands then poured a glass of water. From his pocket he drew the small pill bottle and snapped off the top, no child-proof caps here, and shook two pills into his palm.
In one practiced move Beauvoir brought his hand to his mouth, and felt the tiny pills land on his tongue. One gulp of the water, and they were down.
Leaving the pissoire, he paused in the hallway. The bells were still sounding, but instead of returning to the Blessed Chapel, Beauvoir walked swiftly back to the prior’s office. He closed the door and leaned the new chair against the handle.
He could still hear the bells.
Sitting at the desk he dragged the laptop toward him and rebooted.
The bells had stopped, and there was silence now.
The DVD in the machine started up. Beauvoir turned down the sound. No need to draw attention. Besides he had the soundtrack in his mind. Always.
The images appeared.
* * *
Gamache opened his eyes as the first notes arrived in the Blessed Chapel, along with the first monk.
Frère Antoine carried the simple wooden cross ahead of him and placed it in the holder on the altar. Then he bowed and took his place. Behind him the rest of the monks filed in, bowing to the cross and taking their places. Singing all the time. All the live-long day.
Gamache glanced at Frère Sébastien in profile. He was staring at the monks. At the long-lost Gilbertines. Then Frère Sébastien closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He seemed to go into a trance. A fugue. As the Gregorian chants and the Gilbertines filled the chapel.
* * *
Beauvoir could hear the music, but softly, from very far away.
Men’s voices, all singing together. Growing more powerful as more voices joined in. While on the screen he watched his co-workers, his friends, his fellow agents, gunned down.
To the tune of the chants, Beauvoir watched himself gunned down.
The monks sang as the Chief dragged him to safety. Then left him. Dumping him there like—how had Francoeur described it? No longer useful.
And, to add to the injury, before leaving the Chief had kissed him.
Kissed him. On his forehead. No wonder they called him Gamache’s bitch. Everyone had seen that kiss. All his colleagues. And now they laughed at him, behind his back.
