“But that stopped happening here.”
Bernard nodded.
“Was there someone who started this campaign to end the vow of silence? A voice for the dissenters?”
Again, Bernard nodded. This was what he’d wanted to say.
“Frère Mathieu,” said Bernard, at last. He looked miserable. “The prior wanted the vow of silence lifted. It led to terrible rows. He was a forceful man. Used to getting what he wanted. Up until then what he wanted and what the abbot wanted were the same thing. But not anymore.”
“And Frère Mathieu didn’t submit?” asked Gamache.
“Not at all. And slowly other monks saw that the walls didn’t crumble if they too didn’t submit. If they continued to fight, and even disobeyed. The arguments escalated, became more vocal.”
“In a silent community?”
Bernard smiled. “You’d be surprised how many ways there are to get your message across. Far more powerful, and insulting, than words. A turned back in a monastery is like dropping the f-bomb. A rolled eye is a nuclear attack.”
“And by yesterday morning?” asked Gamache.
“By yesterday morning the monastery had been laid to waste. Except that the bodies were still walking and the walls still standing. But Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups was dead in every other way.”
Gamache thought about that for a moment, then thanking Frère Bernard he handed him his basket of eggs and left the enclosure, returning to the dim monastery.
The peace had been not simply shattered, but murdered. Something precious had been destroyed. And then a rock had landed on Frère Mathieu’s head. Shattering it too.
As he’d left Frère Bernard, Gamache had paused at the door to ask one last question.
“And you, mon frère? Where did you stand?”
“With Dom Philippe,” he said without hesitation. “I’m one of the abbot’s men.”
The abbot’s men, thought the Chief as he and Beauvoir entered the silent breakfast hall a few minutes later. Many of the monks were already there, but none looked in their direction.
The abbot’s men. The prior’s men.
A civil war, fought with glances and small gestures. And silence.
FOURTEEN
After a breakfast of eggs and fruit, fresh bread and cheese the monks left and the Chief and Beauvoir lingered over their herbal teas.
“This is disgusting.” Beauvoir took a sip and made a face. “It’s dirt tea. I’m drinking mud.”
“It’s mint. I think,” said Gamache.
“Mint mud,” said Beauvoir, putting his tea down and pushing the mug away. “So, who do you think did it?”
Gamache shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. It seems likely to be someone who sided with the abbot.”
“Or the abbot himself.”
Gamache nodded. “If the prior was killed over the power struggle.”
“Whoever won the struggle got to control a monastery that was suddenly extremely rich, and powerful. And not just because of the money.”
“Go on,” said Gamache. He always preferred to listen than to talk.
“Well, think about it. These Gilbertines disappear for four centuries, then suddenly, and apparently miraculously, walk out of the wilderness. And as though that wasn’t biblical enough, they come bearing a gift. Sacred music. A New York marketing guru couldn’t have come up with a better gimmick.”
“Only it isn’t a gimmick.”
“Are you so sure, patron?”
Gamache put his mug on the table and leaned toward his second in command, his deep brown eyes thoughtful.
“Are you saying this was all manipulated? By these monks? Four hundred years of silence, then a recording of obscure Gregorian chants? All to put themselves in a position of wealth and influence. Quite a long-range plan. A good thing they didn’t have shareholders.”
Beauvoir laughed. “But it worked.”
“But it was hardly a slam-dunk. The chances that this remote monastery filled with singing monks would become a sensation is minuscule.”
“I agree. A bunch of things had to come together. The music had to grab people. But that probably wasn’t enough. What really ignited it was when everyone found out who they were. A supposedly extinct order of monks who’ve taken a vow of silence. That’s what grabbed people.”
The Chief nodded. It added to the mystery of the music, and the monks.
But was it manipulated? It was all true, after all. But wasn’t that what good marketing was? Not lying, but choosing what truths to tell?
