“But they hadn’t,” said Beauvoir, also staring at the plan.
“No. They came here. Might as well have been the moon, in those days.”
“Why’d they come?”
“They were afraid of the Inquisition.”
“But if they were so poor and marginal, why were they afraid?”
“Why is anyone afraid? Most of the time it’s all in their heads. Has nothing to do with reality. I imagine the Inquisition couldn’t have cared less about the Gilbertines, but they took off anyway. Just in case. That could be our motto. Just in case. Exsisto paratus.”
“You’ve never seen this before?” Beauvoir pointed to the drawing.
Frère Bernard shook his head. He seemed lost in the lines on the page. “It’s fascinating,” said the monk, leaning closer, “seeing Dom Clément’s actual plans. I wonder if this was made before or after Saint-Gilbert was built.”
“Would it matter?”
“Maybe not, but one would be the ideal, the other would be the reality. If it was made after, then this shows what’s really here. Not what they might have wanted then changed their minds.”
“You know the monastery,” said Beauvoir. “What do you think?”
For a few minutes Frère Bernard bowed his head over the vellum, sometimes tracing the ink with his blueberry finger. He gave a few grunts. Hummed a bit. Shook his head, then backed up his finger to follow another line, another corridor.
Finally he looked up and met Beauvoir’s eyes.
“There’s something wrong with this drawing.”
Beauvoir felt a thrill, a frisson. “What?”
“The scale’s off. You see here and here—”
“The vegetable garden and the place for the animals.”
“Right. They’re shown as the same size as the abbot’s garden. But they’re not. In reality, they’re at least twice the size.”
It was true. Beauvoir remembered picking the squash that morning with Frère Antoine. The vegetable garden had been huge. But the abbot’s garden, the murder scene, was much smaller.
“But how do you know?” asked Beauvoir. “Have you ever been in the abbot’s garden?” He glanced to the tall wall.
“Never, but I’ve been around it. Looking for berries. I’ve also been around the other gardens. This plan,” he looked back down, “is wrong.”
“So what does that mean?” asked Beauvoir. “Why would Dom Clément do that?”
Bernard considered, then shook his head. “Hard to say. The Church had a way of exaggerating things. If you see some of the old paintings, the baby Jesus looks about ten years old when he was born. And old maps of cities show cathedrals much bigger than they actually were. Dominating their surroundings.”
“So you think Dom Clément exaggerated the size of the abbot’s garden? But why?”
Again the monk shook his head. “Vanity, maybe. To make the drawing look more to scale. Church architecture has little tolerance for anything unusual, out of balance. This looks better on paper,” again the monk gestured toward the drawing, “than the real thing. Though the real thing functions better in reality.”
Again Beauvoir was taken by the clash of perception and reality in this monastery. And the choice to reflect what looked good rather than what was truthful.
Frère Bernard continued to study the drawing. “If Dom Clément had drawn it exactly as it is, the monastery wouldn’t look like a crucifix anymore. It’d look like a bird. Two big wings and a shorter body.”
“So he cheated?”
“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”
“Could he have cheated in other areas of the plan?” asked Beauvoir. Though he knew the answer to that. When someone deceived once, they’d do it again.
“I suppose.” The monk looked as though one of the angels had fallen. “But I can’t see anything else wrong. Why does it matter?”
“It might not.” Beauvoir rolled the plan back up. “You asked what I was looking for. I’m looking for a hidden room.”
“Like the Chapter House?”
“We know about that one. I’m looking for another.”
“So there is one.”
“We don’t know. We’ve just heard rumors, and obviously you have too.”
For the first time in their conversation Beauvoir sensed a hesitation in the monk. As though a door had slowly swung shut. As though Frère Bernard had his own hidden room.
