“It means Saint-Gilbert is collapsing. He says it’ll fall down completely within ten years.”
Now he had Francoeur’s attention. The Superintendent walked over to the wall across from Beauvoir and examined it.
“Looks fine to me,” he said.
It looked fine to Beauvoir too. No gaping cracks, no roots breaking through. Both men peered around. It was magnificent. Another engineering marvel by Dom Clément.
The stone walls ran under the entire monastery. It reminded Beauvoir of the Montréal metro system, only without the humming subway trains. Four cavernous corridors, like tunnels, stretched away from them. All well lit. All swept clean. Nothing out of place.
No murder weapon lying around. And no pine forest growing out of the walls.
But if Frère Raymond was to be believed, Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups was falling in on itself. And while Beauvoir had no great fondness for monks or priests or churches or abbeys, he discovered he’d be sorry if this one disappeared.
And he’d be very sorry if it disappeared while they were standing in the basement.
The sound of a door closing echoed toward them, and Francoeur started walking in that direction, not waiting to see if Beauvoir followed. As though it didn’t matter to him, so insignificant and incompetent was Inspector Beauvoir.
“Shithead,” mumbled Beauvoir.
“Sound travels down here, you know,” said Francoeur, without turning around.
Despite Gamache’s warnings. Despite his own pledges, Beauvoir had already allowed himself to be goaded. Allowed his feelings to flare.
But maybe it was a good thing, thought Beauvoir, as he slowly followed Francoeur. Maybe Gamache was wrong, and Francoeur needed to know that Beauvoir wasn’t afraid of him. Francoeur needed to know he was dealing with a grown man, not some kid out of the academy, in awe of the title of Chief Superintendent. Some kid he could manipulate.
Yes, thought Beauvoir as he walked a few steps behind the striding Superintendent, that wasn’t a mistake at all.
They arrived at a closed door. Beauvoir knocked. There was a long pause. Francoeur reached for the handle just as the door opened. Frère Raymond stood there. He looked alarmed, but on seeing them his expression changed to one of exasperation.
“Are you trying to scare me to death? You could’ve been the murderer.”
“They rarely knock,” said Beauvoir.
He turned, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Superintendent looking at Frère Raymond, completely bewildered.
Francoeur appeared not just surprised but stunned by this rough-hewn subterranean monk, who spoke with the ancient dialect. It was as though the door had opened and a monk from the first congregation, from Dom Clément’s community, had stepped out.
“Where’re you from, mon frère?” Francoeur finally asked.
And now it was Beauvoir’s turn to be surprised. As was Frère Raymond.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur had asked the question in the same broad accent as the monk’s. Beauvoir examined the Superintendent, to see if he was making fun of the monk, but he wasn’t. In fact, his expression was one of delight.
“Saint-Felix-de-Beauce,” said Frère Raymond. “You?”
“Saint-Gédéon-de-Beauce,” said Francoeur. “Just down the road.”
What followed was a rapid exchange between the men that was almost unintelligible to Beauvoir. Finally Frère Raymond turned to Beauvoir.
“This man’s grandfather and my great-uncle rebuilt the church in Saint-Ephrem after the fire.”
Frère Raymond motioned the men into the room. It too was huge. Wide and long, running the balance of the corridor. The monk gave them a tour, explaining the geothermal system, the ventilation system, the hot water system, the filtration system. The septic system. All the systems.
Beauvoir tried to remain focused, in case anything useful was said, but eventually his mind grew numb. At the end of the tour Frère Raymond walked to a cabinet and brought from it a bottle and three glasses.
“This calls for a celebration,” he said. “It’s not often I meet a neighbor. A friend of mine is a Benedictine and sends me this.” Frère Raymond handed Beauvoir the dusty bottle. “Like a slug?”
Beauvoir examined the bottle. It was B&B. Brandy and Bénédictine. Not made, fortunately, from fermented monks, though he suspected there were enough of those. But by the Benedictines themselves, from a long-secret recipe.
The three men pulled chairs around a drafting table and sat.
Frère Raymond poured. “Santé,” he said, tipping the deep amber liquid toward his rare guests.
