Chapter 20

C HAPTER 20

The last notes of vespers, reluctant to leave, drifted down the long corridors to the far reaches of the monastery before fading into the walls. As though the abbey of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups were made not of stone but of notes, of neumes.

"I heard the plane overhead," the monk who'd led the service said as he approached the three visitors, "and sent Brothers Auguste and Patel out to make sure you were all right. I'm glad you're safe, Chief Inspector. For a few moments there…" He lifted one slender hand, palm up, in an eloquent gesture.

" Oui ," agreed Gamache. "Us too, for a while there."

The monk turned to Jean-Guy. "Inspector Beauvoir. Welcome back." Then he returned to Gamache. "I don't know if you remember me. Frère Simon."

"Yes, I remember. You're the Abbot's secretary. I'd like to speak with Dom Philippe," said Gamache. "I didn't see him at vespers."

"You wouldn't. He's not here."

Gamache stopped and stared at the monk. "Where is he?"

Now Simon looked uncomfortable. "We don't really know. He left me in charge."

"You and I need to talk, mon frère ."

"Agreed, but not right now. Come. You must be hungry."

Jean-Guy realized he was. Having lost his lunch, he was now looking forward to dinner. Beside him, the pilot's eyes had widened in happy anticipation.

"They're vegetarians," Beauvoir warned as they followed the monk down another corridor. Jean-Guy was pleased to burst that carnivore's bubble.

The dinner turned out to be delicious, starting with squash and wild garlic soup, followed by a casserole of baked ratatouille and goat's cheese.

Baskets of warm fresh-baked bread were passed around, along with churned butter and wooden boards filled with various cheeses. The meal concluded with an apple crisp and thick cream.

All the food was grown, or foraged, by the monks.

"Where're the blueberries?" Jean-Guy asked the young monk beside him, who just shrugged. Then looked around and whispered, "Too early."

"Shame," said Jean-Guy. The tiny chocolate-covered wild berries were a specialty of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

The meal was eaten, like all else in the abbey, in silence, except for the prayers that began and ended it.

Armand had arrived late, having convinced Brother Simon that he needed to use the phone. The request had a dual purpose. He knew that the only telephone in the abbey, one connected to a not-very-reliable satellite dish for emergencies, was in the Abbot's office. It would allow him to try to get through to Reine-Marie. And also to do a quick search of the offices.

"I know the way," said Armand.

"I'm sure you do, Chief Inspector, but I'll still come with you. The monastery at night can be a confusing place. We've lost several postulants." He shook his head sadly, then smiled at Armand.

"Well, perhaps we'll find them," said Armand.

"At this stage, I hope not."

Gamache was no longer completely sure it was a joke.

The phone line turned out to be dead, and there was no way to do anything other than glance at the papers on Dom Philippe's desk, since the only light in the room was from the candle Frère Simon held.

"The clothing you're wearing when you arrive," he said to the monk as they left the office. "What happens to it?"

"We put it in boxes in the basement, in case we leave."

"Leave? Don't you wear your robes if you leave?"

"Not if we quit the order. It's never happened, but we keep the clothing in case. When a monk dies, we donate his belongings."

"Can you show me the Abbot's?"

Minutes later they were staring into a box labeled Frère Philippe . It contained mothballs. But nothing else.

"Huh." Though Simon sounded puzzled, he looked worried. "He must've taken them with him. Now why would he do that?"

Gamache knew the answer, but said nothing.

Before he went in to dinner, Armand checked his messages.

"What is it?" asked Frère Simon. "Everything all right?"

The monk, ever watchful, had noticed the change in Gamache's body, and heard the slight moan, almost a sob.

"Very," said Armand.

His second message to Reine-Marie, saying all was well, had found some fragile connection and gone out. And she had replied.

When he arrived at the dining hall, he leaned over Jean-Guy and said, "They know we're safe."

Jean-Guy closed his eyes, lowered his head, and gave a sigh so long and strong the candles flickered. All the monks turned to see what had caused it. And to a man, they smiled on seeing Jean-Guy's happy face.

When the meal was over, Gamache, along with Beauvoir and Brother Simon, returned to the Abbot's rooms, while the pilot was shown to a bedroom, which they called a cell. He was given a candle and asked to stay put.

He did not need to be told twice.

"What happened?" Gamache asked.

"Happened?"

"Please, mon frère , don't be obtuse. You know what I'm asking."

The Chief Inspector's patience, normally one of his strengths, was at an end.

They'd been given candles in holders, which they placed on tables around the Abbot's small but comfortable office.

Brother Simon took a deep breath. "A lot has changed since you were last here."

Jean-Guy raised his brows. It seemed to him very little, if anything, had changed. Beyond the disappearance of the Abbot. But he also suspected that, in a closed, hermetic community, getting different soap would be seismic.

"After you left, the Abbot needed a new Prior. His second-in-command, if you will. To everyone's surprise he chose Frère Sébastien."

"Sébastien," said Gamache, sitting forward and placing his elbows on his knees. His face was mostly in shadow now. "The monk who was sent by the Vatican to investigate the Gilbertines? He's not even a member of your order."

" Non. He's a Dominican." His smile was indulgent but not exactly warm. "Frère Sébastien agreed to become a Gilbertine. Though once a Hound of the Lord…"

Again, the monk raised his hand.

"What does that mean?" asked Beauvoir.

"Dominican. Domini Canis," said Simon. "Hound of the Lord. They were the Inquisition."

Now it came back to Jean-Guy. "The young monk."

"He had a fine singing voice, from what I remember," said Gamache.

"Yes," agreed Simon.

Both investigators, used to listening closely, heard in that other fine voice the minor key of resentment.

"And where is Brother Sébastien?" asked Gamache. "I didn't see him either."

"He got a message from a colleague in the Vatican, an American, I think, and left for Rome."

"How long ago was this?"

Frère Simon considered. "It was after the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist."

"Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day," said Jean-Guy. "Late June."

"How long after?" asked Gamache.

Frère Simon looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, I don't know. Time is measured differently here."

"Did he say why he was going?"

"If he did, he only told Dom Philippe, and the Abbot didn't share it with us. Then the Abbot received a letter from Frère Sébastien, and he left. Left me in charge."

He did not look happy.

"And said nothing to you?" said Gamache, astonished.

"He said he'd be back. But…" The monk looked around the office and through the door into the small neat room that served as the Abbot's bedroom.

Frère Simon, stoic until now, pressed his lips together so firmly they disappeared, as his chin dimpled.

Leaving the monk to his thoughts, and feelings, the S?reté officers began their search of the office and bedroom.

Once recovered, Frère Simon joined Gamache, who was looking through the desk. "We've looked. I've looked. Almost every day I come in here and search again, thinking he must have left a note behind. Some explanation. He wouldn't just leave us. Would he?"

There was yearning in the man's voice and desperation in his eyes.

" Non ," said Gamache. "I don't think he would."

He brought a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to the monk. "Do you know what that is?"

Jean-Guy had joined them and shook his head, indicating he'd found nothing.

"A list of herbs," said Simon. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Dom Philippe gave it to me."

"You saw him? When?" Frère Simon was suddenly animated.

"He came to visit me a couple days ago."

"What did he say? How did he look? Was he all right?"

"We didn't actually meet, but he left that. And"—Armand took out the other page—"this was also sent to me, by someone else."

Frère Simon took it and leaned so close to the open flame Jean-Guy was worried it would catch fire. He stepped forward, ready to snatch the evidence away if necessary.

The monk stared at the page. Then, picking up the first sheet, he held the two together.

"Like I said, it's just a list of herbs and spices."

"Do you know why Dom Philippe would have it?"

Simon handed the sheets back to Gamache. "No. Most of those aren't in our gardens, and the Abbot wasn't the head gardener anyway."

Gamache replaced the paper in his pocket. "I think it's far more than a list of herbs and spices. It's part of a recipe. For Chartreuse."

Now the acting Abbot made a noise that sounded like a raspberry. Then he looked at the two S?reté officers. "You're serious? How much of our cider did you drink?"

"Why would it be so unbelievable?" asked Beauvoir.

It was the monk's turn to stare. "Now who's being obtuse? I think you know."

Gamache gave a thin smile and said, "Please just answer the question."

The monk sighed, resigned.

"As you know"—clearly he could not resist a dig—"Chartreuse, the real Chartreuse, is made in only one place. By the Carthusian brothers in France. Only two monks at any one time know the recipe. It's been a tightly guarded secret for centuries. When one brother dies, his recipe is passed to another."

"Like a torch," said Beauvoir.

Frère Simon smiled, clearly liking the analogy. "Yes. It's been like that since the beginning."

"And they've managed to keep the recipe secret all this time? Even now?" Beauvoir had read all this, having done research, but he still barely believed it.

" Oui. The Church is very good at keeping secrets and holding on to its mysteries. There have been imitators, but no one has cracked the actual recipe."

"Why keep it a secret?"

"Because with secrets comes power. And this was no ordinary secret. It was first given to a monk back in 1605, by an alchemist. He said it was an elixir."

Frère Simon was now warming to his subject. For a man who'd taken a vow of silence, this monk liked the sound of his own voice. As Gamache listened, he tried to work out what was slightly odd about that voice. It was beautiful, mellifluous. But there was something else.

Then he had it.

Frère Simon's words were spoken with a sort of lilt. Almost sung. It gave what he said a resonance. Made it all the more captivating. And what he was saying was already compelling.

"It wasn't just medicinal," Frère Simon continued. "The concoction the Carthusians had been given was said to be the secret to a long life. Many still consider it that. People would travel hundreds of miles, thousands of miles, to drink it." Now the monk allowed himself a smile. "Clearly, if you drank enough, your pain and worries would disappear."

"To be replaced by others," said Jean-Guy.

"True. May I see the list again?"

Gamache handed him the torn pages.

"We know a few things about the ingredients," said the monk, scanning the list. "There are one hundred and thirty herbs and spices. We can name some, but what we don't have are the measurements. Or the process. This"—he put the two pages together—"mentions angelica stems. A rare herb. We know that's one of the main ingredients. Combined with the others, it seems obvious." Now he studied the cops. "How did you know?"

Beauvoir looked at the Chief Inspector, who just gave a tight smile. Jean-Guy knew the answer. It was because of the bottle of Chartreuse Dom Philippe had left in Three Pines. And the repetition of the cocktail whose main ingredient was Chartreuse.

The Last Word.

And angelica stems, which no one had heard of, but which were a major ingredient in the liqueur. Alone these factors told the investigators nothing. Put together, it seemed, as the monk said, obvious.

But clearly Gamache was not going to tell this monk, with the shrewd eyes and hypnotic voice, all this.

The homicide department of the S?reté had something in common with the monks. It too guarded its secrets.

Through the window they could hear crickets and a distant splash as either a waterfowl landed on the now calm lake, or a large fish jumped.

"Why would Dom Philippe leave me part of that recipe?"

Brother Simon shook his head. "I honestly have no idea."

"Is there another significance to it? A code maybe?" Even as he said it, Gamache felt foolish. Speaking of codes. Though the Catholic Church, like most religions, was rife with them. Hidden meanings. Shorthand only the faithful and the chosen would know.

"You said Dom Philippe received a letter from Frère Sébastien, who'd returned to Rome. It seems reasonable to assume that that"—Gamache gestured toward the papers—"was in the letter. Either all of it or half."

"It would have to be whole, non ?" said Beauvoir. "For the Abbot to know what it was? Half wouldn't be enough."

He looked from Gamache to the acting Abbot, who nodded. "I think you're right. Half wouldn't tell him anything."

"So you think Dom Philippe tore it in two?" asked Gamache.

"I think it's possible," said the monk, slowly.

"Why?" asked Beauvoir.

"Perhaps to continue to protect the secret," said Simon.

There was, Gamache knew, another possibility. That Sébastien himself had torn the page, sending half to the Abbot and half to someone else. Someone he trusted. And in his letter to Dom Philippe, he'd told him what it was, and why.

Told him to find the person with the other half. That it would be someone he could trust. But again, why use some obscure recipe for an obscure drink as a code?

"That obviously isn't the original recipe," Gamache said. "It was written recently. Is that Sébastien's handwriting?"

"I don't know."

"Can we find out? Are there samples? Perhaps in his cell?"

"When he left, he took everything with him. His cell was completely empty. In fact, I've put you into it for the night."

"Is it the Abbot's handwriting?" Gamache asked.

"No."

"Is"—Gamache turned over one of the pages—"this?"

" Some malady ." Simon read and nodded. " Oui. But why would he write that?"

"I think it was so that I'd know who'd left it," said Gamache. "He knew I'd recognize the quote and remember our conversation here."

"It's from Murder in the Cathedral ," said the acting Abbot. " Some malady is coming upon us. We wait. We wait. But for what? What are we waiting for?"

"For the malady," said Jean-Guy. For, he knew but did not say, someone to poison the drinking water and kill thousands.

A plot it now seemed the head of an obscure monastic order in the wilderness of Québec had stumbled upon. Or been told about. By a Hound of the Lord.

Charles Langlois had also found out. And Langlois was dead. And now the Abbot had disappeared. Had some malady found him?

"How about this word?" Gamache turned the other paper around.

" Water ," read Simon. "It might be the Abbot's, but it's kinda scrawled, and his writing is very neat. Is it at all useful for me to ask what it means?"

"Probably not," said Gamache.

"Has anyone else come here?" asked Beauvoir.

"No. And even if they did, we don't let anyone in. You're the exception."

"Yes, I realize that, but was a young biologist in the area? Perhaps testing the lake water?"

"Not that I know of, and even if he was testing the water, why would he come to this end of the lake? And even if he had, as I said, he wouldn't be admitted. You can ask the Keeper of the Keys, though."

"The one who unlocks the door?"

"He mostly locks it," said Frère Simon.

Gamache thought for a moment, then asked, "Is there a file on Dom Philippe? Something that tells us about his family, his upbringing and background?"

Simon cocked his head and stared. "We don't keep files on each other, Chief Inspector."

"You know what I'm asking. Not some deep state spying, just records. Perhaps from when he, when you all, apply to join the church. Before a postulant is accepted here, the Abbot must go over his personal information. There must be something."

"There is. We fill out questionnaires and are interviewed. There's rigorous psychological testing too. Especially now."

That last comment did not need explanation.

"And?" Gamache glanced around. "Where's that information kept?"

"It's burned."

" Pardon? "

"In a ceremony, when a postulant is accepted as a full brother in the Gilbertines. We build a bonfire on the shore and burn the file. His past no longer matters. He has a new life, a new family. A new Father and Mother. And Brothers."

It seemed to Jean-Guy almost pagan. But it also made more sense to him than some of the other rituals he'd grown up with. Incense, for instance, and the host.

The fire represented a fresh start. They'd been given a new life, got to choose a new name. Who knew if "Philippe" was even the Abbot's birth name?

If only, Beauvoir thought, it were that simple. To reinvent yourself. To leave the past behind. If only it were possible.

"Did Dom Philippe tell you anything at all about his family?" asked Gamache. "His background?"

"No."

"How did you know the letter to Dom Philippe was from Frère Sébastien?" he asked, and immediately knew he'd found a crack in the calm veneer.

The monk looked uncomfortable. Just a little. But for men who did not do a lot of talking, their faces, their bodies, spoke for them. An eye roll became an assault, a turned back a declaration of war. A smile was an invitation.

A "little" uncomfortable was akin to hysteria.

"I collect the mail and provisions from a boat that comes once a week. I saw the envelope. It had the crest of the Vatican."

"But so did the one to Frère Sébastien a few months earlier," said Beauvoir, seeing where Gamache was going with this line of questioning. "So why did you think the one to the Abbot was from Sébastien and not whoever sent the first? Or anyone else at the Vatican?"

The monk was silent, but his cheeks betrayed him.

"Did you open it?" asked Gamache.

Silence.

"And how did you know what that first letter to Frère Sébastien contained? And that it was from an American?"

Once again, the bells began tolling. The acting Abbot, as though an automaton, turned and made for the door.

"I asked you a question, Frère Simon," Gamache called after the receding figure, then strode down the long corridor after him. "Answer me. Did you open the mail?"

He almost reached out to grab the monk but stopped himself. He watched as Frère Simon was enveloped by the shadows, until the monk became just a glowing silhouette filled with darkness.

The bells were summoning the monks. It was compline, Gamache knew. The final service of the day. Before the Great Silence.

The Chief turned. "Follow me." They headed back to Dom Philippe's office.

At the end of the hallway, Frère Simon looked back. He'd heard, between the peals of the bells, the sound of the Chief Inspector's feet on the flagstones, quickly approaching him. Which was disconcerting. Then he'd heard those feet stop. And recede. Getting farther away. Which was even more disconcerting.

"Why did you ask about the Abbot's family?" asked Jean-Guy, once they were back in the office.

"Because there's more than a month unaccounted for. What did Dom Philippe do when he left here? Where did he go? He can't have had much money."

"You think he went to family?"

"Or friends." Gamache was opening and closing drawers. Previously, he'd been looking for a note from the Abbot explaining why he'd left. Now he was looking for personnel files. Or anything personal. Letters perhaps, from those left behind when he'd taken vows.

"The Abbot left here weeks ago and showed up in Three Pines days ago. What was he doing in the meantime?"

"There's something else, patron . If we're right, Dom Philippe tore the recipe and gave the other half to someone else. I don't think he'd give it to Jeanne Caron, do you?"

" Non. " Gamache's reply was categorical.

"So how did she get it?"

The Chief stopped what he was doing and looked at Beauvoir. "That, my son, is a very good question."

Jean-Guy, who'd been lying on his side on the stone floor shining his phone flashlight under Dom Philippe's desk, got to his feet.

"Caron must've taken it from someone," he said, brushing dirt from his clothes. "From whoever the Abbot sent it to."

"Though Sébastien himself might have sent the other half to someone."

"Either way, Caron ended up with it. But why does that page matter? It's not even the full recipe for Chartreuse. And honestly, even if it was, who really cares? What does this have to do with a plan to poison the water?"

And since there was no answer to that yet, he said, "Whoever was sent the other half must be dead. Otherwise, Caron wouldn't have it. I think that's a safe assumption."

Gamache did not disagree.

"We should look for another body," said Beauvoir.

Or perhaps, thought Gamache, they'd already found it. Hands tied behind their back. Bullet to the base of the skull. The Saguenay region, where the woman was murdered execution-style, was not all that far from where they were.

Was Jeanne Caron behind that murder? Those murders? Had the other half of the recipe been given to that woman in the Saguenay? Or that man on the Magdalen Islands?

If so, who were they?

How would Caron know the woman, or man, had it? And, to Beauvoir's point, how could that recipe matter? He looked down at the two pieces of paper that he now possessed. Had two people, maybe more, been murdered for them?

And why, if she'd killed to possess the torn page, would Jeanne Caron then send it to him? What was he missing? A lot, it seemed.

"We need to get information on Dom Philippe," he said. "His background."

"We don't even know if ‘Philippe' is his real name," said Jean-Guy.

" C'est vrai. " Gamache rubbed his face and felt stubble. He was, he suspected, in very real danger of turning into a fantasist. Imagining events that never happened. Seeing relationships and connections that might not exist. And wasting time pursuing them.

It was one of the great dangers for an investigator. Turning guesses into fact. Interpreting slim evidence to fit a convenient theory.

They needed to trust their instincts, but rely on proof. So far they had precious little evidence. Of anything. Even the plot to poison the water was constructed of guesses.

Still, he reminded himself, something was happening.

Charles Langlois had been murdered.

Charles Langlois probably worked for Jeanne Caron.

Charles Langlois had obviously found something out. Something so dangerous he had to be killed.

Charles Langlois studied water security. And what needed to be more secure than drinking water? Ergo…

These were not unreasonable leaps. This was not complete fantasy.

Armand looked over and saw Jean-Guy going through the contents of a basket.

"Those are just the architectural drawings for the abbey," said Gamache. He knew that from the first time they visited Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. "Leave them."

Still, Beauvoir unrolled a couple of scrolls, and sure enough, there were drawings, made centuries ago in a careful hand. They weren't just plans, they were works of art.

" Patron. "

Gamache, knowing that tone, stopped his own search and looked over.

Jean-Guy was holding a scroll. It was paper, not vellum. Both investigators recognized the type of paper. There were similar ones on the walls of their homicide department, and in every incident room when investigating a murder. The S?reté du Québec ordered them by the truckload.

"It was rolled up inside an old scroll."

There, on the Abbot's tilted worktable, was a large map of Québec. It had creases in it, as though it had at one time been folded.

This map was stamped Ministère de l'Environnement du Québec . And on it were handwritten notes in red ink.

Chief Inspector Gamache put on his reading glasses, and both he and Beauvoir brought their phone flashlights close.

The corners of the map were torn, where it had been ripped in haste off a wall. They were pretty sure where those corners could be found.

Gamache's index finger hovered above the paper as he traced an invisible line from Montréal, up, up. Past the deep green of forests and white of human settlement. He went along the blue of snaking rivers and over lakes. Until he stopped.

The monastery was not shown, but Gamache knew that where his finger hovered was exactly where they stood.

And right there, over what would be the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, was an asterisk. In bright red ink, like a splotch of blood.

The two officers stared at each other. Both knew what this find meant. But barely dared believe it.

"He was here," said Jean-Guy, in a whisper. "Charles Langlois was here. He brought this map with him. To hide it."

Gamache nodded. It seemed a reasonable leap, onto fairly solid ground.

This, finally, was evidence. Of what, he wasn't yet sure. But they'd find out. And if Langlois brought this map, what else had he given the Abbot for safekeeping?

Soft voices, deep and rhythmic, drifted through the open door and filled the air around them so that it felt as though they were breathing in the prayers of the monks.

Armand inhaled deeply. He'd need all the help, all the prayers, he could get.