Chapter 21

C HAPTER 21

Compline was long over and the Great Silence had descended on the abbey of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, broken only by the far-off cry of a loon and the whispered conversation of two homicide investigators.

Armand and Jean-Guy sat on the narrow cot in Armand's cell, backs against the stone wall, knees up, stocking feet lifted off the cold stone floor and resting on the rough blanket. A board of cheeses and sliced apples Jean-Guy had pilfered from the kitchen was on the bed between them.

"There's no way Frère Simon could know that the letter to Sébastien was from an American, or the one to the Abbot was from Sébastien, unless he read them," said Armand.

"He opened the mail."

"I think he probably made a habit of it. In a closed community secrets are powerful. He said it himself."

"You think he used what he found in the letters against the others?"

"I'm not sure. How does he strike you?"

Jean-Guy chose a piece of crumbly blue cheese and considered the question.

"I want to say he seems sly, but I actually don't think he is. I think if he lived anywhere else but here he probably wouldn't sneak around reading mail. Wouldn't need to. Maybe he's just hungry for anything new. For news. So he opens the mail. Not to manipulate, maybe not even for power, but really just curiosity about the outside world. I'd probably do the same, eventually."

Armand nodded. He could see the circumstances where he might be driven to it too. Desperate for anything that could stimulate the mind. These monks were supposed to be beyond that, but were, finally, human.

"What could've been in that first letter to get Sébastien to leave?" asked Jean-Guy. "And what could he have written to Dom Philippe to get the Abbot to go?"

Armand took a piece of soft cheese and placed it on a wedge of sweet apple. This was just about his favorite part of any investigation. Tossing around ideas. Building on each other's thoughts.

"It was from an American monk or priest," said Armand. "Now assigned to the Vatican."

"There must be lots."

"Probably, but I expect this one would be a Dominican. Probably someone Sébastien knew from his own time there. So that narrows it down. We need to find Sébastien."

"Right. I'll do that."

Beauvoir was feeling better. There was finally a clear path forward. Something concrete to do. Find this Frère Sébastien, the Hound of the Lord, and most of their questions would be answered.

"If Charles Langlois brought the map here," he said, "then he probably also brought his notes and laptop. To hide."

"I think so too. But the monastery is far too big for us to search the whole place ourselves. And even if we could, we need to get back to Montréal to continue the investigation."

He could feel the tension rise in him. Time was draining away.

"So what do we do? Get a warrant and call in a team?"

"We'll have to. If Brother Simon is holding out on us and knows where the items are, then maybe the threat of an all-out search by police will be enough for him to hand them over. If not, we take him with us."

"You'd arrest him?"

"For obstructing our investigation. Charge won't stick, but he has information we need."

Jean-Guy slid a look at the Chief Inspector. What he saw was a determined, and very worried, man.

"But why wouldn't he just give us the stuff?"

"I don't know. You asked him if anyone else had been here, and he said no. It looks like someone had."

Gamache nodded toward the map, now spread on the stone floor and held in place by a shoe on each corner.

The notes Langlois had scribbled on it made no sense to either of them. A marine biologist could probably decipher them, but homicide investigators could not.

Jean-Guy had sent off photos of the map to Lacoste. Or at least tried. The email and attachments were in limbo.

"Langlois wasn't necessarily here," said Gamache. "He might have mailed the map to the Abbot."

"Along with his notes and laptop?"

It seemed unlikely. The most likely was that the young biologist had come to the monastery and given the map and notes to the Abbot, for safekeeping. Dom Philippe had rolled the map up inside an older scroll no one had looked at in centuries.

Which meant the map was important. Vital even.

It was maddening. To know they were almost certainly staring at the answer. But without knowing the question.

And where were the laptop and notebooks?

"There must be a reason Langlois would come here, of all places," said Beauvoir. "He must've known the Abbot, and known he'd help. There's some connection."

There was that word again. Connection.

It felt to Gamache as though they were caught in a web of invisible threads. And getting all tangled up.

"But Langlois knew Jeanne Caron," said Beauvoir. "Does that mean the Abbot does too?"

"Not necessarily." But… it was possible.

"You have to admit," said Jean-Guy, looking around. "It's a pretty damned good hiding place. It's like a fortress, and there's no way anyone's getting in without the monks' permission. And they never give that."

It was true. Almost.

"We got in. And they'd have to let in a team with a search warrant. Jesus." Armand stared at Beauvoir. "I was actually considering doing that. What was I thinking? I can't order a search of the place."

It took Jean-Guy a moment to understand what Gamache was saying. "Shit. If there are collaborators high up in the S?reté, this would play right into their hands. We'd give them the key to the monastery, and practically hand them the laptop and notebooks. So what do we do?"

"Do we trust the monks?"

Jean-Guy knew what the Chief was proposing. And he knew how much might be riding on his answer.

"Yes. I trust them. Even Simon. He has his faults, but then, so do you."

Armand gave one burst of laughter at that unexpected, but quite accurate, dig. His amusement was absorbed by the walls, to join the centuries of notes and neumes. To become part of the abbey of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

"We get the monks to search," said Jean-Guy.

"Exactly. I wish we knew when Langlois was here."

"Wait a minute." Beauvoir reached for his phone. "I got Langlois's travel schedule from AQB. I doubt he'd put down that he'd come to the monastery, but…"

His voice petered out as he read the document he'd downloaded. Then he got off the bed and knelt beside the map.

"These are dates, patron . He wrote other stuff too, but some are the dates when he visited certain sites. Look."

He handed his phone to the Chief, who compared the travel schedule with the notes on the map. The reason they hadn't immediately realized they were dates was because Langlois had written them in a strange way. Instead of putting slashes or even dots between day, month, year, he'd just written down the numbers without a divide.

Once Jean-Guy had seen it, they were able to correlate. Dates and locations. There was no date attached to the lake with the monastery, and it was not on the research schedule he'd submitted to AQB.

"Look here, patron . The most recent date was last week. Just days before he was killed."

Gamache bent over the map to study the lake. It was unremarkable. Nothing on it except the monastery. No other settlement. No industry. He wondered what could have taken Langlois there.

"There're more numbers and letters," said Jean-Guy, also leaning close to the map and looking at the notes Charles had written.

"Maybe the results of his water tests," said Gamache, getting up from crouching with a slight groan. "We need sleep. It'll be an early morning. Leave that." He stopped Beauvoir from rolling up the map. "It's fine where it is."

They put Bibles on the corners vacated by Jean-Guy's shoes, and the younger man left. With the cheese.

Armand blew out his candle and lay down on the surprisingly comfortable bed. There were no outlets in their cells, so no way to charge their phones or laptops.

His phone was down to 32 percent. Each use must be not just important, but vital. Armand wrote Bonne nuit. Je t'aime to Reine-Marie and sent it into limbo with a heart attached.

Then, by the glow of the phone, he did one more vital thing. He reread her message. The one that had come in after she'd received his, reassuring her that they were safe.

Oh, thank God was followed by a heart and Je t'aime .

Clicking the phone off, the small room descended into complete darkness.

Into the Great Silence he whispered, " Je t'aime. "

The next morning, as day broke, Jean-Guy and Armand stood on the shores of the lake and watched the pilot checking out the plane. It wasn't yet light enough to fly, but he was clearly anxious to get away.

"He'd better not leave without us."

"I thought you were taking the vow," said Armand.

"If they'd had those little chocolate-covered blueberries, absolutely. But since they don't…"

Armand smiled.

As so often happened after a fierce storm, the new day was calm, the lake a mirror. There was, at that early hour, the softest mauve in the east. The lake was disturbed here and there by fish just breaking the surface to grab insects.

The air smelled fresh and clean and slightly musky from the mud of the shore, and the damp moss, and the pine needles.

Lauds, the office of the monastic day that signaled dawn, had just begun.

Standing on the shore, it was possible for Armand to believe that it was not just a new day, but that the world itself was young. Unspoiled. That nothing bad, nothing terrible, nothing catastrophic was planned.

That it did not fall to him to stop it.

Jean-Guy bent down and carefully selected a stone; then, as he tossed it, he counted. Five skips disturbed the calm lake. "Tell me about the wolf."

The wolf.

Armand barely slept that night. His cell was chilly, and he found himself curled into a tight ball, clutching the thin blanket to conserve body heat. He looked over at his jacket on the chair but couldn't bring himself to get up and get it to spread it on top of him. He fell into a fitful sleep and awoke after a few hours. Lying in the darkness for a couple of minutes, he finally surrendered to the inevitable and got up.

After taking a lukewarm shower, he dressed quickly, grateful for the heavy sweater Reine-Marie had stuffed into his satchel at the last minute. He turned on his flashlight and stared down at the map that all but covered the stone floor of his cell, in the hopes that some inspiration would strike him. It did not.

Turning off the light, he placed the now rolled-up map behind his satchel under the bed. A not-very-effective hiding place, but the only one available. Which was exactly what made it not a hiding place at all.

Heaving himself to his feet with the help of a hand on the bed and a muffled groan, he left the cell. After a few steps down the dark corridor, he returned to his room, grabbed the map, and took it with him. He also put the two halves of the Chartreuse recipe in his pocket.

As he walked, Armand dragged his hand along the rough stone wall. For equilibrium. It was disorienting to be in complete darkness and utter silence.

Instead of turning on his phone flashlight, he allowed his eyes to adjust. It was, he thought, a sort of metaphor. How easily humans could adjust to darkness. To dark thoughts and darker deeds. Until, finally, the darkness became normal. And they no longer missed, or looked for, or trusted, the light.

It was a survival instinct, but not always one of the more laudable.

Even this place was not immune. The specter of the Inquisition haunted Saint-Gilbert. If so-called men of God could turn a blind eye to those atrocities, and so much more, then anything could be done, by anyone.

Including poisoning drinking water, murdering tens of thousands.

" Some malady is coming upon us ," Armand muttered, as he walked. " We wait. We wait. "

He was pretty sure the wait was almost over.

He wasn't ready. He did not have enough answers. He could not see clearly. Armand suppressed the urge to run off in all directions. To send out half-baked orders to his team.

After getting lost once, he found the corridor that led to the huge doors. That led outside. Once there, he ran his hand over the smooth wood, then the stone on either side. Hoping to find a key hanging there.

Then he looked over at the small opening in the stone wall where there was a desk, a narrow bed, and a sleeping monk.

The Keeper of the Keys.

Gamache decided to risk it. Turning on his phone flashlight, he stepped over to the opening and shone it on the wall, where he thought the key—

"What's going on?" A voice, not as groggy as you'd expect, called out. The Keeper of the Keys sat up in bed as Armand quickly clicked off the light. "What time is it?" The monk grabbed for his glasses. "Am I late? I don't hear bells."

" Non, non. Désolé. It's only four in the morning. I was wondering if I could go out for a walk."

"A walk?" It was as though the man had never heard of such a thing. The Keeper struck a match and peered at the stranger. "Who are you? Wait, I remember. You're the police."

"Yes. I'd like some fresh air," said Gamache. "Do you mind?"

The Keeper of the Keys looked unsure. Clearly this was a unique, and unwelcome, request.

He lit his candle; then, getting up, he faced Gamache. The man was short and plump. His head was shaved, his face smooth, and his eyes very blue. It was difficult to tell his age, but Gamache estimated about forty, maybe fifty. Perhaps sixty.

The monk grunted and reached for a huge black wrought iron key that hung beside his bed.

As the huge door swung open, Armand paused on the threshold. "I'm wondering if a young man visited here recently."

"No."

"You get mail once a week."

"Yes."

"What do you do with it?"

"I give it to Frère Simon."

"Did the Abbot receive much mail?"

" Non. "

"Do you remember one, maybe more, from the Vatican?"

His brows rose. "No. Why would the Pope write us?"

"Not necessarily the Pope. Just anyone in the Vatican."

The Keeper shook his head.

"Can you remember where any of his mail came from?"

"I didn't look."

"Is that true?" Gamache asked, gently.

It seemed reasonable to think that the Keeper would at least glance at any return addresses, and certainly any intricate crests on an envelope. Surely their vows did not forbid curiosity, even if they could.

"Most don't have return addresses," the Keeper admitted. "I can't remember the Abbot's mail having any."

"And nothing from the Vatican?"

The Keeper smiled and with that smile he became fully human. "I'd have remembered."

" Merci. "

Armand heard the door swing shut behind him, then the key turn. He was now locked out. Or was it in? In the world. Out of the cloister.

The sun wasn't yet even a suggestion. Instead, the night sky was splayed with stars, from horizon to horizon. Armand looked up and took a deep breath of the cool fresh air, and thought of Reine-Marie and his family, asleep at home, safe at home, under the same stars.

He'd planned to sit on a large flat stone on the shore and look out at the calm lake, perhaps even dangle his bruised foot in the cold water, and think about next steps. Once back in Montréal, they'd have to move quickly and decisively.

But instead of sitting, Armand remembered the advice of Saint Augustine. It is solved by walking. And so, Armand Gamache went for a walk.

He took the narrow dirt path away from the lake and into the woods. It was dark, but far less disorienting than the complete silence of the abbey. It reminded him of early-morning strolls in the woods outside Three Pines with Reine-Marie and the dogs, and Gracie.

His hands behind his back holding the rolled-up map, and his head bowed slightly, Armand walked and thought. And thought. And…

A thought came to him.

Frère Simon had said a letter had arrived for Sébastien, from the Vatican. And then one for Dom Philippe a few weeks later from Sébastien, also on Vatican stationary. Simon was sure about that. Even if he hadn't opened the letter, the emblem on the envelope would have been unmissable.

And yet the Keeper of the Keys had said there'd been no such letters.

Which meant either the Keeper was lying, or Simon was lying, or—

There was a sound off to his right. He stopped to look but couldn't see anything.

Then he heard it again. Movement. Being used to the sounds of a forest, Armand was not alarmed. But then he heard something else that made him freeze.

A low growl.

Slowly, carefully, taking out his phone, Armand dropped the map and put on the flashlight. Two bright eyes were staring at him, not twenty meters away.

There was another, deeper, longer guttural growl.

Armand's heart leaped in his chest and sweat broke out on his forehead.

It was a wolf.

He put his arms out wide, making himself appear as big as possible. Perhaps the light from his phone would blind it. Or at least scare it away.

But the creature was made of sterner stuff.

The wolf took one slow, careful, almost delicate step forward. Then another. So close now Armand could see its raised hackles and the yellow of its bared teeth.

Their eyes locked. Do you stare into the eyes of a wild animal? Or look away? Should he growl back?

He had no idea. But he'd better decide quickly.

This would not be solved by walking. Or even running. Saint Augustine suddenly seemed not so brilliant. Nor , thought Armand, am I. If he died now, it wouldn't be the wolf's fault. He'd have been killed by stupidity.

Idiot, idiot, idiot. He hoped that was not going to be his last thought.

Idiot.

Then both man and wolf turned their heads, at another sound. Something else was approaching. Something even bigger. Oh, God , thought Armand. It's a bear.

" Patron? "

The wolf turned back to Armand, gave another low growl, then bounded off into the thick forest.

"Armand?" said Jean-Guy, approaching through the woods. "Was that a coyote?"

"A wolf." He was panting as though he'd run a great distance and realized he'd been holding his breath.

"Fucking hell." Jean-Guy placed his hand on his holster and stared into the forest, but it was too dark to see anything. "Let's get out of here."

Gamache scooped up the map. Then they quickly retraced their steps, glancing behind them now and then.

"What're you doing out here anyway?"

"Thinking."

"Not very clearly. This is what happens when you think too much," said Jean-Guy. "I'll never be eaten by wolves."

Armand gave a small laugh, then fell silent. After a few steps Jean-Guy looked at him. "What is it?"

"I'm remembering a story Dom Philippe told me, about how the monastery got its name."

"Yes, it now seems obvious. Saint Gilbert Among the Wolves."

Jean-Guy had mistranslated the name of the monastery, Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. A common mistake, and one Armand didn't feel the need to correct. He glanced behind them again, but there was no sign they were being followed. Hunted.

"At least it's not called Saint Gilbert Eaten by Wolves," said Jean-Guy.

Armand laughed again, though with an edge of nerves. "True. That would've been worrisome, though at least a warning."

Jean-Guy muttered something about not needing a warning.

"Before coming out, I spoke to the Keeper of the Keys," said Armand. "He insists that no letters came from the Vatican."

"But Frère Simon said—"

"Yes."

"One of them's lying."

"Or not," said Gamache.

"What do you mean?"

They were out of the woods and heading for the monastery when they heard the first deep toll.

"Damn." Gamache started toward the huge doors, but Jean-Guy got there first. Picking up the iron bar, he pounded.

Nothing. He hit it again.

"Lauds," said Gamache.

"That's not the word that comes to my mind," said Jean-Guy, dropping the iron rod.

"It's the first service. The monk must've gone to it."

"And locked us out. How long will it last?"

"Twenty minutes or so."

As the solemn bells stopped and the last toll drifted over the lake and into the dark forest, the first rays of the sun struck the monastery. Only then did they notice the pilot on the dock checking out the plane.

"He'd better not leave without us," said Jean-Guy.

As they walked toward the rocky shore, Jean-Guy made sure to place himself between Armand and the forest, in case the wolf returned.

"I thought you were taking the vow," said Armand.

"If they'd had those little chocolate-covered blueberries, absolutely. But since they don't…"

Jean-Guy picked up a stone, examined it, then he skipped it across the lake. "One, two…" He counted five skips, then turned to Gamache.

"Tell me about the wolf."

They could hear singing. Very, very softly, it drifted out of the monastery, as though the building itself were exhaling prayers.

"There's nothing to tell," said Armand. "It just appeared. It was foolish of me to walk alone in the woods at dawn."

" Oui. But I meant the ones in the name. You were just thinking of it. It's a strange thing to call a monastery, isn't it? After wolves. Aren't they normally called something like Saint Gilbert of the Sacred Heart? Or Saint Gilbert of Eternal Life. It's like calling it Saint Gilbert of the Disembowelment. Not very welcoming."

"It's not ‘Among the Wolves.'"

"What do you mean?"

Armand picked up a pebble. He studied it for a moment, dropped it, and after choosing another, he cocked his arm and whipped it across the smooth water in a practiced movement. Plop, plop…

Four skips. "Not as good as you."

"Stick with me, kid. I'll teach you all I know," said Jean-Guy, with a grin. "So, if that isn't the name of this place, what is?"

"When we were here last, the Abbot told me it's actually Saint Gilbert Between the Wolves."

"Between, among, does it matter?"

"Probably not. You asked. That's the answer." He turned to look at the high thick walls of the building. "Their robes are black with a white hood, but I've only just noticed on this visit that it isn't white, it's actually a light grey."

"You didn't get much sleep, did you? You might need a nap on the plane."

Gamache smiled. "I might." He wondered if he should tell Jean-Guy the rest. Where the abbey actually got its strange name. But that would risk opening an old wound. And it probably didn't matter.

Probably.

He looked down at the map he still clasped. And thought of Charles Langlois and Dom Philippe. And nosy Frère Simon. And felt more anxious than ever to get back inside Saint Gilbert Between the Wolves.

"What did you mean when you said that it's possible neither Simon nor the Keeper of the Keys was lying about the letters from the Vatican?" said Beauvoir. "They contradicted each other. One must be."

They'd found comfortable rocks and were now sitting on the shore, watching the sky shift from mauve to a soft blue. Only the morning star remained, bright on the horizon.

"Let me ask you this," said Gamache. "If you discovered someone at work was opening and reading your mail, what would you do?"

"I'm thinking pistol-whip them isn't the answer you're looking for."

"The first thing you'd do, before anything else, is make sure it stopped."

"By—"

"No, not by pistol-whipping them. You'd tell the person collecting the mail to hand it directly to you from now on. Cut out the middle person."

"Honestly, that's not what I'd do. And neither would you. You'd discipline the person and probably transfer them out."

"Eventually, yes, but first I'd make sure that person did not have access to any more mail. Get rid of the problem first, then deal with blame." He tossed a stone into the lake and saw minnows scatter. He thought, for a moment, what that must have been like, from the minnow's point of view. To have the equivalent of a bomb drop on them.

"The S?reté isn't a monastery," Gamache continued, and watched as one, then two minnows approached the stone and seemed to stare at it. In wonderment? In fear? Were they brave, foolhardy, curious? Had the stone become a god?

"This is a closed community." He looked at Jean-Guy. "Saint-Gilbert is essentially a lifeboat. You need to live with these people, you can't make war on other passengers in the lifeboat. Any transgression must be handled delicately."

"You think the Abbot told the Keeper to stop giving mail to Frère Simon, and to hand it out directly."

"We'll find out. Mostly we need to find out what Simon knows about the contents of those letters."

"But still, why didn't the Keeper tell you about the Abbot's directive and the Vatican letters?"

"He didn't because he didn't know about them. I think this Keeper of the Keys is new to the post. He wasn't the one on duty when Dom Philippe was here. Once the Abbot left, Simon was free to make changes. I think he put someone else at the door and went back to the old system, where all the mail went through him."

"So he could go back to reading it. This Keeper wouldn't have known about the Abbot's directive, and he wouldn't have seen the Vatican letters. They were delivered before he got the job."

"I was talking to the wrong monk."

"We need to find the previous Keeper."

"Now who's thinking?" said Gamache, as though talking to a puppy. Who's a good boy?

Beauvoir's face cracked into a smile. Then settled back to serious. "Knowing what he was like, and not trusting him, why would the Abbot leave Frère Simon in charge? Why not choose one of the other monks?"

Gamache had wondered the same thing, but then he remembered his talks with Dom Philippe on their first visit. The Abbot was kindly, yes. Not very worldly. But still wise. Very astute. He might not know much about the outside world, but he knew the one inside the walls very well. He might not be up on the news, but he was well-versed in human nature.

"He was depending on Simon's weakness. Dom Philippe knew I'd come looking for him. Made sure I did. And he knew that the monk I'd have most contact with would be the acting Abbot. Frère Simon."

"He wanted you to talk to him. To question him. Simon's the only person here who knew what the letters said. The Abbot wanted you to get the information out of him. But he was still reluctant. He didn't tell us everything."

"True. He was in a prickly position. He wanted to blurt out what he knew, but he also knew it would expose him."

"A rock and a hard place." Jean-Guy almost had sympathy for Simon. Almost.

"We need to find the original Keeper of the Keys and confirm all this." Armand turned to look back at the abbey. They hadn't heard singing in a few minutes. "Try the door again. Lauds must be over."

While Beauvoir did that, Gamache walked down the long wharf to the plane and the pilot.

"Look at that," said the pilot, pointing into the clear water. "What I wouldn't give for a fishing rod."

"Bass," said Gamache. Water made everything look bigger, but still what he saw swimming languidly just off the dock were plump, healthy fish.

"I wonder why the monks don't catch them."

"I think they have an aversion to killing."

"Fish?"

"Anything."

"Wasn't Christ a fisherman?"

"A fisher of men. And he didn't actually eat them."

Just then, Beauvoir shouted. The huge doors were open.

"Are we ready to go?" Gamache asked the pilot, who looked into the sky.

" Oui, patron. It's light enough now. Just say the word."

"Give us half an hour."