He should be heading back. But instead, he picked up another stone and threw it, watching the rings disturb the calm waters.
* * *
“The funny thing is,” said Frère Simon, after he’d stopped singing. “The words actually fit.”
“I thought you said they were ridiculous. Nonsense,” said Gamache.
“They are. What I mean is, they fit the meter of the music. Like lyrics, they have to fit with the rhythm.”
“And these do?” Gamache looked back down at the yellowed page, though he didn’t know what he expected. That some magic would have worked, and he’d suddenly understand? But he understood nothing. Not the words, not the neumes.
“I think whoever wrote this knew music,” said Frère Simon. “But didn’t know how to write lyrics.”
“Like Lerner and Loewe” said Gamache.
“Simon and Garfunkel,” said Frère Simon.
“Gilbert and Sullivan,” said Gamache, smiling.
Simon actually laughed. “I heard they despised each other. Wouldn’t be in the same room.”
“So,” said Gamache, working his way through his thoughts, “the music is beautiful, we agree on that. And the words are ridiculous. We agree on that.”
Frère Simon nodded.
“You’re thinking there was a writing team involved. Not one monk but two?”
“One wrote the music,” said Simon, “and the other wrote the words.”
They looked down at the papers in their hands. Then looked up into each other’s eyes.
“But that doesn’t explain why the words are so stupid,” said Frère Simon.
“Unless whoever wrote the neumes didn’t understand the Latin. Maybe he assumed his partner wrote lyrics as beautiful as the music deserved.”
“And when he found out what the words really meant…” said Frère Simon.
“Oui,” said Gamache. “It led to murder.”
“Do people really kill over something like this?” Simon asked.
“The Church castrated men to keep them sopranos,” Gamache reminded the monk. “Emotions run high when it comes to sacred music. It might not be such a big step from maiming to killing.”
Frère Simon thrust out his lower lip, thinking. It made him look suddenly quite young. A boy, working on a puzzle.
“The prior,” said Gamache. “Which is he likely to have written? The words or the music?”
“The music, without a doubt. He was a world authority on neumes and Gregorian chants.”
“But could he write original music using neumes?” asked the Chief.
“He certainly knew his neumes, so I suppose it’s possible.”
“Something’s bothering you,” said Gamache.
“It just seems unlikely, that’s all. Frère Mathieu loved Gregorian chants. He didn’t just like them, it was a form of adoration for him. A great religious passion.”
Gamache understood what the monk was saying. If he adored the plainchants so much, had made them his life’s work, why would he suddenly diverge from them, and create what the Chief held in his hands?
“Unless…” said Frère Simon.
“Unless he didn’t write this,” said Gamache, lifting the page slightly. “But found it in someone else’s possession and confronted him. In the one place they wouldn’t be seen.”
Which brought the Chief Inspector to his next question. “When you found the prior, was he still alive?”
TWENTY-FOUR
The door to the prior’s office was closed.
The last time Beauvoir had been in this position he’d walked in on what was clearly an argument between Gamache and Francoeur.
He leaned in and listened.
The wood was thick and dense. A hard wood, making it hard to hear. But he could just make out the Chief. The words were muffled, but he recognized the voice.
Beauvoir stood back, wondering what to do. That didn’t take long. If the Chief was again arguing with that fuck-head Francoeur, Beauvoir wasn’t going to let him fight it out alone.
He rapped twice and opened the door.
The sound inside abruptly stopped.
Beauvoir looked around. There was no Gamache.
Superintendent Francoeur sat behind the desk. Alone.
“What is it?” the Superintendent demanded.
It was one of the few times Beauvoir had seen Francoeur rattled. Then Beauvoir noticed the computer. The laptop had been facing in the other direction, toward the visitor’s chair. Now it was turned around, facing Francoeur. He appeared to have been using it when Beauvoir interrupted him.