“He had to.”
“Yes, I know. He had no choice.”
Francoeur examined Beauvoir, apparently trying to make up his mind about something.
“He probably likes you. Like he likes his car or a nice suit. You suit him. You’re useful.” Francoeur paused. “But that’s all.”
His voice was soft, reasonable.
“You’ll never be his friend. You’ll never be anything other than a convenient subordinate. He has you over to his home, treats you like a son. But then he leaves you to die. Don’t be fooled, Inspector. You’ll never be a member of his family. He comes from Outremont. Where’re you from? East end Montréal, right? Balconville? He went to Cambridge and Université Laval. You went to some grungy public school and played shinny on the streets. He quotes poetry and you don’t understand it, do you?”
There was a gentleness in his tone.
“A lot of what he says you don’t understand. Am I right?”
Despite himself, Beauvoir nodded.
“Neither do I,” said Francoeur with a small smile. “I know after that raid you separated from your wife. I’m sorry to be so personal, but I wondered…”
Francoeur’s voice petered out and he looked almost bashful. Then he met Beauvoir’s eyes and held them for a moment.
“I wondered if you were in a new relationship.”
On seeing Beauvoir’s reaction Francoeur held up his hand. “I know, it’s none of my business.”
But still he held Beauvoir’s eyes and now he lowered his voice still further.
“Be careful. You’re a good officer. I think you can be a great officer, if given a chance. If you can just get out on your own. I’ve seen you texting, and making sure the Chief didn’t see.”
Now there was a long silence between them.
“Is it Annie Gamache?”
The silence was complete. Not a bird called, not a leaf quivered, not a wave came to shore. The world disappeared and all that was left were two men and a question.
Finally Francoeur sighed. “I hope I’m wrong.”
He walked back to the door, took out the iron knocker, and hit.
It opened.
But Beauvoir saw none of this. He’d turned his back on Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups and looked out across where the tranquil lake would be, if it hadn’t disappeared into the mist.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir’s world was upside down. The clouds had descended, and the sky had become slate. And the only familiar thing was the ache too deep to grasp.
TWENTY-SIX
“Why did you hide the murder weapon?” Gamache asked. “And why didn’t you tell us about the prior’s last words?”
Frère Simon dropped his eyes to the stone floor of the abbot’s rooms, then lifted them again.
“I think you can guess.”
“I can always guess, mon frère,” said the Chief. “What I need from you is the truth.”
Gamache looked around. They’d returned to the privacy of the abbot’s office. The weak sun no longer lit the room, and his secretary had been too distracted to turn on the lamps, or to even notice they were needed.
“Can we speak in the garden?” Gamache asked, and Frère Simon nodded.
He seemed to have run out of words, as though he was allocated only so many, and he’d used enough for a lifetime.
But it was his actions that were being called to account now.
The two men walked through the bookcase, filled with volumes on early Christian mystics, like Julian of Norwich, Hildegard of Bingen, and the writings of other great Christian minds, from Erasmus to C. S. Lewis. Filled with books on prayer and meditation. On leading a spiritual life. On leading a Catholic life.
They swung aside the words, and walked into the world.
The hills outside the wall were thick with low-hanging cloud. Mist was sitting on the trees, and among the trees, turning the world from the brilliant colors of that morning to shades of gray.
Far from diminishing the beauty, it seemed to add to it, giving the world a degree of softness, and subtlety, of comfort and intimacy.
Wrapped in a towel in the Chief’s hand was the length of iron that, like a magic wand, had turned the living prior into a dead body.
Frère Simon walked to the center of the garden, and paused under the huge nearly bare maple tree.
“Why didn’t you tell us that the prior spoke to you?” said Gamache.
“Because his words were in the form of a confession. My sort, not yours. It was my moral obligation.”
“You have convenient morals, mon frère. They seem to allow lying.”