“And after the prior’s death, mon frère? Which of the monks was most upset?”
“Well, we were all devastated. Even those brothers who bitterly opposed him were shocked.”
“Bien sûr,” said the Chief, shaking his head and refusing more chocolate. If he didn’t stop now, he’d eat them all. “But can you separate them out? The community here isn’t amorphous. You might sing with a single voice, but you don’t react with a single emotion.”
“True.” The doctor sat back and thought about that for a moment. “I’d say two people were the most upset. Frère Luc. He’s the youngest of us, the most impressionable. And the least connected to the community. His only connection seems to be the choir. And, of course, Frère Mathieu was the choirmaster. He adored Frère Mathieu. He was a big reason Luc joined the little old Gilbertines. To study under the prior, and to sing the Gregorian chants.”
“Are the chants here that different? Dom Philippe says every monastery sings from the same book of plainchant.”
“True. But strangely enough they sound different here. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the prior. Or the acoustics. Or the specific combination of voices.”
“I understand Frère Luc has a beautiful voice.”
“He does. Technically the best of all of us. By far.”
“But?”
“Oh, he’ll get there. Once he learns to channel those emotions from his head and into his heart. One day he’ll be the choirmaster himself. And he’ll be a magnificent one. He has all the passion, he just needs to direct it.”
“But will he stay?”
The medical monk absently ate a few more blueberries. “Now that Frère Mathieu is dead? I don’t know. Perhaps not. It was a huge loss to the whole community, but perhaps to Frère Luc most of all. I think there was some hero worship there. Not unusual in a mentor-pupil relationship.”
“Was the prior Frère Luc’s mentor?”
“He mentored all of us, but since Luc was the newest he needed the most guidance.”
“Could Frère Luc have misread their relationship? Assumed it was more special? Unique even?”
“In what way?” Frère Charles, while still cordial, was now guarded. They all became defensive, when there was any suggestion of a “special” friendship.
“Could he have thought the choir director was grooming him? That this was more than simply schooling him in the ways of this particular choir?”
“It’s possible,” admitted Frère Charles. “But the prior would have been sensitive to that and stopped it. Frère Luc wouldn’t have been the first monk to fall under his spell.”
“Had Frère Antoine? The soloist?” asked Gamache. “They must have been close.”
“You’re not suggesting Frère Antoine killed the prior in some fit of jealousy, when the prior turned his attentions to Luc?” The doctor all but snorted.
But Gamache knew laughter often covered up an uncomfortable truth.
“Is it so ludicrous?” asked the Chief.
The smile fell from the monk’s face. “You mistake us for the cast of some soap opera. Frères Antoine and Mathieu were colleagues. They shared a love of Gregorian chant. That is the only love they shared.”
“But that was quite a potent love, wouldn’t you say?” asked Gamache. “All-consuming even.”
The doctor remained silent now, just watching the Chief. Not agreeing. But not disagreeing either.
“You said there were two people most affected by the prior’s death.” Gamache broke the silence. “One was Luc. Who was the other?”
“The abbot. He’s trying to hold it together, but I can see what a strain it is. There’re small signs. A slight inattention. Forgetting things. His appetite is off. I’ve ordered him to eat more. It’s always the small things that give us away, isn’t it?”
Brother Charles dropped his gaze, to the Chief Inspector’s hands, one lightly clasping the other.
“Are you all right?”
“Me?” asked Gamache, surprised.
The doctor brought his hand up and grazed his finger along his left temple.
“Ah,” said the Chief. “That. You noticed.”
“I’m a medical man,” said Brother Charles with a smile. “I almost never miss a deep scar on the temple.” Then his face grew serious. “Or a trembling hand.”
“An old issue,” said Gamache. “In the past.”