One monk looked frightened. Frère Simon.
“What’s that you’re humming?”
The question came from the head of the table. But not from Dom Philippe. It was the Dominican who’d asked the question. His young face was interested, good-natured. Not angry, not pained, not scandalized.
In fact, Frère Sébastien seemed sincerely interested.
“I’m sorry,” said Gamache, “I didn’t realize I was humming so loud. Désolé.”
But the Chief Inspector didn’t look at all desolate.
“I think it’s a Canadian folk song,” said Frère Simon, his voice slightly higher than usual.
“Is that right? It’s very pretty.”
“Actually, mon frère,” said Gamache, and beside him Frère Simon was squirming and knocking his knee against Gamache beneath the table, “it’s a chant. I have it stuck in my head. Can’t seem to get it out.”
“It’s not a chant,” said Simon quickly. “He thinks it is but I was trying to explain that a chant is much simpler.”
“Whatever it is, it’s very beautiful,” said Frère Sébastien.
“Much better than the song it replaced in my head. ‘Camptown Races.’”
“Camptown racetrack’s five miles long. Doo-dah, doo-dah,” Frère Sébastien sang. “That one?”
All eyes swung from the Chief Inspector to the newcomer. Even Gamache was speechless for a moment.
Frère Sébastien had made the silly old song sound like a work of genius. As though Mozart or Handel or Beethoven had written it. If the works of da Vinci could turn themselves into music, they’d have sounded like that.
“All the doo-dah day,” Frère Sébastien concluded with a smile.
These monks, who sang so gloriously for God, looked at the Dominican as though at a brand-new creature.
“Who are you?”
It was Frère Antoine who asked. The new choirmaster. He wasn’t demanding, not at all accusing. His face and voice held a note of wonderment Gamache hadn’t heard before.
The Chief looked at the other monks.
The discomfort had disappeared. The anxiety gone. Frère Simon had forgotten to be taciturn, Brother Charles was no longer fearful.
What they did look was deeply curious.
“I’m Frère Sébastien. A simple Dominican friar.”
“But who are you?” Frère Antoine persisted.
Frère Sébastien carefully folded his napkin and placed it in front of him. Then he looked down the long wooden table, worn and marked by hundreds and hundreds of years of Gilbertines sitting at it.
“I said I came from Rome,” he began, “but I wasn’t very specific. I come from the Palace of the Holy Office at the Vatican. I work at the CDF.”
Now the silence was profound.
“The CDF?” Gamache asked.
“The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.” Frère Sébastien turned to Gamache and clarified. He had an apologetic look on his nondescript face.
Fear had crept back into the room. Whereas before it seemed vague, without form, now it had a form and a focus. The pleasant young monk at the head of the table, sitting beside the abbot. The hound of the Lord.
As he looked at Frère Sébastien and Dom Philippe side by side, the Chief Inspector was reminded of the unlikely emblem of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. Two wolves, intertwined. One wore black on white, the other, the abbot, wore white on black. Polar opposites. Sébastien, young and vital. Dom Philippe, older and aging by the moment.
Entre les loups. Among the wolves.
“The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith?” asked Gamache.
“The Inquisition,” said Frère Simon, in a very small voice.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Gamache and Beauvoir waited until they were back in the prior’s office to talk. Superintendent Francoeur had corralled the newcomer right after dinner and the two had stayed in the dining hall.
Everyone else had left as soon as they politely could.
“Jeez,” said Beauvoir. “The Inquisition. I didn’t expect that.”
“No one does,” said Gamache. “There hasn’t been an Inquisition in hundreds of years. I wonder why he’s here?”
Beauvoir crossed his arms and leaned against the door while Gamache sat behind the desk. Only then did he notice the other chair was broken, and leaning, crooked, in a corner.
Gamache said nothing, but looked at Beauvoir and raised a brow.