“Frère Simon made copies so that he and the other monks could transcribe the neumes into notes,” Gamache explained. “He seemed to think the neumes were for different voices. Layers of voices. Harmonizing.”
“Hmmm,” said Frère Sébastien, again lost in the music. His finger rested, awkwardly it seemed to Gamache, on one place on the page. When the monk finally moved it, Gamache saw that the finger had covered a small dot at the very beginning of the music. Before the first neume.
“Is it old?” asked Gamache.
“Oh, no. Not at all. It’s made to look old, of course, but I’d be surprised if this was written more than a few months ago.”
“By whom?”
“Now that I can’t possibly say. But I can tell you, it would have to be by someone who knows a lot about Gregorian chant. About the structure of them. About neumes, of course. But not a great deal of Latin.” He looked at Gamache with barely disguised wonder. “You may have been one of the first people on earth to hear a whole new musical form, Chief Inspector,” said Frère Sébastien. “It must have been thrilling.”
“You know, it was,” admitted Gamache. “Though I had no idea what I was hearing. But after he sang, Frère Simon pointed out something about the Latin. He said that while it’s pretty much just a string of funny phrases, it actually makes sense musically.”
“He’s right.” The monk nodded agreement.
“What do you mean?” asked Beauvoir.
“The words, the syllables, match the notes. Like lyrics, or the words of a poem. The meter has to fit. These words fit the music, but make no sense otherwise.”
“So why’re they there?” Beauvoir asked. “They have to mean something.”
All three stared down at the sheet of music. But it told them nothing.
“Now it’s your turn, mon frère,” said Gamache. “We’ve told you about the music. It’s your turn to tell us the truth.”
“About why I’m here?”
“Exactly.”
“You think it’s not about the murder of the prior?” the Dominican asked.
“I do. The timing’s off. You couldn’t have come all the way from the Vatican this quickly,” said Gamache. “And even if you could, your reaction when you arrived wasn’t grief shared with fellow monks. It was delight. You greeted these monks as though you’d been looking for them a long time.”
“And I have. The Church has been looking. I mentioned the archives of the Inquisition and finding the warrant ordering the Gilbertines to be investigated.”
“Oui,” said Gamache, growing guarded.
“Well, the investigation never ended. I have scores of predecessors in the Congregation who spent their lifetimes trying to find the Gilbertines. When they died another took over. Not a year, not a day, not an hour has gone by since they disappeared that we haven’t been looking for them.”
“The hounds of the Lord,” said Gamache.
“C’est ça. Bloodhounds. We never gave up.”
“But it’s been centuries,” said Beauvoir. “Why would you keep looking? Why would it matter?”
“Because the Church doesn’t like mysteries, except those of its own making.”
“Or God’s?” asked Gamache.
“Those the Church tolerates,” admitted the monk, again with a disarming smile.
“Then how’d you finally find them?” asked Beauvoir.
“Can you guess?”
“If I wanted to guess I would have,” snapped Beauvoir. The confined space was getting to him. He felt the walls closing in. Felt oppressed, by the monastery, by the monk, by the Church. All he wanted was to get out. Get some air. He felt he was suffocating.
“The recording,” said Gamache after a moment’s thought.
Frère Sébastien nodded. “That’s it. The image on the cover of the CD. It was a stylized monk in profile. Almost a cartoon.”
“The robes,” said Gamache.
“Oui. The robes were black, with a small bit of white for the hood and chest, and draping over the shoulders. It’s unique.”
“Some malady is coming upon us,” quoted Gamache. “Maybe that’s the malady.”
“The music?” asked Beauvoir.
“Modern times,” said Frère Sébastien. “That’s what came upon the Gilbertines.”
The Chief nodded. “For centuries they’ve sung their chants, in anonymity. But now technology allowed them to transmit it to the world.”