“And what did the rumors say the treasure was?”
“That was conveniently unclear,” said the abbot with a smile. “Couldn’t have been much, since the original two dozen monks would have had to paddle it up the river all the way from Québec City. And I can tell you, if you couldn’t eat it or wear it, it probably didn’t come on the voyage.”
Since those were pretty much his own packing rules, Gamache accepted the abbot’s explanation. Besides, what could men who’d taken vows of silence, poverty and isolation possibly treasure? Though even as he asked himself that question he knew the answer. People always found things to treasure. For little boys it was arrowheads and cat’s-eye marbles. For adolescents it was a cool T-shirt and a signed baseball. And for big boys? Just because they were monks didn’t mean they had no treasures. It simply might not be what others found valuable.
He rested his hand on the end of the plan to keep the paper from curling up. Then looked over to where his fingers touched.
“It’s the same paper,” he said, caressing the plan.
“Same as what?” asked the abbot.
“As this.” Once again, the Chief brought the page from the book and laid it on top of the plan. “The chant is written on exactly the same paper as the plan for the monastery. Is it possible this,” he touched the chant, “is as old as that?” He nodded to the plan of the monastery. “Were they written at the same time?”
The drawing was dated 1634 and signed Dom Clément, Abbot of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. Below the signature were two figures Gamache had grown to recognize. Wolves, intertwined, apparently sleeping.
Entre les loups. Among the wolves. It suggested coming to an agreement, finding peace rather than banishment or massacre. Perhaps when you flee an Inquisition you’re less likely to visit those horrors on others. Even wolves.
Gamache compared the lettering. Both were simple, the letters not so much written as drawn. Calligraphied. They looked to be done by a similar hand. He’d need an expert to say if the plan and the chant were written by the same man. In 1634.
Dom Philippe shook his head. “It’s certainly the same type of paper. But is it the same vintage? I think the chant was written much more recently, and whoever did it used vellum to make it look old. We have sheets of vellum still, made by monks centuries ago. Before paper.”
“Where do you keep them?”
“Simon?” the abbot called and the monk appeared. “Can you show the Chief Inspector our vellum?”
Frère Simon looked put out, as though this was far too much effort. But he nodded and walked across the room, followed by Gamache. He pulled out a drawer filled with sheets of yellowed paper.
“Are any missing?” asked Gamache.
“Don’t know,” said Simon. “I never counted.”
“What do you use them for?”
“Nothing. They just sit here. In case.”
In case of what? Gamache wondered. Or just, in case.
“Who could’ve taken one?” he asked, feeling he was caught in a perpetual game of Twenty Questions.
“Anyone,” said Frère Simon, closing the drawer. “It’s never locked.”
“But is your office locked?” Gamache turned back to the abbot.
“Never.”
“It was locked when we arrived,” said the Chief.
“I did that,” said Frère Simon. “Wanted to make sure nothing was disturbed when I came to get you.”
“Did you also lock it when you went to find the doctor and the abbot?”
“Oui.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want anyone to come across the body.” The monk was getting defensive, his eyes darting from Gamache to the abbot, who sat quietly listening.
“Did you know it was murder at the time?”
“I knew it wasn’t natural.”
“How many people use the abbot’s garden?” the Chief asked and again saw the monk’s eyes shoot off to the abbot, then back again.
“No one,” said Dom Philippe, getting up and coming over. To the rescue? Gamache wondered. It had that feel. But he wasn’t clear why Frère Simon needed rescuing.
“As I believe I mentioned earlier, Chief Inspector, this is my private garden. A sort of sanctuary. Mathieu used to visit, and Frère Simon does the gardening, but beyond that it’s used only by me.”
“Why?” Gamache asked. “Most other spaces in the abbey are communal. Why’s your garden private?”