A sharp, determined footfall echoed in the chapel. Both men turned toward it, though each knew what they’d see. Not one of the soft-footed monks, that was certain.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur was walking toward them, his feet clacking on the stone floor.
“Gentlemen,” said Francoeur. “Did you enjoy your lunch?” He turned to Gamache. “I could hear you and the other monk discussing poultry, was it?”
“Chickens,” confirmed Gamache. “Chantecler, to be exact.”
Beauvoir repressed a smile. Francoeur hadn’t meant for Gamache to be quite so enthusiastic. Asshole, thought Beauvoir. And then he caught sight of Francoeur’s cold eyes, staring at the Chief, and his smile froze on his face.
“I hope you have something more useful planned for this afternoon,” said the Superintendent, his voice casual.
“We do. Inspector Beauvoir is planning to tour the basement with Frère Raymond, looking for a possible hidden room. And maybe even the murder weapon,” Gamache added. “And I’m off to speak further with the abbot’s secretary, Frère Simon. The man I was talking to over lunch.”
“About pigs perhaps, or goats?”
Beauvoir grew very still. And watched the two men, in the peaceful, cool chapel, glare at each other. For a beat.
And then Gamache smiled.
“If he’d like, but mostly about that chant I told you about.”
“The one found on Frère Mathieu?” asked Francoeur. “Why talk to the abbot’s secretary about that?”
“He’s making a copy of it, by hand. I’m just going to get it.”
Beauvoir noticed that Gamache was underplaying what he wanted to speak to Frère Simon about.
“You gave him the one piece of solid evidence we have?”
That Francoeur was incredulous was obvious. What wasn’t obvious to Beauvoir was how Gamache managed to not snap back.
“I had no choice. I needed the monks’ help in figuring out what it is. Since they don’t have a photocopier, this seemed the only solution. If you have another I’d be happy to hear it, sir.”
Francoeur barely pretended at civility anymore. Beauvoir could hear his breathing from feet away. He suspected the monks, silently moving along the edges of the Blessed Chapel, could also hear the deep and ragged breaths. Like bellows, fanning Francoeur’s rage.
“Then I’ll come with you,” said the Superintendent. “To see this famous piece of paper.”
“With pleasure,” said Gamache, and pointed the way.
“Actually,” said Beauvoir, thinking quickly. It felt a bit like leaping off a cliff. “I was wondering if the Superintendent would like to come with me.”
Both men now stared at Beauvoir. And he could feel himself in free fall.
“Why?” they asked together.
“Well…” He couldn’t possibly give them the real reason. That he’d seen the murderous look in Francoeur’s eyes. And he’d seen the Chief slip his right hand into his left. And hold it softly there.
“Well,” Beauvoir repeated. “I thought the Superintendent might like a tour of the abbey, the places most people never see. And I could use his help.”
Beauvoir saw Gamache’s brows rise, ever so slightly, then lower. And Beauvoir looked away, unable to meet his Chief’s eyes.
Gamache was annoyed at Beauvoir. It happened from time to time, of course, in the high-stress, high-stakes job they had. They’d sometimes clash. But never had he seen that look on Gamache’s face.
It was annoyance, but it was more than that. The Chief knew perfectly well what Beauvoir was doing. And Gamache’s feelings about it went way beyond mere disapproval, beyond anger even. Beauvoir knew the man enough to see that.
There was something else in the Chief’s face, visible for just that instant, when he’d raised his brows.
It was fear.
TWENTY-TWO
Jean-Guy Beauvoir grabbed the rolled-up plans of the monastery off the desk in the prior’s office. As he did he glanced at Gamache, who sat in the visitor’s chair. On his lap were the coroner’s and forensic reports.
Francoeur was waiting for Beauvoir in the Blessed Chapel and he had to hurry back. But still, he paused.
Gamache put his half-moon reading glasses on, then looked at Beauvoir.
“I’m sorry if I overstepped, Chief,” said Beauvoir. “I just…”
“Yes, I know what you ‘just.’” Gamache’s voice was unyielding. Little warmth left in it. “He’s no fool, you know, Jean-Guy. Don’t treat him like that. And never treat me like that.”