Then his eyes opened.
“Thank you for not interrupting Vespers,” he said, not looking at Gamache, but continuing to soak in the natural world around him.
“You’re welcome.”
They took a few more steps.
“Thank you too for bringing Mathieu to the altar.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I don’t know if you realized it, but it gave us a chance to offer special prayers. For the dead.”
“I wasn’t sure,” admitted the Chief Inspector, also looking ahead at the mirror lake. “But I thought I heard Dies irae.”
The abbot nodded, “And Dies illa.”
Day of wrath. Day of mourning.
“Are the monks mourning?” asked Gamache. Their gait had slowed almost to a halt.
The Chief had expected an immediate answer, a shocked reply. But instead the abbot seemed to consider.
“Mathieu wasn’t always an easy man.” He smiled a little as he spoke. “No one is, I suppose. One thing we learn early when committing to a monastic life is that we have to accept each other.”
“And what happens if you don’t?”
The abbot paused again. It had been a simple question, but Gamache could see the answer wasn’t simple.
“That can be very bad,” said the abbot. He didn’t meet Gamache’s eyes. “It happens. But we learn to set aside our own feelings for the greater good. We learn to get along.”
“But not necessarily to like each other,” said Gamache. It wasn’t a question. He knew the Sûreté was much the same. There were a few colleagues he didn’t like, and he knew the feeling was mutual. Indeed, “didn’t like” was a euphemism. The feeling had gone from disagreement, to dislike, to distrust. And was growing still. It had settled, for now, on mutual loathing. Gamache didn’t know where it would stop, but he could imagine. The fact these people were his superiors made it simply more uncomfortable. It meant, at least for now, they had to figure out how to exist together. Either that, or tear each other and the service apart. And Gamache, as he tilted his own face to the glorious sunset, knew that was a possibility. In the calm of the early evening it seemed far away, but he knew this peaceful time wouldn’t last. Night was coming. And it was a fool who met it unprepared.
“Who could have done this, mon père?”
Now they were stopped on the dock, watching as the boatman and the officers secured Frère Mathieu’s covered body to the boat, beside the catch of bass and trout and the writhing worms.
Again the abbot considered. “I don’t know. I should know, but I don’t.”
He looked behind him. The monks had ventured out and were standing in a semi-circle, watching them. Frère Simon, the abbot’s secretary, was standing a step or two forward.
“Poor one,” said Dom Philippe under his breath.
“Who do you mean?”
“Pardon?”
“You said, ‘Poor one.’ Who did you mean?” asked Gamache.
“Whoever did this.”
“And who is that, Dom Philippe?” He’d had the impression the abbot had been looking at one monk as he’d spoken. Brother Simon. The sad monk. The one who’d separated himself from the rest.
There was a moment’s tense silence as the abbot looked at his community, and Gamache looked at the abbot. Finally the abbot turned back to the Chief Inspector.
“I don’t know who killed Mathieu.”
He shook his head. A weary smile appeared on the abbot’s face. “I actually believed I could look at them just now and tell. That there’d be something different about him. Or me. That I’d just know.”
The abbot gave a small grunt of laughter. “Ego. Hubris.”
“And?” asked Gamache.
“It didn’t work.”
“Don’t feel badly, I do the same thing. I have yet to look at anyone and know immediately that they’re the killer, but I still try.”
“And what would you do if it worked?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Suppose you did look at someone, and just knew?”
Gamache smiled. “I’m not sure I’d trust myself. Probably think it was all in my imagination. Besides, it wouldn’t impress a judge if on the stand I said, ‘I just knew.’”
“That’s the difference between us, Chief Inspector. You need proof in your line of work. I don’t.”
The abbot glanced behind them again and Gamache wondered if this was idle conversation, or something more. The semi-circle of monks continued to watch.