He searched for a word. It was clearly not something Dom Philippe had had to explain very often. If ever.
“… secret?” offered Gamache.
The abbot smiled. “I was trying to avoid that word, but I suppose it’s accurate. The Gilbertines had a happy, uneventful life for many centuries, in England. And then with the Reformation all the monasteries were closed. That’s when we first started fading. We packed up everything we could carry and disappeared from sight. We found a fairly remote plot of land and rebuilt in France. Then, with the Inquisitions, we again came under scrutiny. The Holy Office interpreted our desire for seclusion as a desire for secrecy, and judged us badly.”
“And you don’t want to be judged badly by the Inquisition,” said Gamache.
“You don’t want to be judged at all by the Inquisition. Ask the Waldensians.”
“The who?”
“Exactly. They lived not far from us in France, a few valleys over. We saw the smoke, inhaled the smoke. Heard the screams.”
Dom Philippe paused, then looked down at his hands clasping each other in his lap. He spoke, Gamache realized, as though he’d been there himself. Breathing in his brother monks.
“So we packed up again,” said the abbot.
“Faded further.”
The abbot nodded. “As far as we could get. We came over to the New World with some of the first settlers. The Jesuits were the ones chosen to convert the natives and head out with the explorers.”
“While the Gilbertines did what?”
“While we paddled north.” The abbot paused then. “When I say we came across with the first settlers, I meant that we came across as settlers. Not as monks. We hid our robes. Hid our holy orders.”
“Why?”
“Because we were worried.”
“Does that explain the thick walls and hidden rooms and locked doors?” asked Gamache.
“So you’ve noticed those?” asked the abbot with a smile.
“I’m a trained observer, mon père,” and Gamache. “Hardly anything gets by my keen eye.”
The abbot gave a soft laugh. He, like the chants themselves, seemed lighter this morning. Less burdened. “We appear to be an order of worriers.”“I notice that Saint Gilbert doesn’t seem to have a calling,” said Gamache. “Perhaps he can become the Patron Saint of Fretters.”
“It would certainly fit. I’ll alert the Holy Father,” said the abbot.
While recognizing the joke, the Chief Inspector suspected this abbot wanted little, if anything, to do with bishops, archbishops or popes.
The Gilbertines, more than anything, just wanted to be left alone.
Dom Philippe moved his hand back to the arm of his chair, his finger probing a hole worn in the fabric. It seemed new to him. A surprise.
“We’re used to solving our own problems,” he said, looking at the Chief. “From roof repairs, to broken heating, to cancer and broken bones. Every single monk who lives here will die here too. We leave everything up to God. From holes in the fabric to harvests to how and when we die.”
“Was what happened in your garden yesterday God’s work?”
The abbot shook his head. “That’s why I decided to call you in. We can handle God’s will, no matter how harsh it can sometimes appear. But this was something else. It was man’s will. And we needed help.”
“Not everyone in your community agrees.”
“You’re thinking of Brother Antoine last night at dinner?”
“I am, and he was clearly not alone.”
“No.” The abbot shook his head, but held Gamache’s eyes. “I’ve learned in more than two decades as abbot that not everyone will agree with my decisions. I can’t worry about that.”
“What do you worry about, mon père?”
“I worry about telling the difference.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Between God’s will and my will. And right now, I’m worried about who killed Mathieu, and why.” He paused, worrying the hole in the upholstery. Making it worse. “And how I could’ve missed it.”
Frère Simon arrived with a scroll and unrolled it on the low pine table in front of the men.
“Merci, Simon,” said the abbot, and leaned forward. Frère Simon made to leave but Gamache stopped him.
“I have another request, I’m afraid. It would be helpful to have a schedule of the services and meals and anything else we should be aware of.”