Maybe Dom Philippe was amazed that he himself could, and did, kill.
The Chief Inspector took half a step back. Physically, not much, but it was a signal to the monk that he had a little space, and time. To compose himself. To gather himself and his wits back up. It might have been a mistake, the Chief knew, to give Frère Simon this time. His colleagues, including Jean-Guy, would almost certainly have pressed on. Knowing the man was on his knees, they’d have forced him to the ground.
But Gamache knew that while that sort of thing might be effective in the short term, a man humiliated, emotionally raped, would never again open up.
Besides, while Gamache wanted very much to solve the crime, he didn’t want to lose his soul in the process. He suspected there were enough lost souls already.
“Why would Dom Philippe kill the prior?” Gamache eventually asked.
The garden was quiet, all sound muffled by the mist. Not that there was much sound to begin with. Birds called every now and then, chipmunks and squirrels chattered at each other. Twigs and branches broke, as something larger moved through the thick Canadian forest.
All muffled now.
“You were right about the rift,” said Frère Simon. “As soon as that first recording was a success things started falling apart. Ego, I suspect. And power. Suddenly there was something worth fighting over. Up until then we were all equal, just sort of meandering through our days in a rickety old monastery. We were quite happy, certainly content. But the recording brought so much attention, and so much money so quickly.”
The monk raised his palms to the gray sky and gave a little shrug.
“The abbot wanted us to take it slowly. To not rush off and leave our vows behind. But the prior and others saw the success as a sign from God, that we needed to be out in the world more. To share our gifts.”
“Each claimed to know God’s will,” said the Chief.
“We were having some difficulty interpreting it,” Frère Simon admitted with a small smile.
“Perhaps not the first religieux to have that problem.”
“You think?”
It was as Gamache had heard from everyone except the abbot. Before the recording the monastery was falling apart but the congregation was solid. After the recording the monastery was being repaired but the congregation was falling apart.
Some malady is coming upon us.
The abbot was stuck trying to figure out the will of a God who seemed himself conflicted.
“The abbot and his prior were good friends, even loving friends, before the recording.”
The monk nodded.
Gamache thought the Gilbertines could begin a new calendar. There was BR, before the recording. And AR.
Some malady is coming upon us. Disguised as a miracle.
They were now roughly two years AR. Plenty of time for a close friendship to turn to hate. As only a good friendship could. The conduit to the heart was already created.
“And the piece of paper,” Gamache asked, indicating the yellowed chant he still held. “What part could this have played?”
Frère Simon thought about that. As did Gamache.
The two men stood in the garden, as the mist slipped over the wall.
“The abbot loves plainchant,” said Frère Simon, speaking slowly, working his way through this. “And he has a wonderful voice. Very clear, very true.”
“But?”
“But he isn’t the most gifted musician in Saint-Gilbert. And he isn’t fluent in Latin. Like the rest of us, he knows scripture and the Latin mass. But beyond that, he wasn’t a Latin scholar. You might have noticed, all his books are in French, not Latin.”
Gamache had noticed.
“I doubt he’d know the Latin word for ‘banana,’ for instance.” Simon pointed to that silly phrase.
“But you did,” said Gamache.
“I looked it up.”
“As could the abbot.”
“But why would he look up and use a string of nonsense words in Latin?” asked Frère Simon. “If he was going to put Latin words on paper he’d probably use bits of prayers or chants. I doubt he was Gilbert to the prior’s Sullivan. Or the other way around.”
Gamache nodded. That had been his reasoning as well. He could see the abbot braining the prior, in a fit of passion. Not sexual passion, but a much more dangerous kind. A religious fervor. Believing Frère Mathieu was going to kill the monastery, kill the order. And it was Dom Philippe’s burden, given by God, to stop him.
It was also Dom Philippe’s job, as father to his sons, to protect them. And that meant protecting their home. Defending their home. Gamache had looked into the eyes of too many grieving fathers not to know the force of that love.
