“Any choir would be better with me in it.”
The two men stared at each other. It now struck Gamache that this might not be pride or bragging. It might be a simple statement of fact. Just as monks might learn to accept their failings, maybe they also learned to accept their gifts. And not pretend, for the sake of a false humility, not to have them.
This man didn’t hide his gift. And yet, he did hide his voice. In a vow of silence. In a monastery far, far away from people. From an audience.
Unless.
“So, you weren’t on this first disk—”
Luc shook his head.
“—but were there more recordings planned?”
Frère Luc paused. “Oui. Frère Mathieu was excited about it. He had all the pieces chosen.”
Gamache pulled the paper from his satchel. “Is this one of them?”
Luc took it from the Chief. He was totally focused. Completely still. His brows drew together and he shook his head, handing the paper back.
“I can’t tell you what this is, monsieur. But I can tell you what it isn’t. It’s not a Gregorian chant.”
“How can you tell?”
Luc smiled. “There’re very clear rules to a chant. Like a sonnet, or haiku. Things you must do, and things you mustn’t. A Gregorian chant is about discipline, and simplicity. The humility to submit to the rules, and the inspiration to rise above them. The challenge is to use the rules and transcend them at the same time. To sing to God, and not impose your own ego. That,” he gestured to the paper, now back in Gamache’s hand, “is nonsense.”
“You mean the words?”
“I don’t understand the words. What I mean is the rhythm, the meter. It’s way off. Too fast. Not even close to a Gregorian chant.”
“But it has these things.” Gamache pointed to the squiggles above the words. “Neumes, right?”
“Right. That’s what’s so troubling about it.”
“Troubling, Frère Luc?”
“It’s meant to look like a Gregorian chant. It’s masquerading as one. But it’s an imposter. Where did you find it?”
“On the body of Frère Mathieu.”
Luc blanched. Gamache knew that there were two things a person could not create, no matter how much they willed it. A blanch and a blush.
“What does that tell you, Frère Luc?”
“That the prior died trying to protect what he loved.”
“This?” Gamache lifted the page.
“No, not that at all. He must have taken that from someone here. Someone who was trying to turn the chants into a joke. Trying to make them an abomination. And the prior wanted to stop it.”
“You think this was done as an insult?”
“Someone knew Gregorian chants and neumes enough to mock them. Yes, it was done on purpose, as an insult.”
“Someone here, you said. Who?” Gamache watched the young monk.
Frère Luc was quiet.
Gamache waited. Then he spoke, recognizing that sometimes silence was a useful tactic. Much more oppressive and threatening than hurled insults. But here silence was their comfort. It was the spoken word that seemed to frighten the monks.
“Who hated Frère Mathieu enough to mock his life’s work?” Gamache persisted. “Who hated him enough to kill him?”
Luc remained silent.
“If every monk here loves the chants, why would one mock them? Create what you call an abomination?” Gamache held the vellum up and leaned forward very slightly. Luc backed away very slightly, but he had nowhere to go.
“I don’t know,” said Luc. “I’d tell you if I did.”
The Chief studied Frère Luc, and thought he probably would. He loved the chants and clearly admired and respected the prior. Frère Luc would not protect any man who was out to kill both. But while this monk might not know who did it, he might have suspicions. As the abbot had said earlier, Gamache needed proof, but a monk only needed his beliefs. Did Frère Luc believe he knew who’d killed the prior, and mocked the chants? And was he arrogant enough to think he could deal with them on his own?
The Chief Inspector held the monk’s eyes and when he spoke his voice was stern.
“You must help me find out who did this.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“But you suspect.”
“No. That’s not true.”
“A murderer is walking these halls, young man. A killer is trapped in here with us. With you.”
