But even as he said it, Gamache wondered if it was true.
Did they wish Frère Mathieu was still among them? Or did they wish him dead? There was real pain here. The monks of this monastery were devastated. Deeply upset.
But what were they really mourning?
“We all know that the murderer is among us right now. He’s shared our table, eaten the bread. Listened to the prayers and even joined in. I want to speak with him for a moment.” Gamache paused. Not, he hoped, to be melodramatic, but to let his words sink through the armor these monks wore. Cloaks of silence and piety and routine. He needed to break through those, to get to the man inside. The soft center.
“I think you love this abbey and don’t want to hurt your fellow monks. That was never your intention. But as careful as Inspector Beauvoir and I might be, more damage will be done. A murder investigation is catastrophic for all involved. If you thought the worst was the murder, wait for it.”
His voice was quiet but commanding, authoritative. There could be no doubt he was speaking the truth.
“There is one way to stop it, though. Only one.” Gamache let that hang in the air. “You must give yourself up.”
He waited, and they waited.
A throat cleared and all eyes swung to the abbot, who rose to his feet. Eyes widened in shock. Frère Simon also made to get up, but the abbot, in a move barely visible, motioned him down.
Dom Philippe turned to his community. If the tension had been great before, it sizzled now, the room crackling with it.
“No,” said the abbot, “I’m not about to confess. I join the Chief Inspector in asking, begging, whoever did this to come forward.”
No one moved, no one spoke. The abbot addressed Gamache.
“We will cooperate, Chief Inspector. I’ve lifted the vow of silence. There might be a tendency toward silence now, but it’s no longer an obligation.”
He looked at the monks. “If any of you has information, you must not keep it to yourself. There’s no moral or spiritual value in protecting whoever did this. You must tell Chief Inspector Gamache everything you know, and trust him and Inspector Beauvoir to sort out what matters and what doesn’t. That’s what they do. We pray, and work, and contemplate God. And sing to the glory of God. And these men,” he nodded to Gamache and Beauvoir, “find killers.”
His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. This man, who didn’t speak often, now found himself saying words like “killers.” He pressed on.
“Our order has been tested over the centuries. And this is another test. Do we really believe in God? Do we believe all the things we say and sing? Or has it become a faith of convenience? Has it, in splendid isolation, grown weak? When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up. We must not protect the killer.”
One of the monks rose and bowed to the abbot.
“You say, mon père, that our order has been tested over the centuries, and that’s true. We’ve been persecuted, driven out of our monasteries. Imprisoned and burned. Driven to the brink of extinction. Driven into hiding. All by the authorities, by men like these,” he waved toward Gamache and Beauvoir, “who also claimed to be acting in the interest of so-called truth. This man has even admitted he’ll violate our abbey to get at that truth. And you’re asking us to help? You invited them in. Gave them a bed. Share our food. Courage has never been our weakness, Père Abbé. Judgment has.”
The monk was one of the younger men. Late thirties, Gamache guessed. His voice was assured, reasonable, sensible. A few of the other monks were nodding. And more than a few were averting their eyes.
“You ask us to trust them,” he continued. “Why should we?”
The monk sat down.
The brothers who weren’t busy studying the table in front of them moved their eyes from the monk who just spoke, to the abbot, and finally to Gamache.
“Because, mon frère, you have no choice,” said the Chief. “As you say, we’re already in. The door has locked behind us and the outcome is not in doubt. Inspector Beauvoir and I will find whoever killed Brother Mathieu and we’ll bring him to justice.”
There was a small, anonymous snort of derision.
“Not divine justice, but the best this world has to offer for now,” continued Gamache. “The justice decided by your fellow Québécois. Because, like it or not, you are not citizens of some higher plane of existence, some greater dominion. You, like me, like the abbot, like the boatman who brought us here, are all citizens of Québec. And will abide by the laws of the land. You may, of course, also abide by the moral laws of your beliefs. But I pray to God they’re the same thing.”
