“Were you able to understand anything else?” asked Gamache, regaining control of himself after a mighty effort.
Frère Simon sighed and leaned forward, pointing to a line further down the page. “This you probably know.”
Dies irae.
Gamache nodded. He no longer felt like laughing and all the doo-dahs had gone away. “Yes, I had noticed that. Day of wrath. It’s the one Latin phrase I recognize in this. The abbot and I talked about it.”
“And what did he say?”
“He also thought the words were nonsense. He seemed as perplexed as you.”
“Did he have a theory?”
“No particular one. But he found it odd, as do I, that while there is clearly in here a dies irae, a day of wrath, there’s no accompanying dies illa.”
“Day of mourning. Yes, that struck me too. Even more strongly than the banana.”
Gamache smiled again, but only briefly. “What do you think it means?”
“I think whoever wrote this did it as a joke,” said Frère Simon. “He just tossed all sorts of Latin into it.”
“But why not use more phrases or words from chants? Why is ‘day of wrath’ the only phrase from a prayer?”
Frère Simon shrugged. “I wish I knew. Maybe he was angry. Maybe that’s what this is. A mockery. He wants to show his rage, and actually declares it. Dies irae. And then throws in all sorts of ridiculous Latin words and phrases, so that it looks like a chant, looks like something we’d sing to God.”
“But is actually an insult,” said Gamache, and Frère Simon nodded.
“Who here might be able to help with the translation?”
Frère Simon thought about that. “The only one who comes to mind is Frère Luc.”
“The porter?”
“He’s not long out of the seminary, so he’s closer to having studied Latin than the rest of us. And he’s just pompous enough to enjoy having us know it.”
“You don’t like him?”
The question seemed to surprise Frère Simon.
“Like him?” It was as though he’d never considered it before, and Gamache realized, a bit surprised himself, that Frère Simon probably hadn’t. “It’s not a matter of like or dislike here. It’s a matter of accepting. Like can turn to dislike fairly easily in a closed environment. We learn here not to even think in those terms, but to accept as God’s will that the monks who are here are meant to be. If it’s good enough for God, it’s good enough for us.”
“But you just called him pompous.”
“And he is. And he probably calls me morose, and I am. We all have flaws we’re working on. Denying them doesn’t help.”
Gamache again held up the page. “Is it possible Frère Luc wrote this?”
“I doubt it. Frère Luc doesn’t like to make mistakes, or to be wrong. If he wrote a hymn in Latin it would be perfect.”
“And might not have a lot of humor,” said Gamache.
Frère Simon smiled a little. “Unlike the hilarity of the rest of us.”
Gamache recognized the sarcasm, but thought Simon was wrong. The monks he’d met here seemed to have a good sense of humor and to be able to laugh at themselves and their world. It was quiet, and gentle, and fairly well hidden behind a solemn visage, but it was there.
Gamache studied the paper in his hand. He agreed with Simon, Frère Luc could not possibly have written this. But one of them had.
More than ever, Chief Inspector Gamache was convinced this slim paper in his hand was the key to the killing.
And Gamache knew he’d figure it out, if it took millennia.
“The neumes,” he began, trying to work out what he wanted from Frère Simon. “You say you haven’t started transcribing them into notes, but can you still read them?”
“Oh, yes. They’re confused.” Frère Simon picked up his own copy. “No, that’s the wrong word. They’re complex. Most neumes for chants look confusing but once you know what you’re looking at, they’re really quite simple. That was the point of them. Simple directions for plainchants.”
“But these aren’t simple,” said Gamache.
“Far from it.”
“Can you give me an idea what it sounds like?”
Frère Simon looked up from the page, his face extremely stern, severe even. But Gamache didn’t back down. The two men stared at each other for a moment until Simon finally broke contact and looked back down at the page.