The door was locked. But against what?
They arrived and the Chief looked into the porter’s small office. But it too was empty. No sign of the young monk, Frère Luc. Only a thick book which proved to be more, what else? Chants.
Music, but no monk.
“It’s locked, patron,” said Beauvoir, looking into the office. “The front door. Is there a key?”
Both men searched, but there was nothing.
Charbonneau opened the peephole and looked out. “I can see the boatman,” he reported, smushing his face against the wooden door. Trying for a better look. “He’s at the dock. Waiting. He’s looking at his watch.”
All three officers looked at their watches.
Twenty to five.
Beauvoir and Charbonneau looked at Gamache.
“Find the monks,” he said. “I’ll stay here with the body, in case Frère Luc returns. You split up. We haven’t much time.”
What had seemed an oddity, the sudden absence of monks, was now verging on a crisis. If the boatman left, they’d be stuck there.
“D’accord,” said Beauvoir, but he looked uneasy.
Instead of moving off down the corridor Beauvoir stepped toward the Chief and whispered, “Would you like my gun?”
Gamache shook his head. “I’m afraid my monk is already dead. Not much of a threat.”
“There are others, though,” said Beauvoir, deadly serious. “Including the one who did this. And the one who locked us in. You’ll be alone here. You might need it. Please.”
“Then what would you do, mon vieux,” asked Gamache. “If you run into trouble?”
Beauvoir was silent.
“I’d rather you keep it. But remember, Jean-Guy, you’re looking for the monks, not hunting them.”
“Looking not hunting,” Beauvoir repeated in mock earnestness. “Got it.”
Gamache accompanied them to the end of the corridor, walking briskly to the door into the church. Opening it he looked in. No longer filled with light, it was now filled with long, and growing, shadows.
“Père Abbé!” Gamache stood at the door and shouted.
It felt as though he’d lobbed a bomb into the building. The Chief’s commanding voice bounded off the stone walls, magnifying and echoing. But instead of recoiling from it, Gamache yelled again.
“Dom Philippe!”
Still nothing. He stepped aside and Beauvoir and Charbonneau hurried in.
“Quickly, Jean-Guy,” Gamache said as Beauvoir passed. “Carefully.”
“Oui, patron.”
The Chief watched as the two men peeled off in different directions. Beauvoir to the right, and Charbonneau to the left. Gamache stood at the door, watching, until both men disappeared.
“Allô!” called Gamache again, and listened. But the only response he got was his own voice.
Chief Inspector Gamache propped open the door to the church, then started down the long corridor, to the closed and locked and bolted door. And the body that lay before it like an offering.
It was counterintuitive to walk deliberately into a dead end. A cul-de-sac. Every training, every instinct, went against it. If anything came at him down this corridor, there was no way out. He knew that was why Beauvoir had offered him his firearm. So that he’d at least have a chance.
How often had he, in classes at the academy, in sessions with new recruits, ordered them never, ever to get caught in a dead end?
And yet here he was, walking back down. He’d have to give himself a stern talking to, he thought with a smile. And a failing grade.
* * *
Jean-Guy Beauvoir stepped into the long corridor. It was exactly like all the others. Long, with tall ceilings and a door at the far end.
Emboldened by Gamache, Beauvoir yelled, “Bonjour! Allô?”
Just before the door had closed he’d heard the Chief’s and Charbonneau’s voices mix together. Calling out, in unison, a single word. “Allô?”
Then the door closed, and with it the familiar voices disappeared. All sound disappeared. There was silence. Except for the beating of Beauvoir’s heart.
“Hello?” he repeated, less loudly.
There were doors down either side. Beauvoir hurried along the corridor, looking into rooms. The dining room. The pantry. The kitchen. All empty. The only sign of life a huge vat of pea soup simmering on a stove.
Beauvoir opened the last door on the left, before the final door. And there he stopped. Staring. Then he stepped inside and the door softly closed behind him.
* * *