“A bleed?” asked the doctor, not letting it go.
“A bullet,” said the Chief.
“Oh,” said Brother Charles. “A hematoma. Is that the only effect? The tremble in your right hand?”
Gamache didn’t quite know how to answer that. So he didn’t. Instead he smiled and nodded. “It gets slightly more noticeable when I’m tired, or stressed.”
“Yes, Inspector Beauvoir told me.”
“Did he?” Gamache looked interested. And not particularly pleased.
“I asked.” The doctor looked at Gamache for a moment, examining him. Seeing the friendly face. The lines from the corners of his eyes, and his mouth. Laugh lines. Here was a man who knew how to smile. But there were other lines too. On his forehead and between Gamache’s brows. Lines that came with worry.
But more than this man’s physical body, what struck Frère Charles about Gamache was his calm. Frère Charles knew this was the sort of peace a person found only after being at war.
“If that’s your only symptom, you’re a lucky man,” the medical monk finally said.
“Yes.”
Take this child.
“Though the arrival of your boss doesn’t seem to have improved the situation.”
Gamache said nothing. Not for the first time he realized these monks missed very little. Every breath, every look, every movement, every tremble told these monks something. This medical monk in particular.
“It was a surprise,” Gamache admitted. “Who do you think killed the prior?”
“Changing the subject?” The doctor smiled, then thought before he answered. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve thought of little else since his death. I can’t believe any of us did it. But of course, one of us did.”
He paused again and looked directly at Gamache. “One thing I know for sure, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Most people don’t die at once.”
It wasn’t what Gamache was expecting the doctor to say, and he wondered if Brother Charles realized the prior was alive when Frère Simon found him.“They die a bit at a time,” said the doctor.
“Excusez-moi?”
“They don’t teach this at medical school, but I’ve seen it in real life. People die in bits and pieces. A series of petites morts. Little deaths. They lose their sight, their hearing, their independence. Those are the physical ones. But there’re others. Less obvious, but more fatal. They lose heart. They lose hope. They lose faith. They lose interest. And finally, they lose themselves.”
“What are you telling me, Frère Charles?”
“That it’s possible both the prior and his killer were well down the same path. Both might have suffered a series of petites morts, before the final blow.”
“The grande mort,” said Gamache. “And who here fits that description?”
Now the doctor leaned forward, past the field of chocolate blueberries.
“How do you think we get here, Chief Inspector? To Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups? We didn’t follow the yellow brick road. We were shoved along, by our own petites morts. There isn’t a man in this monastery who didn’t come through that door wounded. Damaged. Almost dead inside.”
“And here you found what?”
“Healing. Our wounds were bound. The holes inside us were filled with faith. Our loneliness healed by the company of God. We thrived on simple work and healthy food. On routine and certainty. By no longer being alone. But more than anything, it’s the joy of singing to God. The chants saved us, Chief Inspector. Plainchants. They resurrected each and every one of us.”
“Well, maybe not all of you.”
Both men sat with the knowledge that the miracle hadn’t been perfect. One man was missed.
“Eventually those chants destroyed your community.”
“I can see how it would appear that way, but the chants weren’t the problem. It was our own egos. Power struggles. It was terrible.”
“Some malady is coming upon us,” said Gamache.
The doctor looked puzzled, then nodded. Placing the quote.
“T. S. Eliot. Murder in the Cathedral. Oui. That’s it. A malady,” said the medical monk.
Gamache, as he made his way out the door, was left to wonder just how neutral this Red Cross really was. Had the good doctor found the malady and cured it, with a blow to the head?
* * *
Jean-Guy Beauvoir reentered the monastery and went in search of one private place. Just someplace he could be alone.