Page 77 of The Grey Wolf
“Tonight? Now?”
“If possible, yes.” Though both knew, with approaching nightfall, it was not going to be possible. “We’ll find them.”
Bells sounded. Tolling out from the monastery and joining the far-off call of a loon. Both haunting. All the more so for the mist that clung in wisps to the forest.
The monks turned and, without a word, followed the sound of the bells. Beauvoir and the pilot looked at the Chief Inspector, who signaled them to follow.
At the huge wooden doors that guarded Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, the monks stopped.
One of them picked up an iron rod and pounded. Behind them, from the lake, Gamache heard the flutter and splashing as ducks, startled by the unfamiliar sound, took off.
A small slit appeared, followed by bright blue eyes. Then the slit slammed shut and there was a grinding of old metal against old metal. And the thick door slowly swung open.
Not a word was exchanged. These were monks who had taken a vow of silence. And yet had become, in an act of grand irony, world-famous for their voices. The Gregorian chants they’d recorded as a modest fundraiser to repair the monastery roof had become a global hit. A phenomenon. A miracle, some thought. But one that had plunged the quiet order into chaos.
A chaos that had culminated in murder and brought Gamache and Beauvoir to this place years earlier.
“There’s no way I’m getting in that plane again,” said Jean-Guy.
He glanced at the pilot, who was staring wide-eyed at his surroundings.
Like the rest of Québec, he’d heard of these cloistered monks who never let anyone past that thick door. But somehow, he’d gotten in. Thanks to the setting sun.
So there they were. Admitted to the inadmissible.
The pilot looked around, his mouth dropping open. Even in the weakening light, the place was magical. From the outside it looked frightening, foreboding. But inside? It was glorious.
The windows, high up in the long, long corridor, captured every last ray available in the dying light and magnified it, brought it to life. The stone hallway was giddy with the evening sun.
Everything about this building, every stone, every sound, every ray of light, every movement, every moment of the monastic day and night, was symbolic. Multilayered. Planned. With purpose.
“Just so you know,patron,” Jean-Guy said. “I’m signing up. Taking the vow.”
“I’ll break the news to Annie.”
“He did hit a perfect high C,” one of the monks said to the other.
“Yes. We could use a boy soprano.”
Jean-Guy’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the backs of the two monks. The thick doors had been shut and locked behind them. The world was kept out, and they were now kept in.
When the monks had first appeared, Gamache had asked to see the Abbot.
“Please follow us, Chief Inspector,” said the older of the Gilbertine brothers. One he recognized as Frère Auguste. And who clearly recognized him.
And now, finally, he was about to get answers from Dom Philippe.
At the end of the corridor they stepped into a vast open space. The chapel, the heart of Saint-Gilbert.
It was stark, austere in the fading light. Just a few rows of wooden pews on the flagstone floor. And at the front, two rows of benches faced each other.
No art. No altar. No ornamentation. No crucifix. No lights. The sun had finally set, and what had been giddy light had descended into gloom that was fast becoming complete darkness.
As Beauvoir watched, Armand made a tiny dip, then an almost unnoticeable sweep of his right hand. Jean-Guy did not.
“What’s that?” demanded the pilot, now spooked. His voice bounced off the stone walls and echoed. Until that too faded, as though swallowed by the void. The peace he’d felt moments earlier had also descended into gloom.
A weak glow was visible off to their left, and they could hear afaint sound, a kind of moan that joined with the deep tolling of the bell.
