Page 84 of The Grey Wolf
“Has anyone else come here?” asked Beauvoir.
“No. And even if they did, we don’t let anyone in. You’re the exception.”
“Yes, I realize that, but was a young biologist in the area? Perhaps testing the lake water?”
“Not that I know of, and even if he was testing the water, why would he come to this end of the lake? And even if he had, as I said, he wouldn’t be admitted. You can ask the Keeper of the Keys, though.”
“The one who unlocks the door?”
“He mostly locks it,” said Frère Simon.
Gamache thought for a moment, then asked, “Is there a file on Dom Philippe? Something that tells us about his family, his upbringing and background?”
Simon cocked his head and stared. “We don’t keep files on each other, Chief Inspector.”
“You know what I’m asking. Not some deep state spying, just records. Perhaps from when he, when you all, apply to join the church. Before a postulant is accepted here, the Abbot must go over his personal information. There must be something.”
“There is. We fill out questionnaires and are interviewed. There’s rigorous psychological testing too. Especially now.”
That last comment did not need explanation.
“And?” Gamache glanced around. “Where’s that information kept?”
“It’s burned.”
“Pardon?”
“In a ceremony, when a postulant is accepted as a full brother in the Gilbertines. We build a bonfire on the shore and burn the file. His past no longer matters. He has a new life, a new family. A new Father and Mother. And Brothers.”
It seemed to Jean-Guy almost pagan. But it also made more sense to him than some of the other rituals he’d grown up with. Incense, for instance, and the host.
The fire represented a fresh start. They’d been given a new life, got to choose a new name. Who knew if “Philippe” was even the Abbot’s birth name?
If only, Beauvoir thought, it were that simple. To reinvent yourself. To leave the past behind. If only it were possible.
“Did Dom Philippe tell you anything at all about his family?” asked Gamache. “His background?”
“No.”
“How did you know the letter to Dom Philippe was from Frère Sébastien?” he asked, and immediately knew he’d found a crack in the calm veneer.
The monk looked uncomfortable. Just a little. But for men who did not do a lot of talking, their faces, their bodies, spoke for them. An eye roll became an assault, a turned back a declaration of war. A smile was an invitation.
A “little” uncomfortable was akin to hysteria.
“I collect the mail and provisions from a boat that comes once a week. I saw the envelope. It had the crest of the Vatican.”
“But so did the one to Frère Sébastien a few months earlier,” said Beauvoir, seeing where Gamache was going with this line of questioning. “So why did you think the one to the Abbot was from Sébastien and not whoever sent the first? Or anyone else at the Vatican?”
The monk was silent, but his cheeks betrayed him.
“Did you open it?” asked Gamache.
Silence.
“And how did you know what that first letter to Frère Sébastien contained? And that it was from an American?”
Once again, the bells began tolling. The acting Abbot, as though an automaton, turned and made for the door.
