Until she felt she could look at Olivier without screaming at him to go away.
… quatre, cinq …
Olivier stopped a few pews away. Uncertain what to do. Neither of them had turned. Neither had acknowledged him.
“Are you all right?” he asked, leaning forward. They were so still, like wax figures.
“Yes, we’re fine,” said Reine-Marie, and for the first time truly understood that the title of Ruth’s poetry book, I’m FINE, wasn’t purely a joke.
“Are you sure?” he asked, edging forward.
Armand turned around and smiled. “We were just talking about the soldiers.”
Olivier glanced at the window, then took a seat across the aisle.
“I wasn’t sure if I should follow you, but, well, that was strange. In the bistro. How the RCMP officer treated you. What he said.”
Armand raised his brow and smiled. “I’ve been treated worse. It’s nothing. Just part of the cop culture.”
“It’s more than that,” said Olivier. “And I think you know it. You’re a suspect. He said it himself.”
“It’s his job to suspect everyone, but I’m not worried.”
“You should be,” said Olivier. “He means to prove you killed that man. I could see it in his face.”
Gamache shook his head. “Whether he thinks it or not, there’s no proof. And besides, I didn’t do it.”
“So innocent people are never arrested?” demanded Olivier. “Never tried and convicted? For a crime they didn’t commit? That never happens, right?” He glared at Gamache. “You should be afraid, monsieur. Only a fool wouldn’t be.”
“Armand?” asked Reine-Marie. “Could that happen? Could Gélinas arrest you?”
“I doubt it.”
“Doubt?” asked Reine-Marie. “Doubt? Then there is a possibility? He can’t seriously believe you murdered a man.”
“He does,” said Olivier. “I’ve seen that look before. On your husband’s face, just before the arrest.”
“We have to do something,” said Reine-Marie, looking around as though proof of her husband’s innocence could be found in the chapel.
“Here you are,” came the familiar voice of Jean-Guy from the door. “We’ve interviewed the cadets—”
“Do you think Armand killed that professor?” Reine-Marie stood, turned and faced her son-in-law, who stopped in his tracks.
“No, of course not.”
Lacoste had entered behind him, and Reine-Marie saw her look away, unwilling to meet Reine-Marie’s eyes.
“Isabelle, do you?”
Reine-Marie was in full flight now. Pounding at the gates. Demanding the truth. Demanding to know who were allies and who were enemies.
This was another world war. Her world. Her war.
“I don’t think Monsieur Gamache killed Serge Leduc,” said Isabelle.
“Reine-Marie,” said Armand, getting up and putting an arm around his wife’s waist.
She stepped away.
“But you’re not sure, are you, Isabelle?”
The two women stared at each other.
“You need to know something, madame. I held your husband’s hand as he lay dying. On that factory floor. I’ve never told you this. You didn’t need to know. He knew he was dying. I knew it. He could barely breathe, but he managed to say one last thing.”
“Isabelle—” said Gamache.
“I had to lean over to hear it,” said Lacoste. “He whispered, ‘Reine-Marie.’ And I knew he wanted me to tell you how much he loves you. Forever. Eternally. I never had to tell you that. Until now. Armand Gamache would never murder anyone, for all sorts of reasons. One of them is that he would never, ever do anything to hurt you, Reine-Marie.”
Reine-Marie brought her hand to her mouth, and screwed her eyes shut. She stood there for a second, a minute. Years.
And then she dropped the hand and reached for the harbor of her husband, even as she noticed the look that passed between Lacoste and Beauvoir.
Armand kissed her, and whispered in her ear. Something that made her smile. Then he motioned to the pew at the front of the chapel, and while the investigators took seats there, Olivier and Reine-Marie sat at the very back.
“Did anything come out of your interviews?” asked Gamache.
“Not much,” said Lacoste. “But Cadet Choquet didn’t seem surprised when I told her her prints were on the murder weapon.”
“It was an extrapolation,” Gamache reminded her.
“I didn’t tell her that.”
“Did she explain it?”
“No. She did say that Leduc threatened to expel her if she didn’t have sex with him.”
“And did she?” asked Gamache.
“She says not, but she’s used to trading sex for what she wants.”
Gamache gave a curt nod.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you,” said Lacoste, “but I called the UK and spoke to the woman at the gun manufacturer that Jean-Guy interviewed.”
“Madame Coldbrook-Clairton?” asked Gamache.
Lacoste laughed. “I had this conversation with Jean-Guy on the drive down. There’s no Clairton, just Coldbrook.”
“Then why—” Gamache began.
“Did she sign her name with Clairton?” asked Lacoste. “Good question. She says it was a mistake.”
“Odd,” said Gamache, frowning. “But she confirmed the revolver that killed Leduc and the one in the window are both McDermot .45s?”
* * *
“Did he say Clairton?” asked Olivier, sitting in the back with Reine-Marie. “There’s a town in Pennsylvania called that.”
“Now how would you know that, mon beau?” asked Reine-Marie.
“I don’t know how I know about Clairton,” said Olivier, drawing his brows together in concentration. “I just do.”
“Maybe you were born with the knowledge,” suggested Reine-Marie with a smile.
“That would be a shame. So many more useful things I could innately know. Like how to convert Fahrenheit into Celsius, or the meaning of life, or how much to charge for a croissant.”
“You charge?” asked Reine-Marie with exaggerated surprise. “Ruth says they’re free.”
“Oui. Like the Scotch is free.”
* * *
“She confirmed the guns are the same,” said Jean-Guy. “But I can’t see how it could matter.”
“Neither can I,” admitted Gamache.
He turned to look at the stained-glass window. He’d seen it so often over the years that he felt he knew each pane. And yet, he always seemed to discover something new. As though the person who made it stole into the chapel at night and added a detail.
He still marveled that over the years he’d never noticed the map poking out from the boy’s rucksack.
Gamache realized he’d spent so much time staring at the one boy, he’d all but ignored the other two.
He looked at them now. Unlike the soldier who was looking straight at the observer, the others were in profile. Moving forward. One boy’s hand was just touching the arm of the soldier in front. Not to pull him back. But for comfort.
Less effort had been put into them. Their faces looked exactly the same, like they were the same boy, with exactly the same expression.
There was no forgiveness there, only fear.
And yet they moved forward.
Gamache’s eyes dropped to the third boy’s hands. One grasped a rifle. But with the other he seemed to be casually pointing. Not ahead, though, but behind.
* * *
“Do you know something strange?” asked Reine-Marie.
“I know someone strange,” offered Olivier.
“I’ve been sorting through the papers from the archives of the historical society in Saint-Rémy. The letters and documents and photographs go back a few hundred years. Not the pictures, of course. Though some of them are very old. Fascinating.”
“That is strange,” said Olivier.
“No, not that,” she laughed, and gav
e him a little elbow. “I didn’t realize until this very moment that I haven’t found anything from the First World War. The Second, yes. All sorts of letters home, and pictures. But none from the Great War. If there were, I might be able to find that boy. Find all three of them, in fact, by comparing the faces in the window with photographs in the local archives.”
“How could all the documents be missing?” asked Olivier. “There must’ve been something, wouldn’t you think?”
“There might be some boxes still in the basement of the historical society, but I thought we cleaned it out pretty thoroughly. I’ll take a closer look tomorrow.”
“You could ask Ruth. I’m pretty sure she was a drunk old poet in the Great War.”
“But on whose side?” asked Reine-Marie.
She got up, just as Armand and the others rose.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry,” she said. “You’re welcome to come home. We have plenty of leftovers. Might even throw on a movie. I feel the need for distraction.”
As they left, Armand paused to look back at the stained-glass window and the boy. Pointing. He followed where he was indicating, but there was nothing there. Just a bird in the stained sky.
“Armand?” Reine-Marie called from the porch of the chapel.
“Coming,” he said, and turned off the lights.
CHAPTER 34
There was no denying, it was awkward.
Jean-Guy and Isabelle had headed back to the academy, but Paul Gélinas asked to spend the night with the Gamaches. Reine-Marie was on the verge of telling him where he could go, but Armand jumped in and said they’d be delighted.
“Did you actually say ‘delighted’?” asked Reine-Marie, when they were alone in the kitchen.
“Oui. It’ll be de-wonderful, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re demented.”
He smiled, then bent down and whispered, “He didn’t expect us to agree. Did you notice his discomfort?”
“I was too busy noticing my own,” she whispered back.
In an effort to put if not distance then people between herself and Gélinas, Reine-Marie had gone to the bistro and invited their friends over for dinner.
“What’re we going to feed them?” Armand asked.
Reine-Marie glanced toward the bin of kibble.
“Oh, don’t tell me—” he began.
Reine-Marie laughed. “No. Ruth wouldn’t notice, but the others might.”
“And that’s the only reason you wouldn’t feed our guests dog food?”
“I wouldn’t criticize if I were you, monsieur, given why we have guests in the first place. Delightful.” She shook her head. “But I was actually looking at Gracie and thinking she needs to go out.”
“Let me,” volunteered Armand. At the door, he gave her a stern look of warning.
“I promise, no kibble,” she said, then mumbled, “probably,” loud enough for him to hear.
Smiling, Armand took Gracie out of her crate, put her on a leash, and tried not to step on her as she got underfoot. Henri went with them.
The shepherd and Armand flanked the little creature as they walked around the back garden, Henri digging through the patches of snow to find grass and Gracie copying him.
“I hope you weren’t upset by what I said in the bistro,” came Paul Gélinas’s voice.
Armand looked around and saw the man standing on the back terrace.
“Surprised, definitely.” Armand paused before going on. “Why did you bring up my mother and father?”
It was pitch-dark except for the light from the house. Gélinas was a black cutout against the light from the living room. Through the French doors, Armand could see Clara and Myrna talking, Clara gesturing to make some point. Gabri was listening or, more likely, waiting to talk. Ruth was invisible, having slumped down in the sofa. Rosa and Olivier were staring out the window.
“I think you know why.” Gélinas stepped off the terrace and joined his host.
Gamache’s face was clearly visible in the light from his home. The RCMP officer could see every contour.
There was a small tug on the leash as Gracie strained to join Henri.
Gélinas fell into step beside Gamache. “Are you leading me up the garden path, monsieur?”
Gamache grunted in mild amusement. “Leading you astray? You don’t need me for that. You’re doing quite a good job on your own.”
“I’ve gone off the path? Probably true, but isn’t that where you normally find criminals?”
Gamache stopped and turned to his guest. “And you think I’m a criminal?”
“I doubt you see it that way. To be a criminal, you have to have committed a crime. I suspect you think the murder of Serge Leduc was not a crime.”
“Then what was it?”
“A consequence. A happy opportunity.”
“Happy?”
“Well, perhaps not happy. But a fortunate opportunity. You saw a chance and you took it.”
“And why would I do that?” said Gamache.
“We all reach a sort of crossroads, don’t we?” said Gélinas, his voice grave now. “Some sooner than others. Driven there by some dreadful event. In your case, the death of your parents. In my case, the death of my wife. When faced with an event of that magnitude, some go in one direction and become embittered. They want others to suffer, as they have. Some, though, choose the more difficult route. They become compassionate and kind and patient with the imperfections of others. They want to save others the pain they themselves have felt.”
“Oui,” said Gamache, curious where this was going.
“The difficulty is telling them apart,” said Gélinas. “A person can look one way, but behave in another. They can say one thing, but be thinking something else entirely. Most of the real monsters I’ve encountered look like saints. They have to. Otherwise someone would’ve stopped them years ago.”
“Is this a confession?” asked Gamache, and heard laughter in the darkness.
“I was hoping you’d confess, sir. It would make my job easier. It would make your family’s life easier. Stop this charade. We both know what happened, and why.”
Gamache glared at Gélinas.
“If you’re going to arrest me, do it now. But don’t you dare bring my family into it.”
“It’s too late. Your family is all over this case, isn’t it? I know who Amelia Choquet is.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know everything.”
Gamache took a small step toward him, but stopped.
Gélinas did not recoil. He stood erect, almost daring the man.
“Another happy opportunity?” Gélinas whispered. “Will I be, what’s that English expression, pushing up daisies in your pretty garden, monsieur? Does it get easier to kill?”
“I think dinner must be ready,” said Gamache, saying one thing but thinking something else entirely. He stepped away from the RCMP officer. “We should go inside. Come along, Gracie. Henri!”
He scooped up the puppy, turned and walked back to his home, the shepherd bounding after them. Through the kitchen window, Armand could see Reine-Marie moving about the kitchen. Pushing her hair back from her face. Muttering to herself as she always did when figuring out a large meal.
And he longed to tell her something he should have admitted years ago, certainly months ago. When he first saw the name Amelia Choquet.
* * *
“How long have I been asleep?” asked Ruth, looking down at her plate.
“Victoria is no longer on the throne, if that’s what you’re wondering,” said Myrna.
“The good news is, we do have another queen,” said Olivier, glancing at Gabri.
“I heard that,” said Gabri. “A nasty stereotype. Oooh, crumpets.”
“What time is it?” Ruth persisted.
Each had an omelette in front of them, with fresh tarragon and oozing melted Camembert.
A platter of back bacon sat on the pine table, along with a basket of go
lden toasted crumpets, butter melting into the crannies.
“Breakfast?” asked Ruth, looking more confused than normal.
“Dinner,” said Reine-Marie. “I’m sorry, it’s all we had.”
“It’s delicious,” said Myrna, taking three pieces of maple-smoked bacon.
“Some might even call it delightful,” said Reine-Marie, catching Armand’s eye and smiling.
They all knew why they were there, except perhaps Ruth. They were human shields between the Gamaches and the RCMP officer.
And yet they noticed that Armand had placed himself right across from Gélinas.
Perhaps, Clara thought, to show he wasn’t intimidated.
Perhaps, Myrna thought, to act as a shield himself, for Reine-Marie, who was shooting unpleasant glances his way.
Perhaps, Olivier thought, to keep an eye on his accuser.
Perhaps, Ruth thought, because evil really was, in the words of Auden, unspectacular and always human.
“And shares our bed,” she murmured. “And eats at our own table.”
Gamache, who was beside her, turned slightly to the old poet.
“And we are introduced to Goodness every day,” he whispered back. “Even in drawing-rooms among a crowd of faults.”
She held his steady gaze while conversation flowed around and past them.
“Do you know how it ends?” she asked quietly
“This?” he whispered, nodding toward Gélinas.
“No, the poem, you moron.”
He grimaced and thought for a moment.
“It is the Evil that is helpless like a lover,” he said haltingly, struggling to remember. “And has to pick a quarrel and succeeds—”
“And both are openly destroyed before our eyes.” Ruth finished the poem. “That’s how it ends.”
There was a long pause while they locked eyes.
“I know what I’m doing,” said Armand.
“And I know an epitaph when I hear it.”
“You said that the cadets are a crowd of faults. You think so?”
“Don’t know about them,” said Ruth. “But I know for sure you are. Bacon?”
Gamache took the platter, which was empty. She was demanding, not offering.
“I have a question for you, Ruth,” said Reine-Marie from down the table. “I can’t find anything in the archives from the First World War. Any idea what happened to all that material? There must have been a lot.”