He brought a thin book out of his satchel. Studying it for a moment, he extended his hand, offering her the tattered volume.
“What we say and what we mean can sometimes be two different things,” he said. “Depending on what we want to hear.”
“Yeah, right.”
“The quote came from here,” he said. “I’d like you to have it.”
She looked at the book in his hand.
Marcus Aurelius. She read the tattered cover. Meditations.
“No thanks. I already got the message.”
“Take it,” he said. “Please. As a gift.”
“A parting gift?”
“Are you leaving?”
“Aren’t I?”
“I asked you up after the class to invite you to join me and a few others for drinks in my rooms tonight.”
So that was it. She could stay, but there would be a price. Amelia could guess who the “few others” would be.
She’d pay off the scholarship one way or another. She dropped the book on the desk. Amelia wanted no further debt to this man.
Commander Gamache picked it up and placed it in his satchel. As he left the classroom, he pointed to the very first quote he’d put on the blackboard.
The one that stayed, even as the others came and went.
It was from some Buddhist nun. The other cadets had snickered at that, but Amelia had written it down. They were the very first words in the very first notebook.
Don’t believe everything you think.
CHAPTER 7
A fire was laid and lit in the rooms Commander Gamache kept at the academy.
Most nights he drove home to Three Pines. It was only an hour away, and a pleasant drive. But a blizzard was forecast, and so he’d decided to stay the night. Reine-Marie had driven in with him, bringing with her a box of her own work and a package wrapped in brown paper.
When they got into his rooms at the academy he pointed at the parcel. “A new chair?”
“You are a detective,” she said with exaggerated admiration. “Actually, it’s a pony.”
“Ach.” He shook his fist in frustration. “I was going to say that.”
She laughed and watched him walk down the corridor to start the day.
Reine-Marie spent her day going through old documents from the archives while he taught and saw to administration, of which there was a staggering amount. The former commander had ignored most of the paperwork, and Serge Leduc, the second-in-command, had had his own agenda, which did not seem to involve the effective running of the Sûreté Academy.
But mostly what Armand Gamache had to manage were the personalities of the remaining professors and the senior cadets. To say they were resistant to the changes he’d brought in would be a gross understatement.
Even those happy to see the old guard go were overwhelmed by the scale of change.
“Maybe you should do it more slowly,” advised Jean-Guy.
“Non,” said Professor Charpentier. “Give bad news swiftly, and spread out the good news. Machiavelli.”
Charpentier was one of Gamache’s recruits and taught tactics, for which Machiavelli’s The Prince was compulsory reading. It was, in effect, a course not so much on tactics as manipulation.
Beauvoir looked at the boyish man with deep suspicion.
Charpentier was perspiring freely, as though each word had been wrung out of him. He was young and thin and frail and often relied on a wheelchair to get around.
“We make the changes at once. Swiftly,” Commander Gamache had decided, and had called a staff meeting to announce them.
And so began the term, and so began the struggle.
They were a week into it now, and while a rhythm and routine had been established, his authority was being challenged every hour of every day. Commander Gamache was seen not as a breath of fresh air, but as a willful and ignorant child knocking over building blocks, even by those who admitted the blocks were rotten.
“Give it time,” he told Jean-Guy at the end of a particularly trying day.
“Time, patron,” said Beauvoir, shoving books into his case, “is one thing we don’t have.”
It was true, thought Gamache. And Jean-Guy didn’t know the half of it.
But that evening, the end of the first week, might help change the charged atmosphere. At least, he hoped so.
As soon as he returned to his rooms, Armand got out of his suit and into slacks, an open-necked Oxford shirt and a cardigan. Reine-Marie was in a cashmere sweater with a silk scarf and a skirt that fell to just below her knees.
Sitting on the Eames chair and putting down his mug of tea, Armand reached for the parcel.
“Do you know what it is?”
“I don’t,” said Reine-Marie. “Olivier gave it to me this morning as we were leaving. Said it was for you. Please don’t shake it.”
He always shook parcels, for reasons she could never understand. Surely not to make certain it wasn’t a bomb, since that would set it off.
He shook it. Listened to it. Sniffed it.
By now Reine-Marie was pretty sure he was doing it for her amusement.
“It’s not a pony,” he announced with regret.
“If only your students knew what a fine mind was teaching them.”
“I think they suspect.”
Opening the package, he stared at it for a moment.
“What is it?” she asked.
He turned it around and she smiled.
“Dear man,” she said.
“Oui,” said Armand.
It was the old, odd map they’d found in the wall of the bistro. Olivier had had it framed. Attached to the back was a card.
So you’ll always find your way home.
The card was signed by Olivier, Gabri, Clara, and Myrna, and Ruth had added in her scrawl at the bottom, When you inevitably fuck up, again.
Armand smiled and, taking a deep breath, he rocked himself out of the comfortable chair and put the picture on a side table before walking to the huge window.
His rooms were on the top floor of the academy, commanding a spectacular view through the wall of windows. At least it would be spectacular, had the blizzard not arrived and the night not fallen.
Now all he could see was his own reflection. The snowstorm had swallowed the town of Saint-Alphonse, lights and all.
Saint-Alphonse was one of the first places settled by the French centuries ago, because it was flat and fertile. But the very elements that made it so inviting in summer made it especially brutal in winter.
There was absolutely nothing to stop the wind and snow as they howled down from the mountains and along the riverbanks and burst out across the flatlands. The only thing that eventually stopped them was the town of Saint-Alphonse, which took it in the face.
Out of the darkness, a white fist thumped the thick glass window, as though to remind Gamache it was still out there. And not happy.
He didn’t flinch. But Gamache was aware that they were fortunate to be inside while it was outside.
There was a knock on the door and Jean-Guy entered.
“Since when have you knocked, mon beau?” asked Reine-Marie, getting up to greet her son-in-law.
“I wasn’t sure if anyone else had arrived,” he explained, his eyes scanning the room.
Jean-Guy suspected the other staff members knew of his relationship with the Gamaches, but the students probably didn’t yet. He had no intention of letting anyone see an act of friendship and intimacy.
Beauvoir’s sharp eyes took in his surroundings. Always alert for any threat. Like a gunman, or an open poetry book.
These were very different quarters from any other home the Gamaches had had.
This space in the academy was modern. Mid-century modern, he’d learned. With odd-shaped chairs with names that did not include La-Z-Boy, and did not look at all comfortable. At first he’d assumed the place had come furnished, someone else’s taste, and then he’d found out that the Gamaches had bought the stuff themselves
.
He didn’t like it.
Walking across the thick shag area rug, he warmed his hands at the fireplace, then grabbed a Coke from the drinks table.
There was a knock on the door and the first of the guests arrived. Within twenty minutes they were all there. A group of carefully chosen cadets, and a group of equally carefully chosen professors.
They chatted, and helped themselves to food and drinks.
The initially stiff atmosphere softened with the help of the cheerful fireplace, the storm outside, the drinks, and the ease of their hosts, Commander and Madame Gamache.
* * *
Amelia Choquet wasn’t fooled.
She stood in a corner, wedged between a bookcase and the wall of windows. She could feel the cold glass against her sleeve, and every now and then there was a scratching from outside, as a particularly savage gust of snow hit the glass and slid down.
From there she surveyed the room.
And the room surveyed her. When one set of eyes stopped staring at her and looked away, another set jumped in. Like a visual tag team. Or cage match.
Amelia had shown up, expecting something else entirely. What she had not expected was a cocktail party.
Madame Gamache had greeted her at the door, leading her to the drinks table where Amelia poured herself a Canadian Club and ginger.
In her soft sweater and scarf, smelling of soap and roses, the Commander’s wife was as alien to Amelia as Amelia was to the rest of the room.
She could see it. She either revolted or frightened, or amused, the other cadets. And the professors simply dismissed her.
Except one. He was middle-aged, short and stubby, but not fat. Amelia could sense taut muscles beneath the casual sweater and wondered if he took steroids.
The man kept looking at her, but not with a critical eye. Not after that first sharp glance. It had evolved. She interested him. She could see it. Not, she thought, sexually. She had a pretty good radar for that.
This was something else. He was assessing her.
It was, from what she could see, a strange group. At first she’d thought those invited must be the most promising, the most intelligent, the natural leaders. Though that didn’t explain her presence.
But now, watching the other students more closely, she knew that wasn’t true. There were both men and women. Some clearly Anglos, most Francophones. Most white, but one was Asian and there was one black man. And one of the guests was in a wheelchair. She couldn’t tell if he was a student or a professor.
None of them seemed remarkable.
The Asian woman approached Amelia.
“Huifen.”
“What?”
“That’s my name. I’m a third-year cadet. You’re a freshman?”
She was looking at Amelia expectantly. This woman, thought Amelia, did not have good survival instincts.
“What?” demanded Amelia.
“Who are you?”
“None of your fucking business.”
It wasn’t exactly the sparkling cocktail party conversation Amelia had read about in books.
Huifen nodded, as though Amelia had given her valuable information. It was a gesture Amelia found disconcerting.
“He’s new, you know.” Huifen was looking through the crowd toward Commander Gamache, who was standing with a drink and listening to some students.
“He looks used,” Amelia said.
Huifen laughed.
“That man”—Huifen gestured toward the professor who’d been staring at Amelia—“is Professor Leduc. The Duke. He used to run the place.”
Huifen looked from Leduc to Gamache, then she leaned closer to Amelia, who bent away but not before she heard Huifen whisper, “Stay away from him. He’s interested in you, I can see. Stay away.”
Then Huifen stood up straight and laughed, as though one of them had said something clever.
Amelia looked at Leduc, then at Gamache. Not at all sure which “he” this senior cadet meant.
“I wonder why he’s here,” said Huifen, and this time it was obvious that she meant Gamache.
“Either way”—Huifen returned her gaze to Amelia—“this should be interesting.”
She raised her brow and smiled, then drifted, apparently aimlessly, across the room. But Amelia soon noticed there was a destination. After meandering about, Huifen stopped next to Leduc. The Duke.
He looked, Amelia thought, not at all like a duke. There was nothing remotely regal about him. He radiated raw energy. In this genteel gathering, there was something primitive about him.
He was both repellent and attractive. Not in a personal way, but in the way that power attracts. And she wasn’t the only one to feel it.
There was a tight knot of students around him.
Whoofa, or whatever her name was, was speaking with him. And then, slowly, he turned his head. And looked at Amelia.
This was the second time Leduc had stared at her. It was a long, thoughtful, assessing stare. It was the way a person might judge a puzzle piece.
Would it fit or not? Was it useful, or not?
And Amelia wondered if Whoofa had come over to speak to her on his orders. And she wondered what she’d reported back.
And then the moment passed, the connection broke, and Amelia was set adrift once again.
She sipped her CC and ginger and watched the ebb and flow of the gathering. It came to her attention that someone else was also quietly observing the party. An older professor.
He’d slipped in late, long after everyone else had arrived. Amelia hadn’t seen him before. Not in the corridors, not in the classroom or even the dining hall.
He was new, and old.
He stood alone by the door, elegantly holding a glass of Scotch and scanning the room. His eyes met Amelia’s, and for a moment she thought he might smile. Or, even worse, gesture her over, to keep him company.
But his sharp eyes traveled over her, and through her, and beyond her.
Amelia wondered if he was one of the old guard or a new professor brought in by the Commander.
Surely the old guard. He looked exactly that. Old. And on guard.
She watched him for a few moments. Long enough for him to know he was being observed. Amelia did it just for fun, and because she liked playing with razor blades, and needles, and knives.
Then she turned her attention elsewhere.
To the Commander and his wife. She saw the Commander smile, then laugh at something one of the students said. They were sitting now by the fireplace and there was a warm glow in their faces. There was an ease about him. About the way he looked over at Madame Gamache. About the way he listened and didn’t feel the need to dominate.
She shifted her gaze and noticed that Professor Leduc had broken away from the small group around him and walked over to the new arrival. Shaking the old man’s hand. Smiling. The two exchanged a few words, then the Duke glanced over at the Commander.
It was not a friendly look.
She kept her eyes, then, on Gamache.
Anyone who produced such loathing in another human being was worth watching.
Yes, she thought, taking another sip of her drink and hearing the clinking ice and the scratching of the blizzard outside, it might not be fun at the academy, but that Asian cadet was right. It was going to be interesting.
What Cadet Amelia Choquet didn’t know, couldn’t know, what no one in that room knew, was that before the snow melted one of them would be dead. And one of them would have done it.
“Interesting” didn’t begin to describe what was about to happen.
CHAPTER 8
“Don’t look now,” Beauvoir bent down and whispered in Gamache’s ear. “Brébeuf and Leduc have found each other.”
Jean-Guy watched Leduc place a friendly hand on the older man’s arm. Confrères, Beauvoir thought. Brothers. Two of a kind.
Commander Gamache didn’t turn to look. Instead he gestured toward a chair recently vacated. Jean-Guy considered it. It was black leather
and looked like a mouth about to snap shut.
Resigning himself to it, he sat down, sliding to the back of the seat.
“Merde,” he whispered.
It was, without doubt, the most comfortable chair he’d ever sat in.
It was just one of a number of unexpected things in the room.
So much had happened so quickly when Jean-Guy accepted the post as second-in-command, he hadn’t had a chance yet to ask Gamache about keeping Leduc on. And bringing Brébeuf back.
Either decision would be considered ill advised. Together they seemed reckless, verging on lunacy.
Putting them on the same campus was bad enough, but inviting them to the same party? Then giving them alcohol?
Beauvoir wondered, in passing, if either man was armed. Gamache had forbidden firearms among the staff, even the Sûreté officers on loan to the academy. And so Jean-Guy, against his will and instincts, had left his pistol locked up at Sûreté headquarters.
As Beauvoir watched, the two men grew more and more chummy. Leduc animated, and Brébeuf more contained, nodding. Agreeing.
Michel Brébeuf, the former superintendent of the Sûreté, had been one of the most powerful officers in the force before his disgrace.
Serge Leduc had been the most powerful presence in the academy, turning out hundreds of cadets, giving them weapons even as he took away their moral compass.
To see the two heads bowed together was deeply disturbing.
“Should I go over there?” Jean-Guy asked, preparing to haul himself out of the spectacularly comfortable chair.
“Why?”
“To stop them,” said Beauvoir. “To break it up.”
“If they don’t talk here, they’ll talk somewhere else,” said Gamache. “At least they’re doing it in plain sight.”
“This isn’t some teenager learning to drink, patron,” said Jean-Guy, trying to keep his tone civil. “These men are…” he searched for the word.
“Merde?” asked Gamache with a smile. Then the smile faded and his face grew serious. “Though I think the word you’re really looking for is evil.”
“I wasn’t,” said Beauvoir, quite truthfully. He didn’t think in terms of good and evil. He didn’t even think in terms of good and bad.