The officers left, Beauvoir stomping to the car and Lemieux trailing behind, not wanting to become the target for Beauvoir’s unexercised frustration. Gamache stood on the stoop squinting into the sun, feeling his nostrils contract in the bitter cold.
‘It’s lovely here. You’re a lucky man,’ and Gamache pulled off a glove and offered his hand. Saul Petrov took it, feeling the warmth of human contact. He’d been with CC so long he’d almost forgotten that most humans generate heat. ‘Don’t be a foolish man, Mr Petrov.’
‘I’ve told you the truth, Chief Inspector.’
‘I hope so, sir.’ Gamache smiled and walked quickly to the car, his face already beginning to freeze. Petrov went into the warm living room and watched the car disappear round a bend, then he looked again on the bright new world, and wondered just how foolish he’d been. He rummaged through some drawers and found a pen and an unused Christmas card. He wrote a short message then headed into St-Rémy to find the mailbox.
‘Stop the car,’ said Gamache. Beauvoir applied the brakes then looked at the chief. Gamache sat in the passenger’s seat staring out the window, his lips moving slightly and his eyes narrow. After a minute he closed his eyes and smiled, shaking his head.
‘I need to speak to Kaye Thompson. Drop me off in Williamsburg, then get back to Three Pines and take The Lion in Winter over to Clara Morrow. Ask her to show you what she meant. She’ll understand.’
Beauvoir turned the car toward Williamsburg.
Gamache had just figured out what Clara was saying in their garbled conversation, and if she was right, it could explain a great deal.
‘Fuck the Pope?’
Gamache never thought he’d hear himself say that, even as a question. Especially as a question.
‘That’s what they said.’ Kaye looked at him, her blue eyes sharp, but now veiled by something else. Exhaustion. Beside her on the sofa Émilie Longpré sat forward and listened, watching her friend closely.
‘Why?’ Kaye asked him.
It was, of course, the one question he asked all the time and now someone was asking him. He had the impression there was something he didn’t understand going on, some subtext that was escaping him.
He thought for a moment, looking out the picture window of her modest room in the seniors’ home. She had a splendid view across Lac Brume. The sun was setting and long mountain shadows cut the lake so that part was in blinding light and part in darkness, like yin and yang. Slowly the scene faded and he saw the boys in the trench, their young eyes filled with terror. They were being told to do the inconceivable, and, inconceivably, they were about to do it.
‘I wonder whether they knew that words could kill,’ said Gamache, slowly, thinking out loud, seeing the defenseless, indefensibly young men preparing for death.
What did it take to do that? Could he? It was one thing to rush without thought into a dangerous situation, it was quite another to wait, and wait, and wait, knowing what was coming. And do it anyway. For no purpose. To no end.
‘That’s ridiculous. Yelling “Fuck the Pope” wouldn’t kill a single German. What do you use for ammunition? When a murderer shoots at you what do you do? Run after him yelling “Tabernacle!”, “Sacré!”, “Chalice!”? I hope I’m never in a life and death situation with you. Merde.’
Gamache laughed. Clearly his insightful comment had failed to impress. And she was probably right. He couldn’t begin to understand why the young men had yelled that at the Somme.
‘I have pictures here I’d like you both to see.’ He spread Saul’s photographs on a table.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Kaye.
‘That’s you, ma belle,’ said Émilie.
‘Are you kidding? I look like a potato in a laundry hamper.’
‘You seem to be speaking to CC in a few of the pictures,’ said Gamache. ‘What were you saying?’
‘Probably telling her to keep still. She kept wiggling. Very annoying.’
‘And she listened to you? Why?’
‘Everyone listens to Kaye,’ said Em with a smile. ‘Like her father, she’s a natural leader.’
Gamache thought that wasn’t totally true. He thought that of the three friends Émilie Longpré was the real leader, though the quietest.
‘Our Kaye here ran Thompson Mills up on Mont Echo for decades, all by herself. Trained and organized a bunch of mountain men, and they adored her. It was the most successful logging operation around.’
‘If I could get some brute into a lye bath once a week I could get CC to stop fidgeting,’ said Kaye. ‘Never could stand the nervous sort.’
‘We now believe de Poitiers wasn’t her real name,’ said Gamache, watching their reactions. But both women continued to stare at the photographs. ‘We think her mother came from Three Pines and that’s why CC came here. To find her mother.’
‘Poor child,’ said Em, still not looking up. Gamache wondered whether she was deliberately avoiding eye contact. ‘Did she?’
‘Find her mother?’ said Gamache. ‘I don’t know. But we know her mother’s name started with an L. Do you know of anyone?’
‘Well, there is one,’ said Émilie. ‘A woman named Longpré.’
Kaye sputtered with laughter. ‘Come on, Chief Inspector. You can’t suspect Em here? Do you think she could abandon a child? Em could no more do that than she could win a curling match. Absolutely incapable.’
‘Thank you, dear.’
‘Anyone else?’ he asked. There was a pause and both women eventually shook their heads. Gamache knew then they were hiding something. They had to have been. They’d both lived in Three Pines when CC’s mother was there and back in the fifties in a small Quebec village a pregnant girl would have been noticed.
‘Can I offer you a lift home?’ Em asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.
Gamache bent to pick up the photographs and his eye caught something. Kaye looking particularly cross at CC, and CC staring ahead at the empty chair as though desperate to get to it. He knew then how the murderer had done it.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Clara and Peter Morrow turned their television and VCR on and Beauvoir shoved the tape into the slot.
He wasn’t looking forward to this. Two hours of some old English movie where all they probably did was talk, talk, talk. No explosions. No sex. He thought he’d rather have the flu than sit through The Lion in Winter. Beside him on the sofa Agent Lemieux was all excited.
Kids.
Émilie Longpré dropped Gamache at the old Hadley house as he requested.
‘Would you like me to wait?’
‘No, madame, mais vous êtes très gentille. The walk back will do me good.’
‘It’s a cold night, Chief Inspector, and getting colder.’ She pointed to her dashboard. The time and temperature were displayed. Minus fifteen Celsius already and the sun had just set. It was four thirty.
‘I’ve never liked this house,’ she said, looking at the turrets and blank windows. Ahead the village of Three Pines beckoned, the lights glowing and warm with a promise of company and an aperitif by a glad fire. With a wrench Gamache opened the car door, which screamed in protest, its hinges frozen and crying. He watched as Émilie’s car disappeared over the small hill into the village, then he turned back to the house. A light could be seen in the living room and a hall light went on after he’d rung the bell.
‘Come in, come in.’ Richard Lyon practically yanked him through the door then slammed it shut. ‘Terrible night. Come in, Chief Inspector.’
Oh, for God’s sake, don’t sound so hearty. Can’t you just once sound normal? Try to be like someone you admire. President Roosevelt, maybe. Or Captain Jean Luc Picard.