Or was the murderer not a guest at all, but someone already here?
“Hello, there.”
Beside him Beauvoir gave a start. He tried not to show it, but this old home, despite the facelift, still gave Beauvoir a chill.
Dominique Gilbert appeared around the side of the inn. She was wearing jodhpurs and a black velvet riding hat. In her hand she carried a leather crop. She was about to either go for a ride, or direct a Mack Sennett short.
She smiled when she recognized them, and put out her hand.
“Chief Inspector.” She shook his hand then turned to Beauvoir and shook his. Then her smile faded.
“So it’s true about the body in Clara’s garden?”
She removed her hat to show brown hair flattened to her skull by perspiration. Dominique Gilbert was in her late forties, tall and slender. A refugee, along with her husband, Marc, from the city. They’d made their bundle and escaped.
Her fellow executives at the bank had predicted they wouldn’t last a winter. But they were now into their second year and showed no sign of regretting their decision to buy the old wreck and turn it into an inviting inn and spa.
“It’s true, I’m afraid,” said Gamache.
“May I use your phone?” Inspector Beauvoir asked. Despite knowing perfectly well it wouldn’t work, he’d been trying to call the forensics team on his cell phone.
“Merde,” he’d muttered, “it’s like going back to the dark ages here.”
“Help yourself.” Dominique pointed into the house. “You don’t even have to wind it up anymore.”
But her humor was lost on the Inspector, who strode in, still punching re-dial on his cell.
“I hear some of the guests at the party stayed with you last night?” said Gamache, standing on the verandah.
“A few. Some booked, some were last minute.”
“A bit too much to drink?”
“Sloshed.”
“Are they still here?”
“They’ve been dragging themselves out of bed for the past couple of hours. Your agent asked them not to leave Three Pines, but most could barely leave their beds. They’re not in any danger of fleeing. Crawling, perhaps, but not fleeing.”
“Where is my agent?” Gamache looked around. When he’d learned some of the guests had stayed over, he’d directed Agent Lacoste to send out two junior agents. One to guard the B and B, the other to come here.
“He’s around back with the horses.”
“Is that right?” said Gamache. “Guarding them?”
“As you know, Chief Inspector, our horses aren’t exactly flight risks either.”
He did know. One of the first things Dominique had done when moving here was to buy horses. The fulfillment of a childhood dream.
But instead of Black Beauty, Flicka, Pegasus, Dominique had found four broken-down old plugs. Ruined animals, bound for the slaughterhouse.
Indeed, one looked more like a moose than a horse.
But such was the nature of dreams. They were not always recognizable, at first.
“They’ll be right up to take the car away,” said Beauvoir, returning. Gamache noticed Beauvoir still held his cell phone in his hand. A pacifier.
“A few of the hardier guests wanted to go riding,” Dominique explained. “I was just about to take them. Your agent said it would be OK. At first he was unsure but once he saw the horses he relented. I guess he realized they wouldn’t exactly make for the border. I hope I haven’t gotten him into trouble.”
“Not at all,” said Gamache but Beauvoir looked as though that wouldn’t have been his answer.
As they walked across the grass toward the barn they could see people and animals inside. All in shadow, silhouettes cut and pasted there.
And among them the outline of a young Sûreté agent in uniform. Slender. Awkward, even at a distance.
Chief Inspector Gamache felt his heart suddenly pound and the blood rush to his core. In an instant he felt light-headed and he wondered if he might pass out. His hands went cold. He wondered if Jean Guy Beauvoir had noticed this sudden reaction, this unexpected spasm. As another young agent came to mind. Came to life. For an instant.
And then died again.
The shock was so great it threw Gamache off for a moment. He almost swayed on his feet but when it cleared he found his body still moving forward. His face still relaxed. Nothing to betray what had just happened. This grand mal of emotion.
Except a very, very slight tremor in his right hand, which he now closed into a fist.
The young agent’s silhouette broke away from the rest and came into the sunshine. And became whole. Handsome face eager, and worried, he hurried over to them.
“Sir,” he said, and saluted the Chief Inspector, who waved him to drop the salute. “I came to just see,” the agent blurted out. “To make sure it would be OK if they rode the horses. I didn’t mean to leave the place unguarded.”
The young agent had never met Chief Inspector Gamache before. He’d obviously seen him at a distance. As had most of the province. On news programs, in interviews, in photographs in the newspaper. In the televised funeral cortege for the agents who had died. Under Gamache’s command, just six months earlier.
The agent had even attended one of the Chief’s lectures at the academy.
But now, as he looked at the Chief Inspector, all those other images disappeared. To be replaced by a leaked video of that police action, where so many had died. No one should have ever seen those images, but millions had, as it went viral on the Internet. It was difficult to see the Chief Inspector now, with his jagged scar, and not also see that video.
But here was the man in person. The famed head of the famed homicide department. He was so close that the young agent could even smell the Chief Inspector’s scent. A very slight hint of sandalwood and something else. Rose water. The agent looked into Gamache’s deep brown eyes and realized they were unlike any he’d seen. He’d been stared at by many senior officers. In fact, everyone was senior to him. But he’d never had quite this experience before.
The Chief Inspector’s gaze was intelligent, thoughtful, searching.
But where others were cynical and censorious at their center, Chief Inspector Gamache’s eyes were something else.
They were kind.
Now, finally the agent was face-to-face with this famous man and where had the Chief found him? In a barn. Smelling of horse shit and feeding carrots to what looked like a moose. Saddling horses for murder suspects.
He waited for the wrath. For the curt correction.
But instead, Chief Inspector Gamache did the unthinkable.
He put out his hand.
The young agent stared at it for a moment. And noticed the very, very slight tremble. Then he took it and felt it strong and firm.
“Chief Inspector Gamache,” the large man said.
“Oui, patron. Agent Yves Rousseau of the Cowansville detachment.”
“All quiet here?”
“Yessir. I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have allowed them to go riding.”
Gamache smiled. “You have no right to stop them. Besides, I don’t think they’ll get far.”
The three Sûreté officers looked over at the two women and Dominique, each leading a clopping horse from the barn.
Gamache turned his gaze back to the agent in front of him. Young, eager.
“Did you get their names and addresses?”
“Yessir. And cross checked with their ID. I got everyone’s information.”
He unclicked his pocket, to get at his notebook.
“Perhaps you can take it to the Incident Room,” said Gamache, “and give it to Agent Lacoste.”
“Right,” said Rousseau, writing that down.
Jean Guy Beauvoir inwardly groaned. Here we go again, he thought. He’s going to invite this kid to join the investigation. Does he never learn?