Coming out into the tender morning light to shovel, to scrape the snow from their cars, to walk to the boulangerie for their morning baguette and café.
The two men and Henri set out along rue St-Jean, past the restaurants and tourist shops, to a tiny side street cal ed rue Couil ard, and there they found Chez Temporel.
They’d been coming to this café for fifteen years, ever since Superintendent Émile Comeau had retired to old Quebec City, and Gamache had come to visit, to spend time with his mentor, and to help with the little chores that piled up. Shoveling, stacking wood for the fireplace, sealing windows against drafts. But this visit was different. Like no other in al the winters Chief Inspector Gamache had been coming to Quebec City.
This time it was Gamache who needed help.
“So,” Émile leaned back, cupping his bowl of café au lait in slender hands. “How’s the research going?”
“I can’t yet find any references to Captain Cook actual y meeting Bougainvil e before the Battle of Québec, but it was 250 years ago. Records are
scattered and weren’t wel kept. But I know they’re in there,” said Gamache. “It’s an amazing library, Émile.
The volumes go back centuries.”
Comeau watched his companion talk about sifting through arcane books in a local library and the tidbits he was unearthing about a battle long ago fought, and lost. At least, from his point of view lost. Was there a spark in those beloved eyes at last? Those eyes he’d stared into so often at the scenes of dreadful crimes as they’d hunted murderers. As they’d raced through woods and vil ages and fields, through clues and evidence and suspicions. Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, Émile remembered the quote as he remembered those days. Yes, he thought, that described it. Chasmed fears. Both their own, and the murderers. Across tables across the province he and Gamache had sat. Just like this.
But now it was time to rest from murder. No more kil ing, no more deaths. Armand had seen too much of that lately. No, better to bury himself in history, in lives long past. An intel ectual pursuit, nothing more.
Beside them Henri stirred and Gamache instinctively lowered his hand to stroke the shepherd’s head and reassure him. And once again Émile noted the slight tremble. Barely there now. Stronger at times. Sometimes it disappeared completely. It was a tel -tale tremble, and Émile knew the terrible tale it had to tel .
He wished he could take that hand and hold it steady and tel him it would be al right. Because it would, he knew.
With time.
Watching Armand Gamache he noticed again the jagged scar on his left temple and the trim beard he’d grown. So that people would stop staring. So that people would not recognize the most recognizable police officer in Québec.
But, of course, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t them Armand Gamache was hiding from.
The waitress at Chez Temporel arrived with more coffee.
“Merci, Daniel e,” the two men said at once and she left, smiling at the two men who looked so different but seemed so similar.
They drank their coffees and ate pain au chocolat a nd croissants aux amandes and talked about the Carnaval de Québec, starting that night. Occasional y they’d lapse into silence, watching the men and women hurrying along the icy cold street outside to
women hurrying along the icy cold street outside to their jobs. Someone had scratched a three-leaf clover into a slight indent in the center of their wooden table.
Émile rubbed it with his finger.
And wondered when Armand would want to talk about what happened.
It was ten thirty and the monthly board meeting of the Literary and Historical Society was about to start. For many years the meetings had been held in the evening, when the library was closed, but then it was noticed that fewer and fewer members were showing up.
So the Chairman, Porter Wilson, had changed the time. At least, he thought he’d changed the time. At least, it had been reported in the board minutes that it had been his motion, though he privately seemed to remember arguing against it.
And yet, here they were meeting in the morning, and had been for some years. Stil , the other members had adjusted, as had Porter. He had to, since it had apparently been his idea.
The fact the board had adjusted at al was a miracle. The last time they’d been asked to change anything it had been the worn leather on the Lit and His chairs, and that had been sixty-three years ago.
Members stil remembered fathers and mothers, grandparents, ranged on either side of the upholstered Mason-Dixon Line. Remembered vitriolic comments made behind closed doors, behind backs, but before children. Who didn’t forget, sixty-three years later, that devious alteration from old black leather to new black leather.
Pul ing out his chair at the head of the table Porter noticed it was looking worn. He sat quickly so that no one, least of al himself, could see it.
Smal stacks of paper were neatly arranged in front of his and every other place, marching down the wooden table. Elizabeth MacWhirter’s doing. He examined Elizabeth. Plain, tal and slim. At least, she had been that when the world was young. Now she just looked freeze-dried. Like those ancient cadavers pul ed from glaciers. Stil obviously human, but withered and gray. Her dress was blue and practical and a very good cut and material, he suspected. After al , she was one of those MacWhirters. A venerable and moneyed family. One not given to displays of wealth, or brains. Her brother had sold the shipping empire about a decade too late. But there was stil money there. She was a little dul , he thought, but
responsible. Not a leader, not a visionary. Not the sort to hold a community in peril together. Like him. And his father before him. And his grandfather.
For the tiny English community within the wal s of old Quebec City had been in peril for many generations. It was a kind of perpetual peril that sometimes got better and sometimes got worse, but never disappeared completely. Just like the English.
Porter Wilson had never fought a war, being just that much too young, and then too old. Not, anyway, an official war. But he and the other members of his board knew themselves to be in a battle nevertheless.
And one, he secretly suspected, they were losing.
At the door Elizabeth MacWhirter greeted the other board members as they arrived and looked over at Porter Wilson already seated at the head of the table, reading over his notes.
He’d accomplished many things in his life, Elizabeth knew. The choir he’d organized, the amateur theater, the wing for the nursing home. Al built by force of wil and personality. And al less than they might have been had he sought and accepted advice.
The very force of his personality both created and crippled.
How
much
more
could
he
have
accomplished had he been kinder? But then, dynamism and kindness often didn’t go together, though when they did they were unstoppable.
Porter was stoppable. Indeed, he stopped himself.
And now the only board that could stand him was the Lit and His. Elizabeth had known Porter for seventy years, since she’d seen him eating lunch alone, every day, at school and gone to keep him company. Porter decided she was sucking up to one of the great Wilson clan, and treated her with disdain.