“Crap,” muttered one.
“I’m sorry, patron,” said the more senior officer, saluting. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“No, and why would you?”
Gamache explained the situation. “Keep him overnight. Watch him. I don’t know if he’s taken any of these.” He gave them the pouch. “Have this sent to the lab.”
Gamache watched as the agents led Marchand away. Something had set the man off, and Gamache wondered if there’d been more pills in that pouch when the evening began.
Ruth, with Rosa back in her arms, turned to the cobrador and whispered, “Can you leave me alone now?”
But as she walked back to the Gamache home with the others, she knew it would not.
Before he left, Armand, beginning to shiver in the cold, walked up to the cobrador and spoke to him.
“What did you say?” Reine-Marie asked as Armand got into warm, dry clothes.
“I said that I knew he was a cobrador, a conscience. I asked who he was there for.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“A still and quiet conscience,” she said.
“I also told him to leave Three Pines. That this had gone far enough. Too far. Those were good people out there, who’re frightened. And fear can make decent people do terrible things. I asked if he wanted that on his conscience.”
“He won’t leave,” said Reine-Marie.
“Non,” her husband agreed. “He’s not done yet.”
He looked out the window. In the darkness, the cobrador looked like another pine. A fourth tree. A now permanent part of their lives setting down roots deep in their little community.
Then Gamache followed the line of the cobrador’s eyes. The stare he’d held, unflinching, even while being threatened with a beating. Possibly death.
There, framed in a mullioned window, was one of the few people who hadn’t come out onto the village green. To defend or attack the cobrador.
Then Jacqueline turned away, to go back to her kneading.
CHAPTER 10
“You told him to leave. You must’ve known then what would happen,” said the Crown Prosecutor. “There’d even been a death threat.”
“The man was enraged and provoked,” said Chief Superintendent Gamache. “People say things they don’t mean.”
“And people do things they later regret,” said the Crown. “When they’re angry. But it’s still done and can’t be undone. It might be manslaughter and not murder, but still a man would have been slaughtered. Surely your experience as head of homicide taught you that.”
“It has,” Gamache admitted.
“And still you didn’t act. If not then, when? What were you waiting for?”
Gamache looked into the face of the prosecutor, then at the crowd jammed into the stuffy courtroom. He knew how it sounded. How it probably would’ve sounded to him.
But there was nothing he could have done that would have been legal. Or effective.
What happened that November evening proved that the cobrador was having an effect.
Chief Superintendent Gamache had doubted what happened had been Marchand’s idea. He was fairly new to the village and hadn’t been any trouble, until that night. It seemed someone had gotten to him. Told him, either directly or through manipulation, to threaten the cobrador.
Gamache doubted that the goal was to kill the Conscience. More likely, it was to scare him away. After all, who wouldn’t run when faced with a poker-wielding madman?
Despite the cliché, the dead weren’t silent. They told all sorts of tales. If the cobrador had been killed, they’d have unmasked him, and found out who he was. And probably found out why he was there.
But if the cobrador had just run away, no one would ever know who he was, or why he was in Three Pines.
Or who he was there for.
Though the why was beginning to dawn on Gamache. It had come in the form of a tiny plastic bag.
The plague.
But the plan had failed. The Conscience hadn’t budged. Hadn’t even flinched. Had been willing to risk death, for his cause.
The Conscience knew something about someone in the village. And that someone was getting mighty rattled.
But none of this came out in court. The Crown Prosecutor didn’t ask, and Armand Gamache didn’t offer this information.
“Mr. Zalmanowitz,” said the judge, and the Crown Prosecutor approached the bench. “Monsieur Gamache is not on trial. Censor yourself.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
But he looked like he thought Gamache should be another defendant, and not a witness for the prosecution.
Beyond Zalmanowitz’s desk, reporters were madly taking notes.
There were, Judge Corriveau knew, many ways of being on trial. And different types of courts.
Chief Superintendent Gamache would be found guilty.
She turned her attention back to the Crown Prosecutor. That horse’s ass.
Judge Corriveau no longer even tried to repress her private thoughts. But she fought hard to keep them from creeping into her public utterances.
Therein lay a mistrial. And this case would indeed find itself in a higher court.
“How did it strike you,” the Crown asked, “when you saw Lea Roux come to the defense of the cobrador?”
“I would’ve been surprised to see anyone standing between a man swinging a fireplace poker and his target.”
“And yet, that’s what you were planning to do, wasn’t it?”
“I’m trained.”
“Oh yes, I keep forgetting.”
That brought a round of appreciative chuckles from the crowd and a tap of the gavel from Judge Corriveau, who wished it could have been on top of the Crown’s head.
“I knew Madame Roux,” said Gamache. “Her rise in politics. It’s a fierce arena, especially in Québec.”
“Did you think it was a stunt, then? To gain political capital?”
“If it had been that, she’d have sided with the mob, don’t you think?” asked Gamache. “A populist feeding anger and fear is more likely to get elected. If that’s what she was after, I doubt she’d have protected the outsider, the intruder.”
That shut the Crown up and brought a slight snort from above Gamache and to his left.
“I began to say that I knew Madame Roux by reputation. In my position I have a lot of dealings with senior government officials, elected and appointed. You hear things in the halls of the National Assembly, in the chat before committees sit down to business. Lea Roux had a reputation for being fierce, but also principled. A potent combination. She’d brought forward many progressive bills in the National Assembly, often against her leader’s wishes.”
“So she would choose her principles over her career?” asked the Crown.
“It would appear so.”
Though Gamache’s time in homicide had taught him something else. Appearances could not be trusted.
“That was a very brave thing you did,” said Clara, when they’d returned to the Gamaches’ home.
“Can you believe it worked?” asked Lea, her eyes wide, her face flushed despite just coming in from the cold.
Reine-Marie had invited Lea and Matheo to join them for dinner.
Lea was on a high after confronting the mob. Adrenaline. Something Gamache knew a lot about.
The pounding heart. The effort to keep terror in check. Standing your ground. The body taut, the mind whirring.
And then it was over. But the adrenaline still coursed, like a drug, through the body. They were all feeling it, but none more than Lea. The first to make the stand.
“Shame Patrick and Katie can’t join us,” said Reine-Marie, walking with them into the kitchen. “I saw them driving away earlier this evening.”