“Tell us about Edouard.”
“What?” said Matheo. “Why?”
“It was a tragedy,” said Gamache. “And those reverberate.”
“But it wasn’t Katie’s fault,” said Lea. “She wasn’t even there when he fell. She and Patrick had snuck off into his dorm room. If it was anyone’s fault, it was the dealer who sold Edouard the drugs.”
“And who was he?” asked Lacoste.
“You’re kidding, right?” said Matheo. “That was fifteen years ago. I barely remember the names of my professors. And the guy took off right after Edouard died. As soon as the cops started asking questions.”
“So you don’t know his name?” asked Beauvoir.
“No. Look, Edouard died years ago. It can’t have anything to do with Katie today.”
“You might be surprised,” said Gamache, “how many murders start in the distant past. They have time to fester, to grow. To become malformed and grotesque. Like those men and women abandoned on the island off Spain. But they always come back.”
He commanded the quiet room, the only sound the slight tip-tap of sleet on the panes.
“Where were you last night?” Lacoste asked.
“At the Gamaches’ for dinner,” said Matheo. “And then bed.”
“You didn’t hear Madame Evans leave the B&B or return?”
“Non, I heard nothing,” said Matheo, and Lea nodded.
The Sûreté officers walked Lea and Matheo to the door.
When they’d left, Lacoste and Beauvoir turned to Gamache.
“Do you think the killer is long gone?” Lacoste asked.
“Non. I think whoever killed Katie Evans is still here. And is watching us.”
CHAPTER 19
“What’re they doing now?” asked Jacqueline.
“They’re still there.”
Anton looked out the bay window of Sarah’s Boulangerie toward St. Thomas’s Church, while Jacqueline stood at the worktable behind the counter and kneaded. Pummeling the dough.
“They’ve taken her away,” said Anton, turning from the window. “The ambulance has gone.”
He’d come in with the news that a body had been found in the chapel. That it was one of the visitors. Katie Evans.
By then, they’d known. But still, having it confirmed was a shock.
Anton tried sitting, but found he couldn’t get comfortable, and so he paced the small boulangerie, while trying not to make it look like pacing.
When he’d woken up that morning and the cobrador was gone, he’d thought it would be okay. That they didn’t need to tell Gamache anything. But now—
A woman had been killed and there were cops everywhere.
It was worse than ever.
“We should’ve told them,” said Jacqueline, pulling sticky dough off her fingers.
“That we knew it was a cobrador? You think it had something to do with what happened.”
“Of course it did,” she snapped, then scraping the dough off the counter, she threw it down with such force it flattened. The air, the life, knocked out of it. It would not rise now. “You can’t be that much of an idiot.”
He looked at her as though he’d been the one kneaded and thumped. And winded by a blow.
“Honestly, Anton. We were told about the cobrador last year. And now it’s here? Didn’t it occur to you that maybe it’s come for us?”
“But why would it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jacqueline. “Because we worked for a madman?”
“They’re the ones who left,” said Anton. “Not us. Besides, we don’t know anything.”
“We know enough. Maybe he sent the cobrador as a warning. To keep our mouths shut.”
But if the cobrador had come for them, why was Madame Evans dead?
The cops hadn’t yet told them exactly what had happened, but it was obvious. Madame Evans wasn’t just dead. Judging by the activity at the church, it was neither natural nor an accident.
“Is it too late to say something?” he asked.
“Maybe not.” She punched the dough. “But it’ll look bad. They’ll wonder why we didn’t tell them sooner.”
“Why didn’t we?”
But he knew perfectly well.
He remembered that dark mask, facing the bistro. Facing him. Boring through the windows and walls, into the kitchen, where he washed dishes.
The Conscience. That was threatening everything Anton had built up.
Yes. That was why he hadn’t wanted to say anything to that Gamache fellow. The head of the whole Sûreté. In case he figured it out. Realized who he was.
Even Jacqueline didn’t know.
He looked at her. Those long fingers in the dough, once so sensuous, were now claws, ripping the life out of a baguette.
He knew why he’d wanted to keep silent about the cobrador. But he began to wonder why she did.
The door between the bakery and the bistro swung open with such force that it banged against the wall, and both Jacqueline and Anton jumped.
Lea Roux stepped in, followed by Matheo.
“We need—” began Lea, but stopped abruptly when she saw Anton.
They stared at each other. He’d seen them before, but only briefly. They were visitors, that’s all he knew. But now he thought, maybe, he recognized them. Or at least her.
“There you are.” Olivier walked in behind them. He acknowledged Lea and Matheo with a sympathetic nod. He’d spoken to them in the bistro, and offered condolences.
Now his attention turned to his dishwasher. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” His voice was appropriately solemn and courteous, though annoyance was poking through. “I need you in the kitchen. It’s a little busy.”
Olivier gave a strained smile and it was clear that, if not for the others present, he’d have said something else. In a whole other way.
“Sorry,” said Anton. He hurried over to the door, but paused to look at Jacqueline. “You okay?”
When she nodded, he turned to Lea and Matheo. “Désolé. It’s terrible.”
It was clear she’d been crying, her eyes were puffy and red.
Anton followed Olivier through the crowded bistro, filled with talk of murder, to the kitchens, filled with the scent of herbs and rich, comforting sauces, and the clatter of pots and pans and dishes.
To others it was a cacophony. To Anton it was a symphony. Operatic even. The clanging and banging of creation, of drama, of tension. Of rivalries. Of divas. Competing flavors and competing chefs. Heartbreak even. As soufflés fell. As casseroles burned.
But most of the time what rose from those noises, that grand tumult, was something wonderful. Beautiful. Exciting and comforting.
Anton had wept once, in Italy, when he’d tasted a perfect gelato. And once in Renty, France, when he’d taken a bite of baguette. A bread so sublime people traveled hours to buy one.
Yes. To others a kitchen was a convenience. Even a chore. To a precious few, it was their world. A messy, wonderful world. His world. His sanctuary. And he longed to get back into it. To hide. And hope the Sûreté didn’t figure out who he was.
“Let’s go,” said Olivier, holding open the swinging door to the kitchen. “There’s lots to do. Not just here, but the Sûreté agents are going to need sandwiches and drinks.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Anton.
Olivier relaxed just a little. “Merci.”
Once back at the church, Isabelle Lacoste sent an agent into Knowlton, to interview staff at the restaurant. See if they remembered the Evanses. Another agent was sent into the village with a list of the people to be interviewed.
She invited Chief Superintendent Gamache to sit in.
He declined. “Unless you need me, Isabelle.”
She thought for a moment. “Well, they’d be more likely to tell the truth, since you know them and know most of their movements in the last day or so. But,” she smiled and shrugged, “if they lie, they lie.”