Which he had.
Though his annoyance was slightly mitigated by relief that she’d shown up at all.
He watched the two of them closely. It was a game he played. Watching. Trying to guess what people might do next.
He was almost always wrong.
Both Myrna and Armand pulled the letters from their pockets.
They compared them. Exactly the same.
“This is”—she looked around—“a bit odd, don’t you think?”
He nodded and followed her eyes to the ramshackle house.
“Do you know these people?” he asked.
“What people?”
“Well, whoever lives here. Lived here.”
“No. You?”
“Non. I haven’t a clue who they are or why we’re here.”
“I called the number,” said Myrna. “But there was no answer. No way to get in touch with this Laurence Mercier. He’s a notary. Do you know him?”
“Non. But I do know one thing.”
“What?” Myrna could tell that something unpleasant was about to come her way.
“He died six months ago. Cancer.”
“Then what—”
She had no idea how to continue, and so stopped. She looked over at the house, then turned to Armand. She was almost his height, and while her parka made her look heavy, in her case it was no illusion.
“You knew that the guy who sent you the letter died months ago, and still you came,” she said. “Why?”
“Curiosity,” he said. “You?”
“Well, I didn’t know he was dead.”
“But you did know it was strange. So why did you come?”
“Same. Curiosity. What’s the worst that could happen?”
It was, even Myrna recognized, a fairly stupid thing to say.
“If we start hearing organ music, Armand, we run. Right?”
He laughed. He, of course, knew the worst that could happen. He’d knelt beside it hundreds of times.
Myrna tipped her head back to stare at the roof, sagging under the weight of months of snow. She saw the cracked and missing windows and blinked as snowflakes, large and gentle and relentless, landed on her face and fell into her eyes.
“It’s not really dangerous, is it?” she asked.
“I doubt it.”
“Doubt?” Her eyes widened slightly. “There is a chance?”
“I think the only danger will come from the building itself,” he nodded to the slumping roof and sloping walls, “and not from whoever is inside.”
They’d walked over, and now he put his foot on the first step and it broke. He raised his brows at her, and she smiled.
“I think that’s more the amount of croissants than the amount of wood rot,” she said, and he laughed.
“I agree.”
He paused for a moment, looking at the steps, then the house.
“You’re not sure if it’s dangerous, are you?” she said. “Either the house or whoever’s inside.”
“Non,” he admitted. “I’m not sure. Would you prefer to wait out here?”
Yes, she thought.
“No,” she said, and followed him in.
“Maître Mercier.” The man introduced himself, walking forward, his hand extended.
“Bonjour,” said Gamache, who’d gone in first. “Armand Gamache.”
He swiftly took in his surroundings, beginning with the man.
Short, slight, white. In his mid-forties.
Alive.
The electricity had been turned off in the house and with it the heat, leaving the air cold and stale. Like a walk-in freezer.
The notary had kept his coat on, and Armand could see it was smudged with dirt. Though Armand’s was too. It was near impossible to get into and out of a vehicle in a Québec winter without getting smeared by dirt and salt.
But Maître Mercier’s coat wasn’t just dirty, it was stained. And worn.
There was an air of neglect about him. The man, like his clothing, appeared threadbare. But there was also a dignity there, bordering on haughtiness.
“Myrna Landers,” said Myrna, stepping forward and offering her hand.
Maître Mercier took it but dropped it quickly. More a touch than a handshake.
Gamache noticed that Myrna’s attitude had changed slightly. No longer fearful, she looked at their host with what appeared to be pity.
There were some creatures who naturally evoked that reaction. Not given armor, or a poison bite, or the ability to fly or even run, what they had was equally powerful.
The ability to look so helpless, so pathetic, that they could not possibly be a threat. Some even adopted them. Protected them. Nurtured them. Took them in.
And almost always regretted it.
It was far too early to tell if Maître Mercier was just such a creature, but he did have that immediate effect, even on someone as experienced and astute as Myrna Landers.
Even on himself, Gamache realized. He could feel his defenses lowering in the presence of this sad little man.
Though they did not drop completely.
Gamache took off his tuque and, smoothing his graying hair, he looked around.
The outside door opened directly into the kitchen, as they often did in farmhouses. It looked unchanged since the sixties. Maybe even fifties. The cabinets were made of plywood painted a cheery blue the color of cornflowers, the counters of chipped yellow laminate and the floors of scuffed linoleum.
Anything of value had been taken. The appliances were gone, the walls were stripped clean except for a mint-green clock above the sink, that had long since stopped.
For a moment he imagined the room as it might once have been. Shiny, not new but clean and cared for. People moving about, preparing a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. Children chasing one another around like wild colts, with parents trying to tame them. Then giving up.
He noticed lines on the doorjamb. Marking heights. Before time had stopped.
Yes, he thought, this room, this home, was happy once. Cheerful once.
He looked again at their host. The notary who did and did not exist. Had this been his home? Had he been happy, cheerful, once? If so, there was no sign of it. It had all been stripped away.
Maître Mercier motioned to the kitchen table, inviting them to sit. Which they did.
“Before we begin, I’d like you to sign this.”
Mercier pushed a piece of paper toward Gamache.
Armand leaned back in his chair, away from the paper. “Before we begin,” he said, “I’d like to know who you are and why we’re here.”
“So would I,” said Myrna.
“In due course,” said Mercier.
It was such a strange thing to say, both as a formal and dated turn of phrase and in its complete dismissal of their request. A not-unreasonable request either, from people who didn’t have to be there.
Mercier looked and sounded like a character from Dickens. And not the hero. Gamache wondered if Myrna felt the same way.
The notary placed a pen on the paper and nodded to Gamache, who did not pick it up.
“Listen,” said Myrna, laying a large hand on Mercier’s and feeling him spasm. “Dear.” Her voice was calm, warm, clear. “You tell us now or I’m leaving. And I’m assuming you don’t want that.”
Gamache pushed the paper back across the table toward the notary.
Myrna patted Mercier’s hand, and Mercier stared back at her.
“Now,” she said. “How did you rise from the dead?”
Mercier looked at her like she was the crazy one, then his eyes shifted, and both Gamache and Myrna turned to follow his gaze out the window.
Another vehicle had pulled up. A pickup truck. And out hopped a young man, his mitts falling into the snow. But he swiftly stooped and picked them up.
Armand caught Myrna’s eye.
The newest arrival wore a long red-and-white-striped hat. So long that it tapered to a pom-pommed tail that trailed down his back and dragged in the snow as he stepped away from his truck.