“Hard to tell,” said Jean-Guy. “There was the convenience of the laptop and the fact Anthony was already tarred by the street. Hugo isn’t admitting anything.”
“I think there was something else,” said Myrna. “Jealousy. And can you blame him?”
“For killing his brother?” asked Clara. “I think I can.”
“No, I mean for being jealous. Resentful. One tall, handsome, respected, decent. Married with children. The other squat, physically unattractive, even slightly repulsive. Imagine growing up together?”
“But lots do,” said Gabri. “I have a younger brother who’s not nearly as attractive as me. It hasn’t led to murder.”
“Early days,” said Olivier.
“But there was more,” said Myrna. “Who was the Baroness’s favorite? Who understood Clara’s painting? Hugo might’ve looked like his mother, but Anthony was more like her in every way that mattered. That’s why Hugo dragged Anthony’s name into it.”
“‘The sins I was told were mine from birth,’” said Stephen, looking down at the woman drooling on his sweater, “‘and the Guilt of an old inheritance.’”
Ruth woke up with a snort. “Guilt? Sin?”
“You were singing her song,” said Gabri.
“Wait a minute,” said Stephen. “I know about these numbered accounts. You got the number for the one in Lebanon from that Shaeffer fellow, but what about the other?”
“We found it behind Clara’s painting,” said Beauvoir.
“Yes, yes, but how did Anthony Baumgartner find it and put it there? These codes are closely guarded. The bank only sends them out over secure, encrypted emails. There’s no way Anthony could’ve just stumbled on it and then written it behind that painting. By the way,” he said to Clara. “I’d like to see the original. Is it for sale?”
“Ten bucks and she’s yours,” said Gabri, pointing to Ruth.
“We can talk,” said Clara.
“You’re right,” said Jean-Guy. “Anthony could never find the code. It’s the one thing that Hugo knew would incriminate him. The only place where he needed his real name. On the account in Singapore that had three hundred seventy-seven million in it.”
Olivier groaned.
“So how did Anthony find it and get into the account?” asked Stephen.
“He didn’t.”
They stared at Jean-Guy.
Armand crossed his legs and sat back. Marveling at Jean-Guy. His protégé, who now no longer needed any protection. He was soaring on his own.
“Anthony Baumgartner didn’t write the access code there,” said Jean-Guy. “Hugo did.”
“And Anthony found it?” asked Myrna.
“No. He didn’t. When he confronted Hugo that night at their old farmhouse, he didn’t have the final proof. I think he must’ve begged Hugo to explain, but when Hugo couldn’t, Anthony told him he’d have to turn him in.”
“And that’s why Hugo killed him,” said Ruth.
“Oui.”
“Do you think Hugo meant to kill him?” asked Gabri.
“How should I know?” asked Ruth.
“I was asking the head of homicide,” said Gabri. “Not the demented poet.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, go on, numbnuts.”
“Hard to tell,” said Jean-Guy. “He was a man who planned. He must’ve had some sort of exit strategy, in case the embezzlement was found out. But I doubt his plan was to kill his brother.”
“He was cornered,” said Armand. “And when Anthony refused to turn a blind eye, he lashed out.”
“You see what comes of integrity, Armand?” said Stephen. “Of decency?”
“Some godfather,” said Myrna.
“Decency didn’t kill him,” said Armand. “Indecency did. Jealousy. Greed. Resentment.”
“We were looking at one feud when it was another that did the damage,” said Myrna.
They were quiet for a moment, until Gabri broke the silence.
“Is it rude to say I’m hungry?”
“So’m I,” said Stephen. “What’s for dinner? Lobster?”
“Stew,” said Olivier.
“Eh,” said Stephen. “Let’s call it boeuf bourguignon.”
“I see you’re reading the book I gave you,” Ruth said to Jean-Guy as they got up. She pointed to the coffee table.
“You gave him The Gashlycrumb Tinies?” asked Stephen. “By Edward Gorey? Oh, I think I really do love you,” he said to Ruth.
While Stephen read the book out loud, Jean-Guy took Myrna aside.
“We found the letter,” he said.
“In the wreck of the farmhouse?”
“Yes. Torn and dirty. It was exactly what Katie Burke described. Written in her hand, though the envelope looked like it was written by the Baroness. In it she asked Anthony to share the fortune should it come their way. Which it did.”
“Thank you for telling me,” said Myrna.
Annie caught her husband’s eye. Jean-Guy took a deep breath, and then, excusing himself from Myrna, he approached his father-in-law.
“I’m going to say good night to Honoré. Want to come? Gets us out of preparing dinner.”
“After dinner to avoid the dishes would be better,” said Armand, but he followed Jean-Guy to their room.
As he left, he noticed Annie taking Reine-Marie into the study and closing the door.
“Why didn’t you accept the job you were offered?” asked Jean-Guy, once in the bedroom with the door closed.
After calling Reine-Marie the day before, about his meeting with the Premier and the decision of the disciplinary committee, he’d called Jean-Guy. And told him he’d been asked to resign as Chief Superintendent.
Which he’d done. He’d had the letter prepared and in his breast pocket.
“You told me about resigning,” said Jean-Guy in a whisper so as not to wake up his son. “But you didn’t tell me you were offered your old job back. As head of homicide.”
“True,” said Gamache. “It was academic. I was never going to accept.”
“Because of Lacoste?”
“Non. I made it a condition of my resignation that Isabelle was offered the post of Superintendent in charge of Serious Crimes. It’ll be held for her until she’s ready. Did you know they’ve started the paperwork to foster the little girl?”
“No, I hadn’t heard. That’s terrific.”
Beauvoir sat on the side of the bed and looked at the crib where Honoré was sound asleep. He gave a deep sigh.
“I hope she accepts,” said Armand, joining him. “The Sûreté needs her.”
“It needs you, patron. So if not because of Isabelle, then why turn down Chief Inspector of Homicide? Ego?”
Gamache laughed and tapped Beauvoir’s knee. “You know me better than that, old son.”
“Then why?”
“You know why. It’s your job. Your department. You’re more than ready. You’re Chief Inspector Beauvoir, the head of Homicide for the Sûreté. And I couldn’t be more pleased.” His smile faded, and he looked serious. “Or proud.”
“Take the job.”
“Why?” asked Armand, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Jean-Guy.
“Because I’m leaving.”
He saw his signature, scribbled quickly before he could change his mind, on the papers that had been pushed across the polished desk.
“I’ve accepted a position with GHS Engineering. As their Head of Strategic Planning.”
There was a long silence finally broken by “I see.”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner but couldn’t find the right time.”
“No, no. I understand. I really do, Jean-Guy. You have a family, and it comes first.”
“It’s more than that. These last few years have been brutal, patron. And then to be suspended and investigated by our own people? It was just too much. I love my job, but I’m tired. I’m tired of death. Of killing.”
They sat quietly, looking at the sleeping child. Hearing his soft breathing. Inhaling the scent of Honoré.
“Time to live,” said Armand. “You’ve done more than anyone could ever ask. More than I could ever ask or expect. You’re doing the right thing. Look at me.”
Jean-Guy dragged his eyes from the crib to look at Armand. And he saw a smile that started at his mouth and coursed along the laugh lines. Up to the deep brown eyes.