‘So when new products like a phone or something came out,’ said Lemieux, ‘she’d work on it?’
‘Her expertise was information technology. Very hot field, IT. According to her boss she got that dossier not long before leaving.’
Gamache waited. Isabelle Lacoste was as good an agent as he’d ever worked with and should Inspector Beauvoir leave for any reason she’d be his natural choice for second in command. Her reports were thorough, clear and without ambiguity.
‘She was married to François Favreau but it didn’t work. They divorced a few years ago. But her boss doesn’t think that was the reason she left. He asked her why, but she was vague on the reason but definite about her decision and he respected that.’
‘Did he have a theory?’ Gamache asked.
‘He did.’ Lacoste smiled. ‘Six years ago Madeleine Favreau was diagnosed with breast cancer. Monsieur Marchand thinks that, perhaps combined with the divorce, was the reason. He was sorry about it. I could hear it in his voice, he liked her.’
‘Loved her?’ asked Gamache.
‘I don’t know. But there was affection there, I think, that went beyond simple respect. He was sorry she left.’
‘And then she came here,’ said Gamache, leaning back in his chair. Olivier knocked and brought in coffees and a tray of desserts. He took slightly more time than Gamache would have thought necessary then finally left, having to satisfy himself with baguette crumbs but not a single crumb of information.
‘No children?’ asked Lemieux.
Lacoste shook her head and reached for a chocolate mousse, whipped high above the cut-glass dish, and decorated with real cream and a raspberry. She dragged a dark, rich coffee toward her, satisfied with her report, and her lunch.
Beauvoir noticed there was just one mousse left. Lemieux had taken a fruit salad, which Beauvoir was relieved to see but viewed with some suspicion. Who would choose fruit over chocolate mousse? But now he himself was left with a terrible dilemma, a culinary Sophie’s Choice. One mousse. Should he take it for himself or leave it for Gamache?
He stared at the mousse then lifting his eyes he saw Gamache also looking. Not at the dessert. At him. He had a very small smile on his face and something else. Something Beauvoir had rarely seen there.
Sadness.
Then Beauvoir knew. Knew everything. Knew why Nichol was still on the team. Knew why Gamache was even taking her with him that afternoon.
If officers loyal to Arnot wanted ammunition to bring down Gamache how best to do it? Plant someone on his team. Armand Gamache would know that. And instead of firing her, he decided to play a dangerous game. He kept her on. And more than that. He kept her close. So he could watch her. So he could also keep her away from the rest of them. Armand Gamache was throwing himself onto the grenade that was Yvette Nichol. For them.
Jean Guy Beauvoir reached out and, picking up the dessert, he placed the chocolate mousse in front of Armand Gamache.
TWENTY-FIVE
Clara Morrow dragged her hands through her hair and stared at the work on the easel. How had it gone from brilliant to crap so quickly? She picked up her brush again, then put it down. She needed a finer one. Finding it she dabbed it in the green oil paint, gave it just a touch of yellow and approached the painting.
But she couldn’t. She no longer knew what she wanted to do.
Clara’s hair stood out at the sides of her head with streaks of blue and yellow paint in it. She could have made a living as Clara the Clown. Even her face was streaked with color, though her eyes would scare any child who came close.
Haunted, fearful eyes. Less than a week now before Denis Fortin showed up. He’d called that morning and said he’d like to bring some colleagues with him. Colleagues was a word that always excited and intrigued Clara. Painters didn’t have colleagues. Most barely had friends. But now she hated the word. Hated the phone. And hated the thing on the easel that was supposed to lift her from obscurity and make the art world finally take notice.
Clara backed away from the easel, afraid of her work.
‘Look at this.’ Peter’s head appeared at her door. She’d have to consider closing it, she thought. No more interruptions. She never interrupted him when he was working so why did he think it was OK to not only speak to her, but expect her to leave the studio to look at what? A piece of bread with a hole in it that looked like the Queen? Lucy lying with her head under the carpet? A cardinal at their bird feeder?
Anything, as long as it was insignificant, was reason enough for Peter to interrupt her work. But she knew she was being unfair. If she knew one thing it was that Peter, while not necessarily understanding her work, was her biggest supporter.
‘Come on, quick.’ He gestured to her excitedly and disappeared.
Clara took off her pinafore, smearing oil paint on her shirt as she did, and left the studio, trying to ignore the relief she felt as she turned off the light.
‘Look.’ Peter practically dragged her over to the window.
There was Ruth on the village green, talking to someone. Only she was alone. There was nothing odd about that. It actually would have been strange had there been someone willing to listen to her.
‘Wait for it.’ Peter could sense her impatience. ‘Look,’ he said triumphantly.
Ruth said one last thing then turned and walked very slowly back across the green toward her home, carrying a canvas bag of groceries. As she walked two rocks seemed to move with her. Clara looked more closely. They were fuzzy sort of rocks. Birds. Probably the ubiquitous chickadees. Then the one in front flapped its wings and lifted up a little.
‘Ducks,’ said Clara, smiling, the tension disappearing as she watched Ruth and her two ducklings walk in line back to the small home on the other side of the green.
‘I didn’t see her go across to Monsieur Béliveau’s for groceries, but Gabri did. He called and told me to look. Apparently the little guys waited outside the store for her, then followed her to the green.’
‘I wonder what she was saying to them.’
‘Probably teaching them to swear. Can you imagine? Our own little tourist destination, the village with ducks that speak.’
‘And what would they say?’ Clara looked at Peter with amusement.
‘Fuck!’ they both said at once.
‘Only a poet would have a duck that said fuck,’ said Clara, laughing. Then she noticed the Sûreté officers leaving the bistro and heading to the old railway station. She was considering going over to say hello, and maybe picking up some information, when she saw Inspector Beauvoir take Chief Inspector Gamache aside. From what Clara could see the younger man was talking and gesturing and the Chief Inspector was listening.
‘Is that what you’re doing?’ Beauvoir tried to keep his voice down. He reached into Gamache’s jacket and took the folded newspaper from where it protruded from his pocket. ‘This isn’t nothing. It’s something, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gamache admitted.
‘It’s Arnot, isn’t it? It’s always fucking Arnot.’ Beauvoir’s voice was getting louder.
‘You need to trust me with this, Jean Guy. This Arnot thing has been around far too long. Time to stop it.’
‘But you’re not doing anything. He’s brought the fight to you, with this.’ Beauvoir waved the paper.
From their window Peter and Clara saw the newspaper waved like a baton. Clara knew if they were watching so were others. Gamache and Beauvoir could not have chosen a more public place for their argument.
‘You’ve known for months, years, that it wasn’t over,’ continued Beauvoir. ‘But still you stayed silent. You’re no longer consulted on major decisions—’