‘The Sûreté,’ she said, in a small voice.
‘One mother from the Cree nation kept trying. For three months she held bake sales and sold hats and mitts she’d knitted and finally raised enough money for a plane ticket. One way. To Quebec City. She’d made a sign and went to the provincial government to protest. She spent all day in front of the National Assembly but no one stopped. No one paid attention. Eventually some men kicked her off the property, but she went back. Every day for a month she’d show up, sleeping on a park bench every night. And every day she was told to leave.’
‘The National Assembly? But they can’t do that. That’s public property.’
‘She wasn’t at the National Assembly. She thought she was, but she was actually picketing in front of the Château Frontenac Hôtel. No one told her. No one helped her. All they did was laugh.’
Lacoste knew Quebec City well, and could see the turreted, majestic hotel rising from the cliffs overlooking the St Lawrence river. She could see how someone unfamiliar with the city could make that mistake, but surely there was a sign. Surely she’d ask directions. Unless.
‘She spoke no French?’
‘And no English. Only Cree,’ Beauvoir confirmed. In the silence Lacoste saw the formidable hotel, and Beauvoir saw the tiny, etched old woman with the shining eyes. A mother desperate to know what happened to her son, without the words to ask.
‘What happened?’ asked Lacoste.
‘Can’t you guess?’ asked Beauvoir. They’d stopped again and Beauvoir was looking at Lacoste, her face troubled. Then her expression cleared.
‘Chief Inspector Gamache found her.’
‘He was staying at the Château Frontenac,’ said Beauvoir. ‘He’d seen the woman when he’d gone out in the morning, and noticed she was still there when he returned. He spoke to her.’
Isabelle Lacoste could see the whole scene. The chief, solid and courtly, approaching the solitary native woman. Lacoste could see the fear in her dark eyes as yet another official approached and wanted to move her along, out of sight of decent people. And she wouldn’t understand Chief Inspector Gamache. He’d try French then English and she’d just stare up at him, wizened and worried. But one thing she would understand. He was kind.
‘Her placard was in Cree, of course,’ Beauvoir continued. ‘The chief left her and brought back tea and sandwiches and an interpreter from the Aboriginal Center. It was early fall and they sat on the side of the fountain in front of the hotel. You know it?’
‘In the park? Under the old maple trees? I know it well. I sit there too whenever I visit Vieux Québec. The street performers are just down the hill in front of the cafés.’
‘They sat there,’ Beauvoir nodded, ‘drinking tea and eating sandwiches. The chief said the elderly woman said a little prayer before eating, blessing their food. She was obviously starving, but she paused for prayer.’
Beauvoir and Lacoste were no longer looking at each other. They were facing each other on the dirt road, in the sunshine, but staring in opposite directions. Off into the woods, each in their own thoughts, playing out in their heads the scene in Old Quebec.
‘She told him her son was missing. She told him he wasn’t the only one. She told him about her village on the shores of James Bay, which until a year earlier had been dry. No alcohol, by decision of the band council. But the chief had been killed, the elders intimidated, the council of women disbanded. And then the alcohol had arrived, flown in by float plane. Within months their peaceful village was in ruins. But that wasn’t the worst.’
‘She told him about the murders,’ said Lacoste. ‘Did he believe her?’
Beauvoir nodded. Not for the first time he wondered what he’d do in the same situation. And not for the first time the ugly little answer came. He’d have been one of the ones snickering at her. And assuming he’d had the decency to approach, would he have believed her tale of intimidation and betrayal and murder?
Probably not. Or worse, he might have, but would have turned his back on her anyway. Pretended he hadn’t heard. Hadn’t understood.
He hoped that was no longer true, but he didn’t know. All he knew for sure was that the elderly Cree woman’s luck had turned.
At first Gamache had told no one about this encounter, not even Beauvoir.
He’d spent weeks flying from reserve to reserve across Northern Quebec. The snow was beginning to fall by the time he had his answers.
From the moment he’d looked into her eyes, sitting in that park in Old Quebec, he’d believed her. He was sickened and appalled, but he was in no doubt she was telling the truth.
Policemen had done this. She’d watched as these men had led the boys into the woods. The men had returned but the boys hadn’t. Her son, Michael, was one of them. Named for the Archangel, he’d fallen in the woods and she’d searched and searched but couldn’t find him.
Instead she’d found Armand Gamache.
‘Who’s there?’ Gamache stood stock-still. His eyes had adjusted and his ears were attuned.
The creaking increased and grew closer. He tried not to think about what Reine-Marie had just told him, but to focus on the sound which seemed to be all around him.
Finally, something slightly darker appeared from behind one of the basement doors. The black toe of a black shoe. Then a leg swung slowly into view. He saw with complete clarity the leg, the hand, the gun.
Gamache didn’t move. He stood in the very middle of the room and waited.
Now they were facing each other.
‘Agent Lemieux,’ said Gamache softly. He’d known as soon as he’d seen the revolver. But that hadn’t eased the danger. He knew once a gun was drawn the gunman was committed to a course of action. A sudden fright could make him jerk his hand.
But Agent Lemieux’s hand wavered not at all. He stood square in the rectangle of the room, the gun at waist level, pointing at the Chief Inspector.
Then, slowly, the muzzle lowered.
‘Is that you, sir? You gave me a fright.’
‘Didn’t you hear me calling?’
‘Was that you? I couldn’t make out the words. It just sounded like a moan. I think this house is getting to me.’
‘Do you have a flashlight? Mine’s gone out,’ said Gamache, walking toward Lemieux.
A beam of light appeared at Gamache’s feet.
‘Is your gun in your holster now?’
‘Yes sir. Wait until people hear I drew on you.’ Lemieux gave a strained little laugh. Gamache didn’t. Instead he continued to stare at Lemieux. Then he finally spoke, his voice stern.
‘What you just did is grounds for dismissal. You must never, ever draw your gun unless you’re going to use it. You know that and yet you chose to ignore your training. Why?’
Lemieux had intended to spy on Gamache. But the chief’s hearing was too good. Surprise was lost, but something else might be gained. Since Gamache was rattled by the house, why not rattle him a little more? He wondered how Brébeuf would react if he got rid of the Gamache problem by giving him a fatal heart attack. He’d tossed small stones and seen Gamache spin round. He’d moved a piece of rope so that something appeared to slither, and seen Gamache step back. And finally, he’d drawn his gun.
But Gamache had called his name, almost as though he’d known it was him. And the advantage had been lost. Worse than that, Chief Inspector Gamache seemed to have expanded. He stood absolutely unwavering in front of Lemieux, radiating not rage nor even fear, but power. Authority.
‘I asked you a question, Agent Lemieux. Why did you draw your gun?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lemieux stammered, falling back on the time-tested recipe of contrition and confession. ‘I got scared, being here all alone.’
‘You knew I was here.’
Gamache wasn’t crumbling before this wretched display.
‘And I was looking for you, sir. I heard something. Voices, and I knew you wouldn’t be talking to anyone so I thought maybe there was someone else. Maybe the person who broke the police tape. Maybe you needed help. But,’ Lemieux hung his head and shook it, ‘there’s no excuse. I could have killed you. Do you want my gun?’