Clara had never really taken to gardening. All her creative energies went into her art. Happily, Myrna loved gardening, and even more happily she had no garden herself.
In exchange for meals and movies Myrna had turned Clara and Peter’s modest garden into lovely perennial beds of roses and peony, delphiniums and foxglove. But in late April only the spring bulbs dared to bloom, and look what happened to them.
Armand Gamache had awoken to a slight knocking on his door. His bedside clock said 6:10. A dull light was coming into his comfortable room. He listened and there again was the tapping. Creeping out of bed he slipped on his dressing gown and opened the door. There was Gabri, his thick dark hair standing up on one side like Gumby. He was unshaven and wore a shabby dressing gown and fluffy slippers. It seemed the more elegant and sophisticated Olivier became the more disheveled Gabri grew. The universe in balance.
Olivier must be particularly splendid today, thought Gamache.
‘Désolé,’ whispered Gabri. He lifted his hand and Gamache saw a newspaper. His heart dropped.
‘This just arrived. I thought you’d like to see it before anyone else.’
‘Anyone?’
‘Well, I saw it. And Olivier. But no one else.’
‘You’re very kind, Gabri. Merci.’
‘I’ll make coffee. Come down when you’re ready. At least the storm’s over.’
‘You think?’ said Gamache and smiled. He shut the door, put the paper on the bed then showered and shaved. Refreshed he stared down at the paper, a splotch of black and grey against the white sheets. He quickly turned the pages before his courage flagged.
And there it was. Worse than he’d expected.
His jaw clamped shut, his back teeth clenching and unclenching. He could feel himself breathing heavily as he stared at the photograph. His daughter Annie. Annie and a man. Kissing.
‘Anne Marie Gamache with her lover, Maître Paul Miron of the public prosecutor’s office.’
Gamache closed his eyes. When he opened them the photograph was still there.
He read the piece, twice. Forcing himself to go slowly. To chew, swallow and digest the repugnant words. Then he sat quietly and thought.
Minutes later he called Reine-Marie, waking her up.
‘Bonjour, Armand. What time is it?’
‘Almost seven. Sleep well?’
‘Not really. I did a bit of tossing. You?’
‘Same,’ he admitted.
‘I have some bad news. Henri ate your favorite slippers, well one anyway.’
‘You’re kidding. He’s never done it before. I wonder why he’d suddenly do that.’
‘He misses you, as do I. He loves not wisely but too well.’
‘You didn’t eat my other slipper, did you?’
‘Just a little nibble round the edges. Barely noticeable.’
There was a pause then Reine-Marie said, ‘What is it?’
‘Another article.’
He could see her in their wooden bed with its simple duvet and feather pillows and clean white sheets. She’d have two pillows behind her back and the sheets up around her chest, covering her naked body. Not out of shame or bashfulness, but to keep warm.
‘Is it very bad?’
‘Bad enough. It’s about Annie.’ He thought he heard a sharp intake. ‘It shows her kissing a man they identify as Maître Paul Miron. A Crown Prosecutor. Married.’
‘As is she,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Oh, poor David. Poor Annie. It’s not true, of course. Annie would never do that to David. To anyone. Never.’
‘I agree. The gist is that I got out of being charged with murder along with Arnot because I had Annie sleep with the prosecutor.’
‘Armand! Mais, c’est épouvantable. How can they? I don’t understand how anyone can do this.’
Gamache closed his eyes and felt a hole open in his chest, where Reine-Marie should be. He wished with all his heart he was with her. Could hold her to him, could wrap his strong arms around her. And she could hold him.
‘Armand, what’re we going to do?’
‘Nothing. We stand firm. I’ll call Annie and talk to her. I spoke to Daniel last night. He seems all right.’
‘What do these people want?’
‘They want me to resign.’
‘Why?’
‘Revenge for Arnot. I’ve become a symbol of the shame that was brought on the Sûreté.’
‘No, that’s not it, Armand. I think you’ve become too powerful.’ After he hung up he called his daughter and woke her up too. She slipped off into another room to talk, then heard David stirring.
‘Dad, I have to talk to David. I’ll call you later.’
‘Annie, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault. God, he’s heading downstairs to the paper. Gotta go.’
For a moment Armand Gamache imagined the scene in their home in the Plateau Mont-Royal quartier of Montreal. David rumpled and bewildered. So in love with Annie. Annie impetuous, ambitious, full of life. And so in love with David.
He made one more call. To his friend and superior, Michel Brébeuf.
‘Oui, allô,’ came the familiar voice.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘Not at all, Armand.’ The voice was pleasant and warm. ‘I was going to call you this morning. I saw the papers yesterday.’
‘Have you seen this morning’s?’
There was a pause then Gamache heard Michel call, ‘Catherine, has the paper arrived? Oui? Could you bring it here? Just a moment, Armand.’
Gamache heard the rustle as Brébeuf turned the leaves of the paper. Then it stopped.
‘Mon Dieu. Armand, c’est terrible. C’est trop. Have you talked to Annie?’
She was Michel’s goddaughter and a particular favorite.
‘Just now. She hadn’t seen it. She’s talking to David right now. It isn’t true, of course.’
‘You’re kidding, because I believe it,’ said Brébeuf. ‘Of course it’s lies. We know Annie would never have an affair. Armand, this is getting dangerous. Someone’s going to believe this crap. Perhaps you should explain.’
‘To you?’
‘No, not to me, but to the reporters. That first picture was of you talking to Daniel. Why don’t you just call the editor and straighten him out? And I’m sure you have an explanation for the envelope. What was in it anyway?’
‘The one I gave to Daniel? Nothing significant.’
There was a pause. Finally Brébeuf spoke, seriously. ‘Armand, was it a crêpe?’
Gamache laughed. ‘How’d you guess, Michel? That’s exactly what it was. An old family crêpe my grand-mère made.’
Brébeuf laughed then grew silent. ‘If you don’t stop these insinuations they’ll just grow. Hold a news conference, tell everyone Daniel’s your son. Tell them what was in the envelope. Tell them about Annie. What’s the harm?’
What was the harm?
‘The lies will never end, Michel. You know that. It’s a monster with an endless supply of heads. Lop off one head and more appear, stronger and more vicious. If we respond they’ll know they have us. I won’t do it. And I won’t resign.’
‘You sound like a child.’
‘Children can be wise.’
‘Children are willful and selfish,’ Brébeuf snapped. There was silence. Michel Brébeuf forced himself to pause. To count to five. To give the impression of massive thought. Then he spoke.
‘You win, Armand. But will you let me work behind the scenes? I have some contacts at the papers.’
‘Thank you, Michel. I’d appreciate it.’
‘Good. Go to work, concentrate on the investigation. Keep your focus and don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of it.’
* * *
Armand Gamache dressed and headed downstairs, plunging deeper and deeper into the aroma of strong coffee. For a few minutes he sipped his coffee, ate a flaky croissant, and talked to Gabri. The disheveled man had toyed with the handle of his mug and told Gamache about coming out, about telling his family, about telling his co-workers at the investment house. And as he spoke Gamache realized Gabri knew how he was feeling. Naked, exposed, being made to feel shame for something not shameful. And in his oddly quiet way Gabri was saying he wasn’t alone. Thanking Gabri Gamache put on his rubber boots and waxed Barbour field coat and went for a walk. He had a lot to ponder and he knew that everything is solved by walking.