Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand?
Daniel was in Paris, so far away, but he also felt Daniel was in danger of making a very serious mistake that could propel him further still.
‘I think that might not be the best choice.’
‘Why?’ Daniel sounded curious, not defensive.
‘You know the history.’
‘You told me, but it is history, Dad. And Honore Gamache is a good name, for a good man. You more than anyone know that.’
‘It’s true.’ Gamache felt a twinge of anxiety. Daniel wasn’t backing down. ‘But more than anyone I also know what can happen in a world not always kind.’
‘You’ve taught us we make our own world. What was that Milton quote we were raised with?
‘The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.
‘It’s what you believe, Dad, and so do I. Remember those walks in the park? You’d take Annie and me and recite poetry all the way there. That was one of your favourites. And mine.’
Gamache felt a fizzing in his throat as he remembered walks, tiny, pudgy fingers in what seemed a massive hand. Not so much holding as being held.
‘One day soon it’ll be my turn. I’ll be taking Florence and Honore to Parc Mont Royal blabbing poetry all the way.’
‘Blabbing? Don’t you mean reciting in a strong yet musical voice?’
‘Of course. Breathes there the man with soul so dead. Re member that one?’
‘I do.’
‘All the ones you taught me, I’ll teach them, including Milton, including that the mind is its own place and we make our own reality, our own world. Don’t worry,’ Daniel continued, his voice full of reason and patience. ‘Honore will know the world starts between his ears and is his for the making. And he’ll be taught as I was what a beautiful name that is.’
‘No, Daniel, you’re making a mistake.’ There, he’d said it. The one thing he’d promised himself not to say. Still, Daniel had to be made to see it, had to be stopped from making this well-intentioned but tragic mistake.
In his peripheral vision he saw a movement. Reine-Marie had taken a step into the room. He looked at her. Her body was composed but her eyes were filled with surprise and anxiety. Still, it had to be done. Sometimes parenting was standing up and doing what was unpopular. Risking censure. Daniel must not be allowed to name his son Honore.
‘I’d hoped you’d feel differently, Dad.’
‘But why would I? Nothing’s changed.’
‘Time has changed. That was years ago. Decades. You need to let it go.’
‘I’ve seen things. I’ve seen what wilful parents can do to a child. I’ve seen kids so deeply wounded—’ they can’t even jump, he almost said. Their feet never leave the ground. No leap for joy, no skipping rope, no jumping from the dock, no dangling in the arms of a loving and trusted parent.
‘Are you accusing me of hurting our child?’ Daniel’s voice was no longer full of reason and patience. ‘Are you really suggesting I’d hurt my son? He isn’t even born yet and you’re already accusing me? You still see me as a screw-up, don’t you?’
‘Daniel, calm down. I never saw you as a screw-up, you know that.’
Across the room he could hear Reine-Marie inhale.
‘You’re right. Always right. You get to win because you know things I don’t, you’ve seen things I haven’t. And you seem to know I’m so wilful I’d give our child a name that will ruin him.’
‘Life can be hard enough without giving a child a name that will lead to abuse, to bullying.’
‘Yes, it could lead to that, but it could also lead to pride, to self-worth—’
‘He’ll find his own self-worth no matter what name you give him. Don’t handicap him.’
‘You’d consider Honore a birth defect?’ Daniel’s voice was dangerously distant.
‘I didn’t say that.’ Gamache tried to pull back but knew it had gone too far. ‘Look, we should talk about this in person. I’m sorry if I seemed to say you’d deliberately hurt your child. I know you wouldn’t. You’re a wonderful parent—’
‘Glad you think so.’
‘Any child would be fortunate to be born to you. But you asked how I feel, and it’s possible I’m wrong but I think it would be unfair to name your son Honore.’
‘Thanks for calling,’ said Daniel and hung up.
Gamache stood with the phone to his ear, stunned. Had it really gone so far wrong?
‘Was it bad?’ Reine-Marie asked.
‘Bad enough.’ Gamache hung up. ‘But we’ll work it out.’
He wasn’t worried, really. He and Daniel argued sometimes, as he did with his daughter Annie. Disagreements were natural, he told himself. But this was different. He’d hurt his son in a place he himself knew. He’d questioned his ability as a father.
‘Oh good, you’re back.’
Beauvoir swung into the room, narrowly avoiding a technician carrying a huge box. ‘Agent Lacoste’s just finishing her search of the guest rooms. They’ve been all over the buildings. Nothing. And I’ve interviewed Thomas, Mariana and just now Sandra. They’re not exactly the Waltons.’
Equipment was arriving and the old log library was being transformed into a modern incident room. Desks were cleared, computers hooked up, blackboards and foolscap put up on easels, ready for Inspector Beauvoir’s facts, for witness lists and movement charts. For evidence lists and clues.
‘We have a problem, Chief.’ This came from a technician kneeling beside a computer.
‘I’ll be right with you. Did you get through to the B&B?’
‘All arranged,’ said Reine-Marie.
‘Inspector, will you join me? We’ll drive over to Three Pines with Madame Gamache then head on to the Sherbrooke detachment. We’re meeting the crane operator there in an hour.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Beauvoir, adjusting an easel and fishing in a box for magic markers.
‘What’s the problem?’ Gamache stood over the technician.
‘This place. Hasn’t been rewired in years, sir. I don’t think we can plug these in.’ She held up the plug for a computer.
‘I’ll find the maitre d’,’ said Beauvoir, heading to the dining room.
Fucking country. Middle of nowhere. He’d been doing quite well until now. Trying to ignore the mosquitoes and blackflies and no-see-‘ems. At least in Montreal you see what’s coming at you. Cars. Trucks. Kids jonesing on crack. Big things. Out here everything’s hidden, everything’s hiding. Tiny bloodsucking bugs, spiders and snakes and animals in the forests, rotten wiring behind walls made from tree trunks for God’s sake. It was like trying to conduct a modern murder investigation in Fred Flintstone’s cave.
‘Bonjour?‘ he called. No one.
‘Anyone there?’ He poked his head into the dining room. Empty.
‘Hello?’ What, was it siesta time? Maybe they were out shooting dinner. He swung open a door and stepped into the kitchen.
‘Oh, hello. Can I help you?’
A voice, deep and sing-song, came from a walk-in cold room. Then a woman walked out, carrying a roast. She wore a white apron round her neck and tied at her thick waist. It was simple, no-nonsense. Nothing cute written on it. She marched towards him, her eyes keen and enquiring. She was six feet if she was an inch, Beauvoir guessed. Far from young and far from slim. Her hair was curly, black and grey, short and unbecoming. Her hands were huge, indelicate.
‘What can I do for you?’ The voice sounded as though she’d swallowed it.
Beauvoir stared.
‘Is something wrong?’ the throaty voice asked, as the roast was slapped down on the maple cutting block.
Beauvoir was all tingles. He tried to stop staring, but couldn’t. Instead of feeling his heart racing, he actually felt it slow down. Calm down. Something happened and all the tension, all the excess energy, all the insistence, left.
He relaxed.
‘Do I know you?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry.’ He stepped forward. ‘I’m Inspector Beauvoir. Jean Guy Beauvoir, with the Surete.’