“Oui,” said Clément Béliveau. “He was small, slight. Easy to overlook in the company of Gerald Bull. But if you looked at him, really looked at him, you could see it. Or feel it. There was something wrong with him. Inside.”
Monsieur Béliveau sighed. Heavily. The very thought of the man a weight on the grocer’s chest.
“I sent them over to Ruth.” He placed his large hand on her tiny one. “I was afraid, and I just wanted to get rid of them. Of him.” He squeezed Ruth’s hand. “I’ve never forgiven myself that cowardice.”
“But who was he?” asked Gamache.
“You know him,” said Ruth.
Gamache thought, his lips moving slightly as he murmured to himself, going through the possibilities. Then he finally shook his head.
“I don’t know who you mean.”
“The third man in that picture,” said Ruth.
“What picture?”
“The one you showed me. With Gerald Bull and Guillaume.”
“This one?” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the old black-and-white photo taken at the Atomium in Brussels.
There was the grinning, almost buffoonish Guillaume Couture. The taciturn Gerald Bull.
And one other. His head down and away from the camera.
“Would I meet your eyes, and stand,/rooted and speechless,” said Ruth. “While the pavement cracked to pieces/and the sky fell down.”
Gamache looked at her.
“I wrote it after he left.” She gestured to the photograph. “After I sent him on. I did the same thing, Clément. I threw them Al Lepage, in the hopes they’d take him and leave me. I’d have done anything to get rid of him. After Gerald Bull left, the project manager returned. Alone. He knocked on the door and that’s when he asked if I could write a few lines to accompany the drawing of the Whore of Babylon. I told him I couldn’t. I told him I wasn’t really a poet. That it was just a lie I told myself.”
Her hands were trembling now, and while Monsieur Béliveau held one, Armand took the other.
“When he left I went up to St. Thomas’s,” she said, looking at the small clapboard chapel. “I prayed he’d never come calling again. I sat there and cried for shame. For what I’d done. Then I wrote those words, sitting in the pew, and didn’t write again for a decade.”
Gamache looked down at the black-and-white photograph. It seemed, in just that instant, that the third man tilted his face up. And looked straight at him.
Would I meet your eyes, and stand,/rooted and speechless.
The blood ran from his face and his hands grew cold and Armand Gamache knew who it was.
While the pavement cracked to pieces/and the sky fell down.
“It’s John Fleming,” he said beneath his breath.
“Yes,” said Ruth, her cold hand squeezing his. “The rough beast.”
CHAPTER 34
Ten lambs were lined up down the center of the conference table in the Incident Room, facing Al and Evie Lepage.
“You drew the etching,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “You knew the gun was there. What did you do, Monsieur Lepage, when your son came home and told you what he’d found in the forest? A giant gun with a monster on it. We’ve been looking for someone, just one person, who’d believe such a far-fetched story. And we’ve found him. You. Did you take him back there? Did you kill your son to keep your secret?”
Al gaped at them, his blue eyes wide with terror.
“You knew if the gun was found, the etching would eventually be traced back to you,” Lacoste pressed on. “And we’d start asking questions. We’d find out who you really are. And what you did.”
Evelyn turned to her husband. “Al?”
Gamache sat across from the couple and waited for the answer.
He’d been on the bench with Ruth and Monsieur Béliveau when the vehicles drew up to the old railway station.
He’d been trying to absorb the news that John Fleming was once in Three Pines. Was in fact Gerald Bull’s project manager. In a slight daze he watched Beauvoir and Lacoste get out of the car with Al Lepage, while Clara and Evie climbed out of the pickup truck. Evie ran to her husband’s side while Clara hesitated, then walked back to her home.
Gamache turned back to Ruth and Monsieur Béliveau.
“When you sent John Fleming his way, did you know who Al Lepage really was?”
He hadn’t directed the question specifically to either one, but both nodded.
“You helped him across the border.” It was a statement, not a question, and once again, they nodded.
“It was 1970,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “We were involved in the peace movement, working to get draft dodgers across. We were approached about a special case.”
Ruth was silent, her thin lips all but disappearing.
“You didn’t approve?” asked Gamache.
“I was conflicted,” she said. “I couldn’t decide if I thought Frederick Lawson was also a victim of the war or a psychopath.”
“A conflict,” said Monsieur Béliveau with a small smile. “Your own civil war.”
Armand knew if he’d said such a thing Ruth would have lashed out at him, but with Monsieur Béliveau, Clément, she accepted what he said.
“Because I wasn’t sure, and he hadn’t been convicted, I didn’t feel I could refuse,” said Ruth. “But it didn’t mean I had to like it. Or him.”
“It helped that we didn’t have television at the time. The signal didn’t make it into the valley,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “We’d read the reports of the atrocity in the newspapers and seen the photographs, but it wasn’t until years later that we saw the newsreels.”
“If you’d seen film of the Son My Massacre,” Armand asked, “would you have helped Frederick Lawson find sanctuary here?”
“We’ll never know, will we?” Monsieur Béliveau looked at the tree-covered mountains. “We set him up in the boardinghouse. It’s now the B and B.” He gestured toward Olivier and Gabri’s place. “And helped him get work singing at local boîtes à chansons.”
“He changed his name,” said Ruth. “No one else knew who he really was and what he’d done. But we did.”
“So when it came time to throw someone to the wolf you chose him?” asked Armand.
“Is that really necessary, monsieur?” asked Monsieur Béliveau.
“It’s all right, Clément. He’s just speaking the truth.” She turned back to Armand. “Al Lepage or Frederick Lawson or whatever he chose to call himself was already damned. What I hadn’t counted on was that in doing it, I was too.”
“That’s not true, Ruth,” said Monsieur Béliveau.
“But it is. We both know it. I sacrificed him to save myself.”
“Who hurt you once so far beyond repair,” said Gamache, quoting her most famous poem.
“So far beyond repair,” Ruth repeated. She looked at Gamache and almost smiled. “I was nice once, you know. And kind. Perhaps not the most kind, or the nicest, but it was there.”
“And still is, madame,” said Armand, stroking Rosa. “At your core.”
He got up and excused himself. Lacoste and Beauvoir needed to hear about this. He arrived at the Incident Room just as Lacoste was placing the ten lamb drawings down the center of the conference table, facing Laurent’s parents.
Armand caught her eye and she came over, followed by Beauvoir.
“I was just speaking with Ruth.”
“Yes, we saw,” said Beauvoir. “And Monsieur Béliveau.”
“She knew about the drawing of the Whore of Babylon. She’s the one who recommended Al Lepage for the job.”
He told them what he’d discovered and then, from his breast pocket, he brought out the black-and-white photograph of the three men.