“Then what’s with this Sam Arsenault stuff?” she asked. “You want me to get close to him. Sounds like you suspect him of something. You think Sam Arsenault was the one who should’ve been in prison?”
“Non.” Gamache’s voice was curt and clear. “Absolutely not. He was ten at the time, sexually abused, prostituted out by his own mother. No. Here was a child deeply traumatized. There’s no way he could be considered guilty. They were both victims. But I think he needed far more intensive counseling and oversight than he got.”
“Désolé, patron,” said Beauvoir, “but it’s more than that. You think he was beyond help.”
“By then, by the time we first met him…” Gamache considered. “Yes.” He nodded his head slowly. There were very few people he felt were beyond redemption. Even at ten, Sam, he sensed, was one of those people. Born bad and made worse.
Beauvoir looked at Amelia and weighed what to say next. He decided on the truth.
“The Chief Inspector and I differ on this. I think Fiona Arsenault got what she deserved. I think she was the planner. I think she controlled her mother’s business when Clotilde was too far gone. The ledger we found in the house has her handwriting and the little stickers she collected. I think she murdered her mother so that she could take over prostituting her brother and was probably grooming other kids.”
“What we do agree on,” said Gamache, “is that we’re pretty sure the only reason Clotilde’s body was put where it would be found is so the children could collect the insurance.”
“You think she set up one of the molesters for the murder,” said Choquet. “The one she sold the car to. Not a very good attempt.”
“She wasn’t exactly a criminal mastermind,” said Beauvoir, grabbing some corn chips. “She probably didn’t think anyone would suspect children. It was a shitty mess.”
“It was a tragedy,” said Gamache.
“But you arrested her,” Amelia said.
“I did. I had to. To be honest, I never dreamed the prosecutor would go so hard on her.”
“And if you had known,” said Amelia, “what would you have done?”
Gamache smiled and shook his head at her. It was a question he would not answer. Could not answer. He didn’t really know the answer.
“The whole thing makes me sick,” he said. “Despite my arguments, the prosecution tried Fiona as an adult.”
“You really don’t think she was guilty?” said Amelia.
“I think, I believe, Sam instigated it, battered his own head against the brick wall in the alley, then blamed his sister. His injuries, while dramatic, were not all that serious.”
“Why did she accept the blame? Why not fight back? Why not tell them that Sam was responsible?”
“Because she loved him,” said Gamache. “Because she felt she needed to protect him. Maybe felt guilty about not being able to protect him against their mother. Against what happened. And maybe because she knew in her heart what he really was and was afraid of him.”
“And what is he?” asked Amelia.
A monster, he almost said, but did not. Instead, he said, “I’m not a good judge.”
“No, but you’ve obviously judged that the sister is safe. You’ve taken her under your wing.”
“Not just that,” said Beauvoir. “He watched over her, visited her in prison, helped her get parole and graduate with an engineering degree from the École Polytechnique.”
“Jesus,” said Amelia. “We should all be arrested by you.”
“And be wrongly convicted,” Gamache reminded her. “Which in your case is unlikely.”
She laughed. Then grew serious. “Why do you believe that Sam was behind the murder of their mother?”
It was, Gamache knew, a fair question. Could he possibly say it was because the boy had winked at him that day long ago, when his sister had been found guilty?
That he could feel Sam’s presence inside his head. Messing about. Moving objects around in there so that the Chief Inspector was stumbling about. Struggling to see clearly.
But despite all the mind games, Gamache had seen, could still see, clearly enough to know that Sam Arsenault was unbalanced. Unwell. Malevolent. And time had only made him worse.
“I have no evidence,” he admitted. “Just a feeling. I didn’t encourage the prosecutor to arrest Sam. I never mentioned my suspicions. I did not arrest him. In fact, I tried to get him help. But I knew it was useless. He was beyond our reach in every way.”
Amelia didn’t pursue it further. How do you pursue a feeling, after all? She knew this man well enough by now to know he saw hope where others saw only malevolence.
But he could also see evil where others saw a ten-year-old boy.
“You”—Armand turned to Beauvoir—“were the one who came closest to reaching him.”
Jean-Guy took another handful of chips and nodded. “I liked the kid. Felt for him.”
He remembered that moment when the child had clung to him, clutched at him, and sobbed.
Was Sam a model citizen? Probably not. Who could be after that?
Was he taking this opportunity to mind-fuck the man who’d seen what they’d done and arrested his sister? Maybe. That wasn’t okay, but neither, from what Beauvoir could see, was it dangerous.
Was he a psychopath? No. Was his sister? That, for Jean-Guy, was an open question.
It worried him a lot that his father-in-law could not see it.
“But how’s this connected to that.” Agent Choquet waved toward the locker, with its assortment of curiosities. “And the murder of Madame Godin?”
“Probably isn’t.” The Chief Inspector checked his watch. “Dinner’s in an hour.”
“Great.” She dumped the remaining nuts into her pocket. “I might get the munchies.”
They crossed the bridge over the Rivière Bella Bella and walked toward the light in the night that was the Gamache home. Then Amelia left them and headed to the B&B.
When she was out of earshot, Jean-Guy whispered, “What have you done?”
It was clearly said in jest, unleashing Amelia on an unsuspecting public.
“You’re the one who assigned her here,” Gamache pointed out.
But as he walked through the June evening, Armand wondered, What have I done?
CHAPTER 21
When he got home, Armand put the grimoire in an evidence bag while Reine-Marie watched. Though she understood, he still felt he’d come between his wife and a long-lost friend.
Now the diners helped themselves to grilled salmon, fresh-cut asparagus, and baby potatoes, while Jean-Guy sliced the baguette. A green salad with vinaigrette was already on the table.
Amelia had joined them just as dinner was being served in the Gamaches’ kitchen.
Ruth was also there, though uninvited. The final guest was Anne Lamarque, very much present, if only in spirit.
Ruth and Reine-Marie had described for the newcomer what the grimoire was. Amelia, always fascinated with books, was wide-eyed.
“What happened to her?” Amelia asked.
“Anne Lamarque?” said Ruth. “She died.”
“At the stake?” asked Amelia.
“Steak? Is there steak?” Ruth looked around, hopefully.
“The stake,” said Amelia. “The stake,” she repeated, as though the word sounded strange in her mouth. “Staaaay-kuh.”
Giggles burbled up, like indigestion. Out they came, in short hiccups of laughter.
Everyone stopped what they were doing to look at the young woman.
She grabbed a piece of baguette and stuffed it in her mouth, but it only seemed to make it worse.
“Is she…?” Reine-Marie whispered to Armand.
“You’re high,” said Ruth, glaring at Amelia.