Though the rain had stopped, clouds were still overhead, blotting out the moon and stars. Putting the village into near complete darkness. But there was no sensory deprivation. He could smell the lilac and wet earth. He could hear the rainwater still dripping off the leaves. But most of all, he could hear the riotous crickets and the spring peepers, tiny frogs and their high-pitched chirps.
They must be, he thought, all around him. While he knew what they were, he wondered what Anne Lamarque would have made of this racket.
He was just about to send off another text, and, if there was no answer, to go over there himself, when he heard a bump and a hissed “Tabarnak. Fucking hell.”
“Shhhh,” he said, and grabbing Amelia’s arm, he pulled her toward the river at the bottom of the garden.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“You need to leave. It’s possible Fiona overheard me telling Beauvoir that you were not really high.”
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew.”
“How?”
He looked at her and smiled. “Thirty years as an investigator has taught me one or two things. Besides, you promised you’d stay straight and sober, and I believed you.”
From anyone else, what he said would have sounded ludicrous, naïve. But she believed him.
“And,” he said, “I know how much you like mind games.”
She smiled. Mind games. Not mind-fucks. She realized she’d never actually heard him swear.
“You’re not sure Fiona heard what you said?” Amelia asked.
“No. But if she did, she’ll tell Sam, and there’s no telling what he’d do to you.”
“You really do think he’s sick.”
“Oui.”
“Then I should stay. I should help.”
“I’m not arguing, this isn’t a discussion, Agent Choquet. You’ll pack up and leave. Now. Tonight. If all seems clear, I’ll call you back.”
“For what it’s worth, I hope you’re wrong about him.”
“You like him?”
“God, no. I think the guy’s a whack-job. But you think he’s here to do something. Something bad, right?”
Gamache was silent.
“That’s where I hope you’re wrong. ’Cause I think if he wanted to, he would. And almost nothing would stop him. I also think you might be wrong about his sister. When I got back to the B&B, they were together. Not doing anything at all suspicious, but when they saw me, they sure looked guilty. It was not a … normal look.”
“And you know normal?” He said it with a smile.
She looked at him, surprised by the small tease. “I have observed normal, from a distance. Like in a zoo.”
“And which side of the bars were you on?”
Now she gave a small, stifled laugh. How well he knew her.
“What happened at the B&B?” he asked, serious again.
“Well, for one thing, it was Fiona who was pumping me for information, not Sam.”
“About?”
She paused. “About you. And what I knew about your family. She said she’d never met your grandchildren, but was hoping to. Sam said he was also hoping to meet them. Soon.”
Into the night she heard him whisper: “Fucking hell.”
CHAPTER 22
The team from homicide met at the Incident Room the next morning, where Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir went over the case so far.
The formal investigation into the murder of Patricia Godin had begun.
Everyone listened respectfully, though there were a few raised brows when they were told about the Stone letter and the hidden room.
The search warrant had come through, and they headed to the old Stone house, arriving just after seven a.m.
Disheveled, unshaven, and tying up his dressing gown, Monsieur Godin glanced past the Chief Inspector to the men and women ranged behind him. Then his eyes returned to Gamache.
“You believed me.”
“Oui.” Gamache introduced Inspector Jean-Guy Beauvoir and the team from the Sûreté homicide unit. “May we come in?”
Godin stepped back, and they followed him into the living room, where Gamache explained, in a voice that was gentle and clear, that Monsieur Godin was right. His wife had been murdered.
The man sank into a chair and stared ahead of him. It was one thing to believe something, it was another to know it. And now he knew.
“Why?”
Gamache had taken the seat across from him. “We don’t know. That’s what we hope to find out, but that means searching your home. We have a warrant.”
Beauvoir brought it out of his pocket, but Monsieur Godin waved it away.
“Just do what you have to. The house is yours. Tear it apart if you need to.”
While Inspector Beauvoir coordinated the search, Gamache took Monsieur Godin into the kitchen. There he made a pot of coffee for the stunned man, then joined him at the table.
“Did you have any visitors in the days before your wife died?”
“Only the family.”
“Had your wife been in contact with anyone? Anyone new?”
He shook his head.
They’d take her computer and go over her emails and texts. In case. It was the worst part of any investigation. This invasion of privacy. All those even remotely associated with the crime would have their private lives exposed. Events, messages, decisions, actions that had seemed reasonable, or perhaps a little shady, would suddenly look contemptible. Shameful. Even suspect, when examined closely and taken out of context by strangers.
Sometimes they discovered crimes not related to the investigation. If not outright evidence, then strong suggestions of wrongdoing.
Those were the things Armand kept in the locked room in their basement.
Everyone, he knew, had one. A locked room. Either in their home, or their head, or their heart. Where things that should never see the light of day lived, and waited. For their chance to escape.
“Was she worried about anything? Anything at all?”
Monsieur Godin considered, then shook his head. Non.
“Were you and your wife on good terms?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Arguments? It’s natural to have some.”
“Sometimes over money. And travel. Pat wanted to go places now that I’m retired. But I like it here.” He paused. “I’m afraid to fly.”
He stared down at the table, where they’d had so many meals. Many in silence. After thirty years of marriage, there didn’t seem to be a great deal to say to each other. It wasn’t an angry or regretful silence. More a peaceful quietude.
And now there was just silence.
“She wanted to see England. I should’ve gone.”
Armand let the moment rest before he continued. “What was your job?”
Monsieur Godin looked up and smiled. “I was a plumber. Like my father.”
Armand met his smile with one of his own. “I wish my son or daughter had married a plumber. I think my wife wishes she had too. We live in an old house, and in the winter, on particularly cold days and nights, we need to leave a few of the taps dripping so the water doesn’t freeze and burst the pipes. Happened our first winter there. Flooded the basement. What a mess.”
Godin nodded. “I bet. Was your home built before there was much indoor plumbing?”
“Must’ve been. It’s fieldstone. Looks like it was built in the early 1800s, but we don’t really know.”
“When plumbing was finally put in, it was often installed next to the outer walls, so there’d be something to support the metal pipes. But that means they freeze when it’s really cold. And drafts get in between the stones when the mortar gets old and loose.”
“What can be done about it?” Armand asked.