He locked the door to the evidence room, and double-checked. More afraid that whatever was in there would get out than that anyone could get in. He knew it was insane, but he also, now, had some inkling who was behind all this. And yes, “insane” was the word that sprang to mind.
Gamache and Mongeau stepped into the shiny midday, as though emerging from a cave. Armand took a deep breath of the fresh air, turned his face to the sun, and felt his hand steady. Then the two men walked over the stone bridge across the Rivière Bella Bella and back into the village.
“What is it, Armand?” said Mongeau.
Gamache was sorely tempted to tell him about the last time he’d heard that song. The last person who’d hummed it. But he could not. Mostly because it might be a vital piece of the puzzle, but also because, well …
Armand Gamache knew how powerful words could be, and he did not, yet, want to utter them. That name.
“It’s nothing.”
“Something to do with the song?”
“It’s nothing, Robert,” Gamache repeated, his voice firm. The message now clear. No further. You will go no further.
And it was clear by his expression that Mongeau got the message.
To soften it a little, Armand said, “I heard that you defended me to Sam Arsenault. Thank you for that.”
“Troubled young man.”
“Oui. I also heard that you said you could see goodness in him. Is that true?”
Mongeau smiled. “I see goodness in most people. I think you do too.”
“Most, but not all. Do you see it in his sister, Fiona?”
Mongeau took a few steps in silence. It was a lovely spring day. The air was soft with the scent of sweet woodruff, and the lilac that flourished in Three Pines. Plants that appeared to die each fall but came alive again each spring. It always seemed a miracle.
But Gamache knew that resurrection was not always a blessing. Not everything dead should come back.
“My sight is imperfect. I see through the glass darkly,” Mongeau quoted in answer to Armand’s question about Fiona. “Sorry. Easier to take someone else’s words. Makes me sound smart.” He smiled. “What St. Paul said happens to be true. I only see part, not the whole.”
“And what do you see when you look at Fiona Arsenault?” Gamache pressed, knowing his own sight was almost completely obscured when it came to those two young people.
Mongeau stopped. “This is where I leave you. If you ever do want to talk, about yourself, let me know.”
Gamache watched the man head to the church. To his sanctuary. Where his wife was healthy and would outlive him.
Armand longed to spend a moment, just a moment, sitting on the bench on the village green. To close his eyes and tilt his face to the sun. A quiet moment of peace next to the three huge pines. These particular trees were planted more than a century ago by three brothers just before they headed off to war. They were still saplings when all three returned, as stained-glass figures.
Armand didn’t stop. There was no time to rest. No peace yet.
“Excusez-moi?” Reine-Marie said.
“I need you to go to England.”
“Why?”
Armand put out his hand to stop her slicing the bread. “Let’s sit.”
He told her about the ticket to the exhibition that Jean-Guy had found, tucked into the copy of Ruth’s poetry book.
“I think the person who was asking Patricia Godin about the Stone letter left it there.”
“When? Why?”
They were legitimate questions, and she deserved the answers. If he was asking her to go all the way to England, she needed to know why.
“I think he left the ticket in the book when he killed her. I think it was put there for us to find.”
“That’s a lot of thinking, Armand. Are you sure it isn’t guessing?”
He smiled. “Yes, maybe. But if the ticket was left on purpose, we need to follow up. The Paston Treasure, the real one, is at the Norwich Castle Museum. I need you to go there and see what the curators can tell us. And”—he paused—“can you use your maiden name?”
“But if what you’re saying about the ticket is true, wouldn’t we just be doing what the murderer wants?”
She’d hit on his big worry. “Yes. But we can’t ignore it.”
“You can, though, just call the Norwich Castle Museum. Or ask one of your colleagues in the UK to check it out. Why does Reine-Marie Cloutier, not Gamache, have to go?” Then she studied him more closely. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He stared at her for so long, she began to color. Then he picked up her hands and held them, twisting her simple, thin wedding ring. They’d both had to have them resized as their fingers had grown thicker, along with the rest of them.
He smiled, thinking again of the First Nations blessing at their wedding. The priest had been less than happy doing it but had finally agreed to have someone else read it.
And so Stephen Horowitz, Armand’s godfather, had gotten up and recited,
Now you will feel no rain,
for each of you will be shelter for the other.
Now you will feel no cold,
for each of you will be warmth for the other.
Now there is no more loneliness.
There was a cold rain falling. Armand could feel it. And yes, he wanted to shelter Reine-Marie Gamache, née Cloutier, from it.
Armand told her. Almost everything. He didn’t yet tell her about “By the Waters of Babylon,” and the abomination he thought was behind this. Not until he confirmed it.
Reine-Marie listened, taking it in.
“You want me to go away in case someone wants to harm us?”
As usual, she went straight to the heart of the matter.
“Well, yes. Partly. But I really do need information about The Paston Treasure, and I need the visit to be discreet. Unofficial. And in person. You have credentials as a senior archivist and historian.”
“You really expect me to run away?” She was glaring at him now. Rarely in their marriage had they had arguments, and most of those were over family. Their children. But this was different. It was about them as a couple.
“It’s not—” he began before being cut off.
“I’m not finished. I’m a grown woman, Armand, not a child. This’s my home. You’re my husband. I won’t run away, and I sure as hell won’t leave you behind to face whatever this is.”
She pulled her hands from his.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to treat you like a child. And you’re right. I’m your husband, but I’m also a senior Sûreté officer with responsibilities far beyond my own family. I need to focus completely on what’s happening, and the reality is, I can’t do that and worry about you. I know you say I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. I’m begging you. Please. Go to England. Find out what you can. We both know there’s no substitute for standing in front of a work of art. Being there in person. The Paston Treasure is obviously central to what’s happening. We need to find out why.” He held her eyes. “Please, Reine-Marie.”
“The ticket was left by the killer?” she repeated.
“Yes, I think so.”
“And Monsieur Godin didn’t notice?”
“No.”
“Does that strike you as odd? His wife died five weeks ago and he never noticed the poetry book lying around?”
“He didn’t strike me as the noticing kind.” Though even to his ears that sounded off. She had a good point. “Do you think it was left there more recently?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Where in Ruth’s book was the ticket to the exhibition left?”