“At the poem ‘Waiting.’”
She got up and found their worn copy of I’m F.I.N.E. Turning to the poem, she read, “And after all it is nothing new / It is only a memory, after all / a memory of a fear.” She closed the book. “That was meant for you, wasn’t it? Jean-Guy might know the book, but he’d never recognize that exact poem. Whoever killed that poor woman put it there as a message. For you.” She held his eyes. “I’ll go.”
He sighed. “Merci.”
“Come with me.”
Oh, how he wanted to, but he shook his head. “I’m needed here. I have Jean-Guy and others. I’ll be fine.”
She tried not to, but still her eyes drifted up to the deep scar at his temple.
“But I will send someone with you,” he said. “Someone discreet. To help.”
To protect, he knew, she knew, but didn’t say.
“Who? Isabelle?”
“Non. Lacoste is away with her family.” He pulled out his phone and made a call. “Agent Choquet? Do you have a passport?”
“Amelia?” Reine-Marie mouthed.
He nodded, then said into the phone, “Good. You and Madame Gamache are going to England. I’ll email you the details.”
He hung up and Reine-Marie began to laugh. “Who was that really? Isabelle?” When she saw his expression, her amusement stopped. “You’re serious? She’s the discreet investigator? You might as well send me with a marching band.”
“Well, no one will ever suspect she’s a cop.”
Reine-Marie nodded. That was certainly true.
They made the travel arrangements. Reine-Marie and Amelia Choquet would catch the seven p.m. Air Canada overnight flight to London.
When Jean-Guy arrived, the Gamaches were just finishing a quick lunch.
“Join us,” said Reine-Marie, getting up. “There’s plenty.”
He was sorely tempted. “Can’t. I already have a lunch date.”
Still, he stared at the chilled mint pea soup and the grilled gruyère and caramelized sweet onion sandwiches, and swallowed hard.
“What’ve you got?” asked Armand, getting up and guiding Beauvoir out of the room.
“The book and the ticket, patron.” He handed both to Gamache. “Forensics is finished with them.”
They were in the living room when Beauvoir stopped, turned, and lowered his voice. “What happened in the Incident Room? You sounded shaken.”
“In the painting, the girl is holding a book of music open to one song. Robert Mongeau began humming it.”
Now Gamache, in his deep baritone, also hummed. Then stopped when it was clear Jean-Guy recognized it.
“‘Babylon,’” he whispered. “You don’t think…”
“I don’t know. We need to check it out. I’m sending Reine-Marie to Norfolk, to see The Paston Treasure and speak to the curator. Agent Choquet’s going with her.”
“Grounds for divorce, patron.”
“Your lunch date. Sam?”
“Yes. If what you’re thinking is true, then he can’t be behind the stuff in the attic. Besides, the kid isn’t that clever. More a club-to-the-head sort of person.”
Or a brick, thought Gamache. Though he knew Beauvoir was right. Sam was cunning, but he didn’t have the patience for a plan that was meticulously thought-out and executed. Besides, the man who visited the Godins looking for the Stone letter was older.
Yes, the Arsenault kids were out of the picture.
Though maybe there was more than one “picture.” Or a much larger picture. Like The Paston Treasure. With far more elements than he knew.
When Jean-Guy left, Armand stood in the living room and opened the thin volume of poetry. To the ticket. To the poem. “Waiting.”
And after all it is nothing new / It is only a memory, after all / a memory of a fear. And then the line, the last one, that Reine-Marie had not read. Perhaps on purpose.
A memory of a fear / that has now come true.
“Is something wrong, Auntie Myrna?”
“Come with me.”
Up the stairs to the loft they went.
“Sit.”
Harriet sat.
Myrna took a few steps this way, then that. And finally ended up where she started. In front of her niece. She sat down and took a couple of deep breaths before speaking.
Harriet had her arguments all lined up, had rehearsed them. Prepared for the onslaught. What she wasn’t prepared for was what Auntie Myrna said.
“You know what I did before I retired?”
“I’m sorry for not coming…” She stopped. Huh? “Pardon?”
“My job. You know what it was, right?”
“You were a therapist, weren’t you?” Harriet’s mind raced. Yes, therapist, but what sort? Physical? Art therapy? Massage maybe?
“I was a psychologist. Had a private practice, but I also worked in the prison system with the worst offenders.”
“Really?” Harriet had been a child when Auntie Myrna had moved to this village. She’d known, somehow, that her aunt had been a therapist in Montréal, but to Harriet, she’d only ever been Auntie Myrna who ran the bookstore. “That must’ve been interesting.”
She was trying to figure out where this was going. Surely her aunt wasn’t suggesting that having consensual sex qualified as an offense, never mind a “worst” one.
Harriet wasn’t just physically attracted to Sam, she liked him. He paid attention to her, listened to her. He saw her. He was even interested in her peculiar hobby of collecting bricks, offering to show her one he had that might interest her.
“Had it since I was a kid,” he had said. “But don’t tell anyone. Gamache already thinks I’m weird.”
“You know about the Arsenaults?” said Myrna.
Ahhh, thought Harriet, here it comes.
“Yes. Their mother was murdered. Fiona was arrested by Monsieur Gamache and spent years in prison.”
“Yes. But there’s more.”
Myrna wasn’t completely sure how far to go. Sam, after all, was never arrested. His possible involvement was never made public. It was just something Armand suspected. Though he suspected more than just “possible.” And more than just “involvement.”
Was it fair to say this to Harriet? To smear a young man, without proof.
Rumor was loose in the air, hunting for some neck to land on.
Ruth had written those lines about witch hunts, but really the poem was about those young women killed in the Polytechnique. For being smart, independent women.
Yes. Rumor did that. Like an alchemist, it turned vague discontent into concrete action. And gave suggestive minds a target for their insecurities. Their free-floating fear and resentments were just waiting for some neck …
Myrna did not want to do the same thing to anyone. Turn a feeling, a fear, into a fact. But she had to say something.
“Before Fiona could be released on parole, she and her brother needed psychological evaluations. I was asked by Monsieur Gamache to speak to them, to find out if it was safe for him to vouch for Fiona. Which I did.”
Harriet waited.
“I stopped the interview with Sam after ten minutes. It was clear to me that he is deeply disturbed. Unwell.” Myrna searched her niece’s face. “Be careful.”
“Thank you.”
Never very open, Harriet now did exactly what Myrna had feared. She shut down. Shut her out. She was a past master at hiding her feelings, hiding from anything that even remotely resembled confrontation.
“How are you feeling about what I just said?” she asked her niece.
“Oh, I’m okay. Thank you.”
Harriet got up.
“Please,” said Myrna, following her to the stairs. “Can we talk?”