“She was here a couple of months ago. All wrapped in furs this time, and scarves, and wearing a sort of turban thing.”
He indicated his head, as though a turban could be worn anywhere else.
“What is it?” he asked, seeing their surprise.
“Nothing,” said Reine-Marie. “Virginia—”
“Lillian,” muttered Amelia.
“Lily didn’t mention she’d been back. Any idea why she came?”
“Not really. I do remember she called to say she’d lost something and wondered if we’d found it and could mail it back to her.”
“What had she lost?” asked Amelia.
“An old letter she said she’d found in a flea market. Something that belonged to her family.”
“Ahh, yes,” said Reine-Marie. “She did mention that. And you sent it back, right? To her old address or the new one?”
“I have no idea. We had the letter in our lost and found and mailed it, but we wouldn’t have kept a record of where. Why so interested?”
“We’re not really. Do you mind?” Reine-Marie held up her phone. “I’d love a photo with the three of us. To show her.”
“Of course.”
They took a selfie.
“I’ll just send it.”
“No phones allowed in here, but you can go out onto the terrace.”
Reine-Marie did. As soon as she connected up, her phone came alive with messages, all from Armand.
“You’re all right?” he said, picking up her call before the first ring had ended. He’d showered and had just changed into clean clothes.
“Yes, why?”
“I couldn’t reach you.”
“I’m sorry. What’s happened?”
He told her, succinctly, what he’d just told Captain Moel.
That John Fleming was out. That the former head guard had been murdered. That everything that was happening, including and especially the items in the bricked-up room and the altered painting of The Paston Treasure, was almost certainly done by Fleming.
Reine-Marie sat on a stone bench and stared, dazed, across the pretty city.
She remembered the trial in the closed courtroom in Montréal. They were still living in the city at the time. Armand would come home every evening more and more drained, as though his essence were seeping out as he listened to the testimony. As he looked at the photographs. Heard the recordings.
He’d become convinced that Fleming’s crimes were not limited to those seven murders. To that spree in New Brunswick. There were others, he was sure. Even after Fleming was convicted and put away, he spent years tracking down possible evidence. Still did.
But now it seemed he had to find the man himself.
“He’d be in his seventies now, wouldn’t he?” she said. “What does he look like?”
“He’s seventy-one. Five seven. Slight build, gray hair thinning. Bright blue eyes. Remarkable eyes.”
He did not sound very formidable. But Reine-Marie knew the power of madness. The strength it gave people. Not just physical strength, but strength of purpose. A person who was simply bad, nasty, would always try to justify their cruelty. A madman did not waste time and energy on that.
John Fleming at seventy-one would be as dangerous as he would have been at twenty-one. Perhaps even more so. He now had experience on his side.
“Can you send a photograph?” she asked.
“There are no recent ones. Why?”
“Because we’re talking to someone, the local expert on The Paston Treasure, who fits your description. I have a picture. I’ll send it.”
“You need to come home,” said Armand. “Now. Get David to drive you straight to Heathrow and get on the first flight out. Anywhere. Then make your way home.”
“Oh, he’s coming over,” she said, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “His name’s Cecil Clarke. With an e. Armand, he’s Canadian, from New Brunswick. Au revoir. Je t’aime. I’ll call you from the car.”
With that, she hung up and put the phone away.
She forgot to send the photo. She also forgot, or didn’t realize it might be important, to tell him that Cecil Clarke was a retired engineer.
Reine-Marie texted to say they were in the car with David. He could relax.
Armand called his team in Montréal and had them do a search for a Cecil Clarke, about seventy years old, from New Brunswick, now living in Norwich, UK.
When he returned to the Incident Room, cleaned up and feeling more under control, he called Captain Moel.
“Hardye, I have one more question, though I think I know the answer.”
“Go on.”
“Why would Fleming leave that ticket to the exhibition? He must know we’d find it.”
“Why do you think?”
“Because he wanted us to go there. To waste time.”
“It’s not just that, it’s more insidious. He’s toying with you. He wants you to know that he’s in control. He can make you do anything he wants.”
It confirmed what Armand sensed. He was being manipulated. Every step preordained.
Fleming had had years to plan. He’d had just hours to try to catch up.
“There is one other possibility,” said Hardye. “Something that came to me in the car. It’s possible Fleming is working through someone else.”
“Someone who arrived in the village just before the hidden room was discovered,” Armand said. “You’re thinking of Sam?”
“And Fiona, yes. In fact, honestly, most likely Fiona. She has far more access to you. But that would mean there was some connection between Fleming and the Arsenaults.”
It wasn’t the news he wanted, but he did need to face reality.
He called Beauvoir for an update.
“The warden’s terrified. Refuses to admit anything. Should I send out an alert for Fleming?”
Gamache was prepared for the question.
“Non. We have no proof. And we don’t want him to be warned and go to ground. We need to get Annie and Daniel and the kids away. Someplace safe. I have a friend with a cabin on Lac Manitou in the Laurentians. I’ll call him then send you the address.”
“Yes, yes, good.” Jean-Guy was feeling more and more stressed. “I’ll get them there.”
“Jean-Guy?”
“Oui?”
“About what happened in the SHU—”
“Nothing happened.”
“Merci quand même,” said Armand. Thank you anyway.
If a man’s foes were of his own household, Gamache knew that his friends were too.
When he hung up, Armand noticed Robert Mongeau’s car descending into the village and parking by the church.
The minister got out, slowly, as though walking through hardening concrete. Every movement forced. His head bowed. His eyes to the ground.
Armand’s brows drew together as he watched the slow, labored progress. He could guess what had happened. But he didn’t have time …
He called his friend with the lake house and got permission and a promise to tell no one. After sending Jean-Guy the address, he looked at a photo that had just arrived from Reine-Marie. It was a selfie of her, Amelia, and Cecil Clarke. The man looked nothing like John Fleming.
Armand was about to exhale when he read her message. Clarke was an engineer.
“Damn.” He put in a call to Nathalie Provost.
“I was about to call you, Armand. I sent the serial number on the ring to the Société des Ingénieurs. I just got the list of people who wore it.”
“Is there a John Fleming on it?”
There was a pause that felt longer than it was. “Non.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s not a long list, Armand. Yes, I’m sure.”
“How about a Cecil Clarke?”
“Non, not him either.”