“There was her funeral,” said Gamache. “People would have seen that it wasn’t the real Godin. Their children would have seen it right away.”
“True,” said Beauvoir. “Maybe Fleming killed Madame Godin five weeks ago, but only killed Monsieur Godin a few days ago. Just before we arrived. Knowing we were coming.”
“But how could he know? We didn’t even know. At the time there’d been no crime, just the loft room and those items. It was strange, but not illegal. Billy and I were curious to speak to the Godins, that’s all. It wasn’t until we realized Madame Godin had been murdered that things changed.”
But then he thought about what Captain Moel had said. That Fleming was in control, manipulating them. It was possible hints were dropped that they didn’t even pick up on.
Yes, it was possible that Godin was Fleming. Just.
“Do we have a DNA sample of Monsieur Godin?” he asked.
“We do. And prints. I can check them against Fleming’s records.”
“That won’t work. The official records have been replaced.”
“Shit, of course. Fucking warden. We might be able to find one in the prosecutor’s office.”
“That’ll take time and probably a warrant. Still, worth trying. While you do that, I’ll go over to the Godin place.”
“Wait. Don’t go alone, patron. I can meet you there in forty minutes, maybe less.”
Armand paused and looked up the hill to the small chapel.
“All right. Park where he can’t see us. We need this to be a surprise.”
Though Gamache had the uneasy feeling that nothing they did would surprise John Fleming.
“One other thing. The warden told me that a woman passed messages to Fleming in the SHU, through the head guard. He said it was Fleming’s wife.”
“His wife? There’s nothing about that in the files, and nothing was said about a wife or family at his trial.”
Though there was definitely a woman in this somewhere, wife or not. The Mountweazel fiction.
“The last we see of her,” said Gamache, “was several months ago, when she ‘lost’ the Stone letter at the Norwich Castle Museum. Maybe her job’s done.”
They both knew what happened to people in Fleming’s orbit once that happened. What would he do with an old chair that was no longer needed?
“Why go through all that palaver with the letter?” Jean-Guy asked.
“‘Palaver’? Have you been talking to Ruth again?”
“Worse, I’ve been listening to her. Why didn’t this Mountweazel just send the letter to Billy herself, why get the museum to send it to the Godins?”
“One more degree of separation. Fleming wants us to know he’s pulling the strings, but he doesn’t want us too close.”
As Armand walked across the village green to his car, Ruth and Clara waved him over.
“There’s news,” said Ruth. “Did Robert tell you?”
“I haven’t spoken to him.” He could guess, though, remembering the minister’s slow gait, his lowered head, as though his thoughts were far too heavy to support.
“Sylvie died last night,” said Clara. “In her sleep. When Robert woke up, he found her.”
“He’s in shock,” said Ruth.
“So am I,” said Clara. “She was with us last night. She was weak but seemed okay.”
Myrna came out of her bookstore, looked around, saw them, and headed over.
“Have you seen Harriet?”
“No. Why?” asked Clara.
“I haven’t seen her since we had the fight.”
“Let me guess. About that young man?” said Ruth.
“Yes.” She seemed to notice their moods. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Sylvie Mongeau died last night,” said Clara.
“That can’t be. I was on my way over. She invited me last night when they left. She said she’d like to talk to me.”
“You?” said Ruth. “Why?”
“Besides the fact I’m good company?” said Myrna. “I actually don’t know. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t think it might be her last conversation.”
“Maybe as a therapist,” said Clara. “She was obviously getting close…”
“But not that close,” said Myrna.
“Taking the book with you?” Armand motioned to the thick volume in Myrna’s hand.
Myrna looked at it, almost surprised to see it there. “Yes.”
“Did she ask for it specifically?” he asked.
Myrna was a little surprised by Armand’s interest in a book when clearly the headline was the death of the woman who’d asked for it.
“Yes. She saw it on your shelf, Clara, and asked if I could bring a copy with me. Said she’d always wanted to read it.”
“She could’ve borrowed mine,” said Clara.
Armand left them then and walked slowly up the hill to the small church. His thoughts going to Robert. And to Sylvie. And to her request to read The Mists of Avalon.
A great book, he knew. A retelling of the Arthur legend from the point of view of the women. In the traditional story, told by a man, they’re witches. In the retelling, told by a woman, they’re sages.
But it wasn’t the plot of the book that struck him so much as the fact that a very sick woman would ask for a very long book. One she expected to have time to read.
Sylvie Mongeau had absolutely no inkling that she would be dead within hours. But then, he wondered, would he? Would anyone?
As he got closer to St. Thomas’s, Armand heard a nails-on-blackboard sort of sound.
He looked up and saw the caretaker at the top of the steps scraping white paint off the clapboard.
“Bonjour,” called Armand as he mounted the stairs.
The man ignored him.
At the top, he paused and looked over the village. To the roofline of the shops below.
“You were the one who noticed that there’s an attic room attached to the bookstore,” he said to the caretaker.
Still the man continued to work, his knobbly backbone visible under the worn work shirt.
Armand realized he’d never actually spoken to him, and had only really seen him at a distance. Now he looked more closely. At the thinning gray hair. The almost fragile frame.
His age indeterminant, but well north of middle age.
The only reply was the screeching of the scraper, as though the man was torturing the building.
Gamache stepped between the caretaker and the wall. The man had to stop, unless he wanted to scrape the Chief Inspector’s legs.
The caretaker slowly straightened up. He was at least four inches shorter than the six-foot-one Gamache.
He glanced down at the village and shrugged. “I said the roof would soon need replacing. I never mentioned a hidden room.”
“But it doesn’t,” said Gamache. “Look.”
The man did not. “I made a mistake. I’m not a roofer.”
Gamache stared at him, but the man kept dropping his eyes.
“Your name is Claude, is that right?”
“Oui.”
“And your last name?”
The man hesitated. It was clear to Gamache that there was enmity there. This man did not like him. At all. And yet Gamache could not imagine why that would be.
“Boisfranc.”
“Monsieur Boisfranc, where were you before you came here?”
Now he did raise his eyes and met Gamache’s. “Piss off.”
Gamache raised his brows. “Pardon?”
“You heard me. Piss off. Fuck off. I don’t have to answer any questions. Get out of my way. I have a job to do.” He brandished the scraper as though it were a shiv.
Gamache looked deep into Claude Boisfranc’s eyes and saw … nothing. Well, he didn’t see a monster, a lunatic. He did see anger, but that was not uncommon for a cop.
This aggression was a puzzle but not, Gamache felt, a worry.