“That she volunteered for a group in Montréal, a halfway home for former convicts. Claude was one. Convicted of petty crimes. In and out of prison. I interviewed him and decided to hire him.”
“A former convict?”
Robert shifted in his seat to look at Gamache. “You’re the last person I’d expect to deny someone a second chance. You have, after all, a convicted murderer in your home. The worst Claude did was steal some clothes.”
“I’m not blaming or accusing you of anything.”
“Are you accusing him?”
“No.” Not yet. Though this did explain Boisfranc’s loathing of Gamache. Almost certainly of all cops. And who could blame him?
But alarms were going off for the Chief Inspector. “Do you know the name of the halfway home?”
“No, but I can find it for you. Does it really matter?”
“Do you have Claude’s address?”
“Here? I let him stay in the church basement. Why?”
“How about the name of the woman who suggested him?”
Robert laughed. “You’re kidding, right? That’s almost two years ago.” Then he stopped and tilted his head. “Actually, strangely, I do remember. It was—”
Before he even said it, Gamache knew.
“—Mountweazel,” said Robert. “I know that Claude’s a little odd, taciturn. But he’s been a godsend.”
“Yes, I’m sure he has. Listen, Robert, Reine-Marie won’t be back until tomorrow at the earliest. Come over for dinner. Stay the night. Please.”
The minister considered for a moment. “Merci. I’d like that. I’m not sure I could sleep at home…”
“Yes.”
They were silent, Armand aware of the need to leave soon.
“I hope Reine-Marie’s enjoyed herself,” said Robert. “Sylvie and I used to love visiting galleries and museums in London. And Paris, of course. Her favorite thing in Paris were the flea markets. The big one, what’s it called again? My mind isn’t working.”
“Les Puces.”
The minister gave one short laugh. “Of course. Les Puces. The Fleas. You must miss Reine-Marie when she’s away.”
“I do.”
“You must tell her that, Armand.” The minister turned and looked at him directly, for the first time since Armand had arrived.
“She knows.”
“Yes, I imagine she does. But you can never say it too often. You can never let someone know too often that they’re precious. That they’re missed.” He paused. “Believe me.”
And Armand did.
“Did anyone visit Sylvie yesterday?”
“No. We were at Clara’s briefly, but no one came to the house. Why?”
“Think, Robert. Anyone?”
“What is it, Armand, why’re you asking?”
“I’m just wondering.”
“You’re more than wondering,” said the minister. “Tell me.”
“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”
Mongeau stared at him. “Occupational? You’re not thinking she was … That’s insane.” His voice was rising into the hysteria range. “Why would you say that?”
“I’m not saying anything, Robert.” Armand’s voice was steady, calm. “I’m just asking.”
“She had cancer, for God’s sake. What’re you suggesting?”
“I’m sorry.” And he was. But still, he had to ask. Again. “Did anyone come to the house yesterday? A delivery, maybe?”
“No.” But now there was a hesitation, a slight shift in the minister’s attitude. “Actually, something was delivered. Sylvie said she didn’t remember ordering it, but I think the cancer had gone to her brain. She was forgetting things, getting more muddled.”
“What was it?”
“A clock.”
“Clock?” Armand thought of the photo Reine-Marie had sent of the detail from the real Paston Treasure. “Do you know what time it was set for?”
“Of course not. Who notices that?”
Gamache was almost afraid to ask the next question. “Was there any writing on it?”
The minister looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Writing? What are you talking about? Sylvie’s dead. Don’t you care? For sure, let’s talk about clocks now.”
“I’m sorry, of course I care.” He leaned forward. “I wish I didn’t have to do this, but … Robert, where was she taken?”
The minister looked perplexed, then his eyes widened. “Good God, you’re not suggesting an…”
“Autopsy. Not yet, but we need blood and tissue samples. And I need to see the clock. I am deeply, deeply sorry, but if someone did something to Sylvie, we need to know. It might help us find the person and stop him hurting anyone else.”
Appealing to the minister’s sense of social responsibility might have been manipulative, but it also happened to be the truth. They had to get possession of Sylvie Mongeau’s body before she was embalmed.
“But it’s ludicrous. Why would anyone hurt Sylvie?”
“I don’t know, and she probably died peacefully and naturally. But we need to be sure.”
“No autopsy?” said Robert. “You promise?”
“No autopsy. Not without telling you. I promise.”
Mongeau gave him the name of the funeral home. Armand got to his feet.
“I won’t be able to come to your home after all.” The minister’s voice was cold, formal. “I’ll have Claude drop the clock off at the Old Train Station.”
With that he turned his back on Gamache.
“I wish you’d reconsider, Robert.” The minister didn’t move, but Armand had one more question. “Does Monsieur Boisfranc have a key to your home?”
But Robert just continued to stare ahead. Though Gamache was pretty sure he knew what the answer was.
Instead of heading outside, Armand went down into the basement, where he found the caretaker’s room. It had a single bed and dresser. Armand stood at the threshold and looked in. He had no right to search the man’s place, and anything he found could not be used as evidence.
He considered. Weighing the consequences. The legal and the moral.
And then he entered the room and searched. Quickly, expertly.
But there was nothing there. No photographs, no letters. No handwriting of any sort.
This was the modest room of a man without roots. Then Armand looked behind the door and found a poster. It was from Clara’s first solo show at the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal.
The museum had chosen the extraordinary portrait of Ruth Zardo as the abandoned, forgotten, embittered Virgin Mary, clutching a blue shawl to her scrawny neck and looking out at the world with contempt.
Except, except, except. For those who did not hurry by, there was a reward beyond imagining. It was the tiny dot in her eyes. The tiniest hint of hope.
Did this man lie in bed at night and stare at it? And if so, what did he see? The despair or the hope?
Was this an insight into a man trying to right his life? Or was it another sign from Fleming? Of all the posters Boisfranc could have chosen, he’d pinned up one unique to this village. One that spoke of an enraged mother of Christ.
Yes, it was just the sort of image a fallen worshipper might choose. And exactly the sort of image he would misinterpret.
As Armand left, he looked for the caretaker, but Claude Boisfranc was nowhere to be seen, though the scraper was lying by the clapboard wall.
As he walked to his car, he thought about his exchange with Boisfranc. While not particularly pleasant, no alarms had been set off. He’d looked into those eyes and had not seen John Fleming. But then even eyes could be disguised with colored contact lenses.
As he considered that, he realized he’d just left another man who, roughly speaking, fit the description of John Fleming. Add weight. A trim beard. Put in contact lenses …
Armand paused by his car and placed a call. After being transferred a few times, he finally got through.