“Look, at this stage I think I might be Fleming.”
Beauvoir laughed. “I’ll organize another search for Boisfranc and send out an alert. Can we get Boisfranc’s DNA?”
“I have it. Dr. Harris is doing a swab now. We just need to get Fleming’s real DNA results to compare.”
“I’ve pushed the prosecutor’s office, but they just laughed when I told them Fleming might’ve escaped. I’ve sent them the warden’s confession. I’ll call the head prosecutor. Why would Fleming want to kill the minister? Why then and not when he killed Sylvie?”
“I questioned Robert this afternoon about Boisfranc. Maybe Robert decided to give Boisfranc a chance to explain. If the caretaker is Fleming, Robert would’ve inadvertently warned him.”
It was like the minister to do that. And he’d led Robert right into it.
And yet, even that didn’t ring quite true. As Beauvoir had said, why not kill both the Mongeaus? Fleming had never been squeamish about a body count.
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss / There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.
There was, Gamache knew, a reason for this. But he’d have to go deeper into the cave to find it. And the wicked secret.
“I’m going back up to Emergency. I left Ruth there.”
“Ruth? Jesus. Like those people aren’t suffering enough. I’ll continue the search for Godin. It’ll be too dark in the woods soon, and we’ll have to call it off ’til morning.”
Armand was just leaving when Dr. Harris called him over.
“I have the results, but there’s a problem. Look.”
He leaned into the microscope. As head of homicide, he’d studied innumerable DNA results and had a practiced eye. “Which is which?”
“The one on the left is Godin. The middle slide is the woman’s DNA profile. On the right is, well, the men.”
He turned his head from the slides to look at her. “Men?”
“Yes. The scraper thing was contaminated. There were two sets of DNA. Both male. Maybe yours. Maybe someone else’s. Someone else handled the scraper.”
“Damn,” he said, and went back to the microscope. “Looks like Fiona and Godin aren’t related.”
“Agreed, but I need to look more closely. There are similarities between hers and the contaminated one. But with the cross contamination, it’s impossible to tell. I will say, just my guess, that the person who handled it last is probably the relative.”
And that, Gamache knew, was the caretaker. Claude Boisfranc.
“You can at least eliminate me.”
She did a swab before he left to go back up to Emergency.
Once there, he was surprised to see Robert Mongeau sitting in a wheelchair, beside Ruth. His head was bandaged, and he was pale. Armand’s bloody jacket lay across his lap, and on top of it were the photographs, facedown.
“Robert, what are you doing? You should be in a bed.”
“What are these, Armand?” the minister asked, his voice weak and small, but determined. It was obvious what he was talking about.
Gamache held Robert’s eyes and saw something deeply troubling there.
“You looked at the pictures,” he said.
“They fell out of your jacket. I wouldn’t have looked, had I known.”
Armand’s eyes traveled over to Ruth, and his heart dropped. “You showed them to Ruth?”
“What are these? What’s it of?” Mongeau asked. “Why do you have them? What…? Why…?”
Armand reached out and gently tugged them out of the minister’s hands, picking up his jacket at the same time.
“They’re from a long time ago, Robert.” He looked at Ruth. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’ve seen worse.”
For some reason, he believed her. Though he could think of only one thing worse than those photographs, and that was the man who’d done it.
“Can you excuse me?” Without waiting for a reply, Armand walked through the swinging Emergency doors. As he did, he stuck the photographs in his slacks pocket.
“What are you—” the doctor asked, but then her eyes traveled to the blood on his shirt, then to his face. “Chief Inspector? Are you all right?”
“I am. The blood belongs to the man Mongeau you just treated.”
“Yes. Head wound.”
“It wasn’t an accident. Can you tell me what the weapon was?”
“I wasn’t sure what had caused it. I asked him, but he didn’t remember. I thought maybe he’d tripped and hit his head.” She’d walked over to her desk. “I picked these out of the wound.”
The doctor handed him a small sterile plastic bag.
Gamache took it. He was shocked and yet not surprised. It felt as though elements were both falling apart and falling into place. Their rightful place.
The bag contained tiny pieces of what looked like brick.
“You released Monsieur Mongeau?” he asked, tucking the bag into his pocket.
“Yes. There’s no skull fracture and I don’t think there’s a concussion. Looks like he turned his head at the last moment, so it became more of a glancing blow. Enough to knock him out and cause a lot of bleeding, but not enough to seriously hurt him.”
She paused and stared at the head of homicide. “Was that the intention? Did someone try to kill that man?”
“You’ll obviously keep this to yourself.”
She nodded. “I gave him a dozen stitches. He’ll need watching, and someone to change the dressing. I also gave him some antibiotics and painkillers.”
Armand returned to the waiting room. “Did you see who did this to you?”
“I’d have told you if I had,” said Robert. He looked drained.
Ruth was looking at the minister with concern.
“I’d like to go home,” he said. He was weak and wilting. “Please. Do you mind driving me?”
“You can’t go home, Robert,” said Armand, wheeling him out. “You’re coming back with me.”
“Armand?” Ruth touched his arm and motioned him to step away.
“Are you sure he’s okay,” she whispered, glancing toward the minister, who was staring into space.
“The doctors have released him. I’ll take good care of him.”
She nodded and seemed distracted by some thought.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I just … be careful, Armand. That’s all.”
He knew what she was saying. Whoever did this might try again. Almost certainly would. That alone was reason enough to bring Robert Mongeau back home with him. Where he could protect the man. And maybe, maybe, catch the assailant when he did try again.
Fiona put the tray on the table.
Grilled salmon, roasted cauliflower with orange and dill crumb, and baby potatoes for Harriet, and piri-piri chicken thighs with roast parsnips and sweet potatoes for Sam.
She’d brought it over from the bistro, putting in the order with Olivier.
“Young lovers,” she said and saw him smile.
Once in the room, she locked the door, drew the curtains, mashed up the food, and then flushed it down the toilet.
Harriet roused. Her head still felt like it had been split open, but her eyes were clearer and she felt more alert.
The forest seemed in perpetual twilight, as though the sun were afraid to drop into the woods. But one thing that was dropping was the temperature.
A chill went through her, acting as a bucket of cold water to the face. She was no longer in any doubt. She was tied to a tree, her ankles also bound.
“Sam?” she whispered. It looked like he was lying on his side, a few feet from her. Still. Too still. Raising her voice a little, not wanting to alert her captors that she was conscious, she repeated, “Sam?” But the body didn’t move. Finally she shouted. “Sam!”
Nothing.
And now she just screamed. Not his name, not anyone’s. No words. Just a shriek. Startled birds took off, and squirrels scampered away from this new beast.