A Great Reckoning

  He was still in his dressing gown and slippers, his hair mussed from sleep, stubble on his face, waiting to be shaved off.

  Lacoste wondered if he realized he was in that state. But it didn’t seem to matter.

  “I’d like you with me, Inspector,” she said, then turned to Gamache. “Can you take us to him, please?”

  “Of course, Chief Inspector,” said Gamache, ushering her out of the room, followed by Beauvoir. Once in the hall, their manner became less formal.

  As they walked down the corridor, Isabelle Lacoste had the odd sensation they were not actually making any progress. Each corner they turned led them to a hallway that looked exactly like the one they’d just left.

  The old academy, where she’d trained, had been a confusion of narrow corridors, with portraits and pennants and sporting trophies going back generations, with dark wooden staircases and worn carpets muffling the shouts and laughter and conversation of the cadets. The rumor among the students was that the building had once been an asylum. She could believe it. It either housed the insane or drove them there.

  It had taken almost the entire three years for her to confidently make her way to the women’s toilet, and she privately suspected they moved the women’s bathroom every now and then, in protest at even having to have one.

  But the new academy was just as confusing, in its own way, because of its utter lack of character and landmarks.

  “Did Professor Leduc have any family?” she asked Gamache.

  “Not that I know of, but I’ll look at his personnel file. If there is family, will you contact them, or shall I?”

  They’d arrived at the Commander’s rooms, though the door looked like any of the other twenty or so they’d already passed. It struck her as interesting that Gamache’s suite was about as far from Professor Leduc’s as possible.

  And she wondered whose decision that had been.

  “Do you have a preference?” she asked.

  “I’ll do it, if you don’t mind,” said Gamache. “He was in my employ and was my responsibility.”

  She nodded.

  “You have no idea who might’ve killed him?” Lacoste pressed, looking from one man to the other.

  “Non,” they both said, but when Gamache reached for the door handle, she stopped him.

  “But there is something,” she said, studying him.

  How well she knew that face, those mannerisms. His ability to hide his thoughts and feelings behind a wall of calm. Even now. It wasn’t what was written on his face that had given her pause, but rather his earlier actions.

  “Why did you stay in the room?” she asked. “Why not leave and lock the door, once the doctor had confirmed death?”

  Jean-Guy had been wondering the same thing and was waiting until they were alone to question Gamache. But Isabelle had gotten there first. He felt a wave of both pride and annoyance.

  He’d helped train her. And now he wondered if he’d done too good a job.

  “I didn’t want him to be alone. Serge Leduc might not have been a good man, and he certainly was no friend. But he does deserve some common decency.”

  Lacoste studied him for a moment. It was, she had to admit, the sort of thing Armand Gamache would do. And yet …

  “And you felt he would, if he could speak, prefer that you stare at him in that condition, rather than simply lock the room and leave him in peace?”

  She was pushing it, she knew. But if Gamache had been any other man, she’d have asked these same questions. And not let his answer go.

  “I did,” he said simply. “And I wasn’t staring at his body.”

  “Then what were you doing?” she asked.

  Gamache cocked his head slightly and regarded her.

  “I was noticing the details of the room.” He smiled. “Training and experience.”

  Then his smile disappeared and he looked stern.

  “You’re the head of homicide and I respect that. But I’m the commander here, and everyone and everything under this roof is my responsibility. A person not only died, he was murdered. And yes, I chose to use my expertise. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “You know I do, sir. It wouldn’t be tolerated in anyone else. And you, above all, know the importance of keeping a crime scene as clean as possible.”

  “I do. Which is why I touched nothing. I looked and I breathed.”

  His voice was curt. Not exactly chastising her, but pushing back.

  “I’m sorry if what I did upset you, Chief Inspector. It was only meant to help.” Then his voice softened. “Do you really think I killed Serge Leduc?”

  Isabelle Lacoste visibly relaxed. “No, I don’t.”

  “Good,” he said, smiling. “Because I sure wouldn’t want you on my tail.”

  “And I hope you know that I do respect your position here, Commander. But I’m in charge.”

  “I do know that, Isabelle. I’m not trying to take over. But I do need to be a part of this investigation. I should tell you that I’ll be calling the mayor of Saint-Alphonse to report what’s happened. As well as their chief of police.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” she said.

  Beauvoir was watching and listening, following closely what was being said, and not said. Mostly he watched Gamache.

  While he’d deflected the question, Armand Gamache had not, in fact, properly answered it. And it was the same question he himself had.

  Why had Gamache stayed in the room with the body? Lacoste was right. The appropriate action, by an experienced investigator, would have been to leave, lock the door, and await the forensics team.

  But Gamache had not done that.

  “Right now,” said Lacoste, “I need to speak to the cadet who found the body.”

  “D’accord,” said Commander Gamache, and opened the door to his rooms.

  * * *

  Nathaniel sat on the edge of the sofa, nervously answering their questions. He seemed to grow more and more agitated as they went on, no matter how benign the question or how gently they were put to him. Though, it must be admitted, the interview had not started well.

  “Your name?”

  “Nathaniel Smythe.”

  He’d given it a French pronunciation, though it was obviously an English name and he himself was English. It came out as Nataniel Smite.

  “Nathaniel Smythe?” asked Isabelle Lacoste, giving it the proper English pronunciation.

  Nathaniel colored. His red hair and fair complexion made the blush immediate and vivid.

  Here was a young man desperate to fit in, to pass as Québécois, thought Lacoste. Though his name and coloring would give him away immediately. And while he had not actually lied right out of the gate, he had misled. Tried to pass himself off as something he was not.

  It was a small, but telling, detail. And Chief Inspector Lacoste knew murders were built on tiny, almost imperceptible things. They were almost never provoked by a single massive event, but rather by an accumulation of small insults, slights, lies. Bruises. Until the final flesh wound proved fatal.

  She looked at young Cadet Smythe. Who’d just tried to pretend he wasn’t Anglo. And now she was getting another sense from him.

  He’s gay, she thought with dismay.

  Gay was fine. Anglo was fine. Anglo and gay was fine. Anglo, gay, and in the Sûreté Academy was something else. No wonder this young man’s instinct was to hide.

  She looked over at Gamache, still in his dressing gown and pajamas, sitting at ease on one of the Eames chairs. She wondered if he had also picked up on it, and she thought he probably had.

  “Cadet Smythe is in my class,” said the Commander. “And you sometimes come to the gatherings in these rooms.”

  “Oui.”

  “Tell us what happened,” said Lacoste. Her voice matter-of-fact.

  “I was taking Professor Leduc his morning coffee and toast. I knocked on the door, and when there was no answer I tried the handle. It was unlocked, so I opened it.”

  This raised a n
umber of questions, but Lacoste held off until he’d finished.

  “I saw him right away, of course.”

  He blushed again with the effort of holding it together. Keeping down the emotions, and the vomit.

  “And what did you do?” she asked.

  “I backed away and yelled for help.” He looked at the Commander. “I dropped the tray.”

  “Naturally,” said the Commander. “I would have too.”

  “Did you go into the room?” Chief Inspector Lacoste asked.

  “No.”

  “Even a little bit? A few steps?” she pressed, her voice suggesting it would be understandable if he had, but the cadet shook his head.

  It was the last thing this young man had been tempted to do.

  “Why were you taking coffee to Professor Leduc?” Beauvoir asked.

  “We do it every morning. Amelia Choquet and I take shifts. A week at a time.”

  There was a slight movement from Gamache, and an inhale.

  He’s surprised, thought Lacoste.

  “Do you know the practice of freshmen serving meals to professors was stopped when Commander Gamache took over?” Beauvoir asked.

  “Professor Leduc told us that, but said it was tradition. That it helped establish respect and order and a chain of command. He said Sûreté Academy traditions were there for a reason and important to uphold.”

  He said it apparently without understanding the insult to Commander Gamache. It was another small, but telling, detail. It spoke about this student. But mostly it spoke of Serge Leduc and his disdain for the new commander.

  And Leduc’s willingness to pass his opinions on to the cadets.

  Beauvoir didn’t look over at Gamache, but watched him in his peripheral vision. His face was again one of calm attentiveness. But his posture had changed. It was more tense.

  “Not all traditions are good,” said Beauvoir. “That one belittles freshmen. You’re agents in training, not servants. I hated it when I was a freshman. I’m interested to see that you don’t seem to mind.”

  “Professor Leduc explained that Amelia and I were specially chosen.”

  “And did he explain what was special about you?” asked Lacoste.

  “We were the most promising.”

  “I see,” she said.

  Lacoste turned to Gamache, but he shook his head to say he had no questions, though he was listening intently and watching the young man closely.

  “The door to Professor Leduc’s rooms was unlocked,” Lacoste said. At that moment her iPhone vibrated, but she ignored it. “Was that unusual?”

  “No. He often unlocked it first thing in the morning, so we could get in.”

  “And what did you do, once in his rooms?” asked Lacoste.

  “Put down the tray and left.”

  “And the times he was there?” asked Gamache, finally speaking.

  “He’d thank me, and I’d leave.”

  Chief Inspector Lacoste, after quickly checking a text, got up. “Merci, Cadet Smythe.” She turned to Gamache and Beauvoir. “Dr. Harris is here. Would you like to come?”

  “I think now would be a good time to shower and change,” said Gamache. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  He turned to Nathaniel.

  “Wait here, please. Pour yourself a coffee, if you’d like.”

  Gamache pointed to a coffee maker with a full carafe on the sideboard. “I’ll be out soon.”

  Lacoste and Beauvoir left Nathaniel pouring coffee, while Commander Gamache went into the bedroom, closing the door.

  He emerged a short time later, shaved, showered, and in a fresh suit and tie. On seeing the Commander, Nathaniel got to his feet.

  Gamache waved him to sit back down and, pouring himself a coffee, he joined the cadet.

  The sun was up, illuminating a bleak March landscape. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, they could see patches of snow and patches of gray scrub. A month earlier it had been a wonderland of fresh, clean snow, cut across by trails left by cross-country skis and snowshoes. In another month, it would be alive with spring wildflowers and trees in fresh green bud.

  But for now it was a sort of zombie landscape. A living dead.

  “So, Cadet Smythe, what did you find out about the map?”

  He’d asked the question in flawless English, with just a hint of a British accent, and gestured toward the framed painting on the wall.

  Nathaniel hadn’t been expecting that question, or the language, and he blushed again.

  “Pardon?” he asked, in French.

  Gamache smiled. “It’s okay to be English, you know. If you’re not true to yourself, how can you ever recognize the truth in others? I was asking about the map. You and three other cadets were looking into it.”

  “We stopped,” said Nathaniel, still in French. “We got sorta bogged down in coursework.”

  They were in the odd position, as sometimes happened in Québec, where the Francophone was speaking English and the Anglo was speaking French.

  “And what did you do with your copy of it?” he asked.

  “The map? I don’t know. It’s around somewhere, I suppose.”

  Commander Gamache leaned forward slightly. Enough to be just inside Cadet Smythe’s personal space.

  “I’m not asking to make conversation, young man. Everything I ask has a purpose, and never more so than now. This is a murder investigation, not a get-together for coffee.”

  “Yessir.”

  Nathaniel had switched to English, and his eyes had widened.

  “Good. Now, let’s try again. What did you do with your copy of the map?”

  “I don’t know.”

  On seeing the Commander’s face, he blushed again.

  “Really, I don’t remember. I don’t think I threw it away. It’s probably in my desk in the dorm.”

  “Go and find it, please,” said Gamache, getting up. “But I do have one more question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Were you ever in Professor Leduc’s bedroom?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, cadet. There’s no fault to you. No law broken, moral or legal. At least on your side. But I need to know.”

  “No, sir. I was never in his bedroom.”

  Gamache studied the young man, who now looked as though his head was on fire.

  “What was your relationship with Professor Leduc?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you’re afraid. And you have reason to keep your private life private, especially here. This has not been, in the past, the most tolerant of institutions. I think you’re very brave to come here.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Gamache smiled. And nodded. “Just remember, this is now a murder investigation. Your secrets will come out. I’m giving you a chance to tell me quietly.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  Gamache lowered his voice, even though they were alone in the room.

  “I will understand,” he said. “Trust me. Please.”

  Nathaniel Smythe looked into those eyes, and caught the slight scent of sandalwood and rosewater, though he could never have named the actual aromas. He knew he liked it. It was calming. As were the eyes.

  But then he remembered Professor Leduc’s warnings. About Commander Gamache.

  And then he remembered Professor Leduc’s body.

  “Should I return to my dorm?” he asked, reverting to French. “I can look for the map, if you’d like.”

  Gamache held his eyes for another moment, then nodded. “In a minute.”

  He picked up the phone and placed a call.

  Before long, there was a knock on the door, and a professor stood there.

  “Please take Cadet Smythe back to his room, then on to the dining hall.”

  “What should I tell the others?” Nathaniel asked at the door. “About Professor Leduc? Everyone will want to know.”

  “Tell them the truth.”


  When the door closed, Gamache looked at it for a moment, then shifted his gaze to the framed map on the wall.

  The smears of brown that might be mud, or not. The wear and tear. The fine contours, like the lines on a weather-beaten face. The rivers and valleys. The cow and pyramid and three tiny pines. And the snowman, his arms raised in victory. Or surrender.

  Gamache exhaled a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  The map had been hidden for a reason, Ruth had said. Walled up for a reason.

  Gamache took his coffee to the window and stared out.

  He thought and he thought, then he called the mayor and the chief of police.

  And then he returned down the deserted hallways, to Serge Leduc’s murdered body.

  They’d have found it by now. What he’d seen in Serge Leduc’s bedside table.

  A copy of the map.

  CHAPTER 13

  Dr. Sharon Harris had seen worse in her time as coroner. Far worse. Horrible, horrific things. As far as disfigurement went, this was fairly tame. If she didn’t turn him over and look at his full head. And if she didn’t turn her own head, to see where the rest of his had gone.

  Which, of course, she did.

  Dr. Harris got to her feet and, peeling off the latex gloves, stepped away from the body of Serge Leduc and joined Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Isabelle Lacoste.

  “He was dead before he hit the ground. Probably just before midnight. Single shot to the temple and no other wounds. Looks like the bullet was a hollow-point. What used to be called a man stopper, for obvious reasons.”

  They did not need to refer to the body to know the reason.

  “Have they found the bullet yet?” Dr. Harris asked.

  “No,” said Beauvoir. He waved toward the opposite wall. “They’re looking.”

  Just then there was a knock on the door and Armand Gamache entered. He and Dr. Harris greeted each other as old friends, having consulted on many cases in the past.

  “I was just saying that the cause of death is not in doubt,” she said. “And his death was fast, almost merciful.”

  “It seems Professor Leduc just stood there and let it happen,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “No sign of a struggle at all. Now why was that?”

  “Because he didn’t believe the murderer would actually pull the trigger?” asked the coroner.