“You said accuracy wasn’t an issue. I assumed…” There was a pause. “It was murder?”
“Yes. A single shot to the temple,” he repeated.
And now the pause elongated. Stretched. On and on. But it wasn’t empty. Even down the phone line, across the miles, across the ocean, he could hear her thinking. Considering.
“What’s going through your mind, Madame Coldbrook?”
“I was thinking about the specific design of the gun and its uses. And why someone would want one. Especially someone who didn’t collect guns. Why a revolver?”
She seemed to be telling, rather than asking.
“Why do you think?” he asked. In the background, he heard a knock and a voice.
“How should I know?” she demanded. “We simply make them. As your National Rifle Association is fond of saying, guns don’t kill people. People kill people.”
“I’m Québécois, madame. Canadian. The NRA has nothing to do with me.”
“And McDermot and Ryan had nothing to do with this death. I’m sorry it has happened. Very sorry. A single shot to the temple using a revolver. Poor man. But I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I’ll send you the email with all the information I have, and attach the sales slip.”
He was about to thank her, but the line was already dead.
Elizabeth Coldbrook’s email arrived a few minutes later with a brief boilerplate description of the .45 McDermot MR VI, and then specifics about Leduc’s order.
At the bottom of her covering letter was her name. Elizabeth Coldbrook-Clairton. Something seemed slightly off, and when he studied it more closely he noticed that “Clairton” was typed in a different font. Not far off—she might not have noticed. But he did.
Then there was a ding. The forensics report had just arrived in his inbox.
* * *
“You’re welcome to stay in the village, if you’d like,” said Gamache as he put his winter coat on. “You don’t have to come back to the academy with me.”
“You’d like me to stay?” asked Charpentier, as he pulled on his boots. “Or you want me to stay? You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?”
It was said with a smile, but there was an edge to the question.
“Moi?” asked Gamache, also with a smile. But then his voice changed and grew serious. “It’s your choice, Hugo. And if I want something, you’ll know it.”
“Who else knows they’re here, patron?”
“The cadets? Now that’s a difficult question.”
The two men said good-bye to Madame Gamache and walked slowly through the snow and mud over to the bed and breakfast, where the Commander had told the cadets to meet them.
Charpentier was swinging his canes ahead of him and hauling his weak legs after them in a kind of lurch he’d perfected.
“Their classmates needed to know they were gone, as did their professors,” said Gamache. “I told them they’d gone home.”
“Without specifying whose home.”
Gamache stopped at the steps up to the B and B and turned. “No one must know those cadets are here, do you understand?”
Charpentier nodded. But Gamache could see he considered this a game. For the tactician, it was a puzzle in which the cadets were pieces, not people.
“But you let me come down,” said Charpentier, his nose turning red in the brisk March air. “You let me know they’re here. Why?”
If he starts perspiring, thought Gamache, he’ll turn into an ice sculpture.
“Because I think you can help.”
Charpentier nodded. “I can. I already have.”
The men climbed the stairs, Gamache behind Charpentier in case he should slip and lose his balance. Charpentier stopped at the top. Walking was exhausting for him, and climbing stairs was even worse.
“Are you playing me, Commander?” His words puffed into the late winter air.
“How?”
“Is it that you want me here? Or you don’t want me at the academy?”
“You know maps. The one we found could prove important.”
“True. But last night at the academy, you didn’t think I could be a big help. You didn’t even know I collected maps. But you let me come down here. You let me see the cadets you have hidden away.”
Gamache smiled broadly. His face breaking into deep lines. He leaned so close to Charpentier that the younger man could smell the mint toothpaste and the cologne of sandalwood. With a slight hint of rosewater.
“Do you think, when I was speaking to Madame Gamache on the phone during our meeting at the academy, that I had to mention the map out loud?”
Charpentier’s eyes widened.
“You did it to lure me?”
“I know more about you than you realize.”
The comforting scents of the man were tugged away by the cold breeze that now blew between them.
And Hugo Charpentier started to perspire.
“I think we should get inside,” said Gamache. “Don’t you? They’ll be waiting for us.”
CHAPTER 25
The cadets were indeed waiting in the dining room of the B and B for Commander Gamache and Professor Charpentier.
Clara and Myrna had decided to join their houseguests, though not at the same table. They sat by the fireplace, and were finishing their French toast with bacon and maple syrup when Gamache paused to say hello. And to ask, “How did it go?”
“Last night?” asked Myrna. “Fine. I got under the sheets as soon as we got home. I think he got into his. I’m going to check for eyeholes. And a pointy hat.”
Armand grinned and grimaced at the same time. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Amelia’s a sweet girl,” said Clara. “Up at the crack of dawn this morning. Made her bed and even did some light housework before I got up. When I came down, she had the coffee already on.”
“Really?” both Armand and Myrna asked.
“No, of course not,” snapped Clara. “She told me to fuck off when I knocked on the door to wake her up, half an hour ago. Then she demanded coffee. It’s like living with a wolverine. Which reminds me, how’s Gracie?”
Armand gave her a thin smile.
“She’s fine.”
He left to join the cadets and Charpentier. The students were just finishing off their breakfasts and Gabri brought each of the men a café au lait.
“Do you want breakfast? I have blueberry crêpes, French toast, and Eggs Gabri.”
“Eggs Gabri?” asked Gamache. “That’s new.”
“I add a bit of lemon zest to the hollandaise.”
Armand thought about that, then smiled. “A little tart.”
“A little tart.” Gabri bowed with great dignity.
“I’ll have an Eggs Gabri, s’il vous plaît,” said Armand.
“And you, monsieur?” Gabri asked Charpentier, who ordered blueberry crêpes with sausages and syrup.
“Professor Charpentier and I are returning to the academy,” Gamache said to the cadets. Across from him, Charpentier’s brows rose very slightly. “But when I come back tonight, I’d like a report on what you find out about the map.”
“Come on,” said Jacques. “It doesn’t matter, and you know it. I want to return to the academy. You can’t keep us here.”
He was glaring at the Commander, and the other three cadets turned to look, first at Jacques, then over to Gamache. Jacques had clearly never been a fan of the new commander, but now his scorn seemed to have reached new heights. Or depths.
Even Gabri, bringing Myrna and Clara a small cheese plate, paused and looked over, as did the women.
Myrna cocked her head slightly, puzzled.
“You could be right,” said Gamache as he put down his large mug. “The map might mean nothing. But then again, you could be wrong.”
“Don’t believe everything you think,” said Amelia.
“So now you’re on his side?” asked Jacques.
“Side?” said Amelia. “There aren’t sides.”
“Oh, do
n’t kid yourself,” said Jacques. “There’re always sides.”
“Enough,” said Gamache. It was the first time he’d raised his voice at them, and they immediately turned to look at him. “I’m tired of this childish behavior. You need to stop this sniping. You’re not in a schoolyard. You’re cadets in the Sûreté Academy. You’ve been conscripted to help in a homicide investigation. Do you know how many cadets would love to be included? And you sneer at it? And want to leave? To pick up your marbles and go home? Because you haven’t been handed a piece of evidence dripping in blood? How do you know what’s important and what isn’t? If I don’t know, you certainly don’t.”
He stared at them, and one by one they lowered their eyes.
Even Jacques.
Over by the fireplace, Myrna and Clara exchanged glances.
There was unmistakable, and rare, anger in Armand’s voice. But below that they recognized something else. Gamache was afraid that these students weren’t taking this seriously enough. And in that error lay not just a failing grade, but a grave. Someone had killed, and they’d kill again.
“You don’t have the luxury of choosing when you’ll work, where you’ll work, and who you’ll work with. I’m your commander and I’ve assigned you to work together on the map. There is no debate, no argument. A murderer thrives on chaos, on creating divisions and diversions. Infighting is all those things. It divides the focus and saps the energy. You have to learn to get along. With everyone. Everyone.” He looked from one to the other to the other. “Everyone. Your lives will depend on it. Do you think those boys in those trenches fought each other?”
“A house divided cannot stand,” said Charpentier. “You don’t need to be a brilliant tactician to figure that one out.”
“No, just a master of clichés,” mumbled Jacques.
“And you wonder why I’m a recluse,” said Charpentier to Gamache.
“Oh, there are days I don’t wonder at all,” said Gamache.
“The house fell anyway, didn’t it?” said Jacques. “They all died, those soldiers. Together, maybe. But they all died. That’s not mud on the goddamned map. It’s blood.”
A copy was sitting on the table, and he shoved it at the Commander with such force a glass fell over. Water flooded the table, making its way toward the Commander.
But while the others moved away from it, Gamache stayed where he was, staring at the boy.
Jacques was so upset he was almost in tears. He stared at the Commander’s face. Taking in the deep scar by his temple. And meeting his eyes. Holding them.
“They died,” he whispered.
“Yes, many did,” said Gamache, studying the cadet. And then he reached out and slowly pushed the map back across the table. Away from the water. To safety, and the young man.
Gabri arrived at that moment with their breakfasts and wiped up the water, giving Gamache a quizzical look before he left.
Gamache turned to Charpentier. “Tell them what you told me.”
“I believe that,” the professor pointed to the paper, “is an early orienteering map.”
“A what?” asked Amelia.
“Orienteering,” said Nathaniel. “It’s a sport.”
“Like curling’s a sport?” asked Amelia.
“Curling’s a great sport,” said Huifen. “Have you ever tried it?”
“I don’t have to—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Gamache. “Just listen to the professor.”
“Orienteering’s a training tool, disguised as a sport,” said Charpentier.
“Training for what?” asked Huifen.
“War. It was used in the Boer War and the First World War to teach officers how to find their way around a battlefield. That’s why it shows things other maps never would. A rock, a fence, an odd-shaped tree, an abandoned house. But it also has contours, like a topographical map.”
He tapped the map on the table.
“Whoever made this knew how to make maps and was also an orienteer, when it was in its infancy.”
“And they must’ve lived around here,” said Nathaniel.
“Do you think the soldier made it himself?” asked Amelia.
“It’s possible,” said Charpentier.
“But?” asked Huifen, picking up on the hesitation.
“But this was done by an experienced mapmaker. The soldier was just a boy. He wouldn’t have had time to learn. Not to this degree.”
“It was done by his father,” said Jacques, who’d been staring at the map while they talked. “To take with him.”
“To remind him of home,” said Nathaniel.
“To bring him home,” said Jacques.
Charpentier looked at Gamache, who nodded. “We think so.”
“Where should we start?” asked Huifen.
“We can figure it out,” said Jacques. “We don’t need their help.”
“But—”
“You’ll ask for help, cadet,” said Gamache. “And you’ll take it.”
“Why?” asked Jacques. “I’ve seen what happens when people follow your orders.”
Armand Gamache put down his knife and fork slowly, with studied care, and stared at the cadet with such intensity, Jacques started to tremble. Even the others at the table, including Charpentier, leaned away.
“The town hall in Saint-Rémy will have records of sales and purchases,” said Gamache quietly, coldly. “Going back a hundred years or more. They’ll know who owned the bistro, when it was a private home. That’s the place to start.”
Nathaniel wrote that down, but Jacques continued to stare into the crosshairs.
Commander Gamache got up, as did they, rising quickly to their feet. Jacques got up too, but slowly.
“I’ll be back by seven tonight. I want your reports then.”
“Yes, sir,” said three cadets.
Gamache turned to Jacques, who said, “Yes, sir.”
“Bon,” said the Commander, and walked over to Myrna. “May I have a word?”
Myrna, feeling called to the principal’s office, followed him into the living room.
“Yes, he found the video,” she admitted before Armand could say anything. But still he was quiet, and she nodded. “I might have suggested he google you.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because he so clearly believed what that Leduc man was saying about you. He needed to know the truth if he was ever going to learn. There’s a murderer. The boy has to start paying attention.”
“No one needs to see that video.”
“Look, Armand, I know you hate that it’s out there, but the fact is, it is. It might as well have a purpose. If it teaches that young man the reality of the situation, then maybe some little good will come of it.”
“Does he look like he’s changed his mind?” asked Armand, and Myrna glanced in the direction of the dining room. And shook her head.
“I think there’s something else at work here,” she said. “I saw his face as he watched the video of that raid. He was shocked. But not in the usual way. He seemed to have walked right into the screen. To experience it, as it was happening. It’s a rare ability, to empathize that intensely. It’s almost as though he was there.”
On seeing Gamache’s face, she repeated, “Almost.”
Gamache looked toward the dining room, then back at Myrna.
“He saw all of them,” said Armand. “Réal and Etienne and Sarah.”
He recited the names of the dead, as Ruth had done the day before.
Myrna nodded. “And Jean-Guy. And you. I think for the first time he realized what being a Sûreté agent would mean. The Duke, that’s what they called him?”
Gamache nodded.
“The Duke probably filled them with stories of power and glory, and any violence was heroic and cartoonish, like the old war movies or westerns. Death was clean, and mostly us doing it to them. And they loved him for it. But the video shows how horrific it really is. I think it’s terrified him. And he hates you for it.”
 
; Gamache realized he’d been wrong. He’d been afraid Cadet Laurin wasn’t taking this seriously enough, when in fact he was near paralyzed with fear.
Jacques was asking himself the question they all did, eventually. When faced with it, would he move forward or would he run away?
“It’s time he learned what might be expected of him,” said Gamache. “It’s time they all learned.”
Then he smiled. Quickly, briefly. Sincerely.
“That’s a nice thought, Myrna. That good might come out of what happened. Their deaths might save lives. Might save his life, especially if it convinces him to quit.”
“Do you think he will?”
“I think perhaps he should.”
“But will he die at the appointed hour anyway?” she asked. “In his bed, in his car, or in a gun battle?”
“Fate? Don’t start on that again,” said Gamache. It was a conversation they often had, but not that day.
The two men left, as did Myrna and Clara, but the cadets stayed behind.
Huifen, after all, had dishes to do. Amelia grudgingly got up to help her. Then Nathaniel joined in. And finally Jacques came into the kitchen. Grabbing the dish towel from Nathaniel, he snapped it at him before picking up a wet dish.
Nathaniel laughed, knowing it was done in jest. And yet, there had been something vicious about that snap, and the sting it left behind.
CHAPTER 26
“He could have done it,” said Isabelle Lacoste.
They’d gathered in the conference room at the Sûreté Academy. Gamache, Professor Charpentier, Beauvoir, and Gélinas listened as Lacoste reported on their early morning meeting with the mayor.
Light poured in through the picture window, and outside the snow was melting in the brilliant sunshine.
“He had the motive and the opportunity. Even, perhaps, the expertise to override the security system here.”
“Though we don’t know if it was done intentionally, or the system just failed on its own,” said Beauvoir.
“What did you make of Mayor Florent?” Gamache asked.
“I liked him. An interesting man. He put up a sort of mist of bonhomie. Of good cheer. But he readily, almost cheerfully, admitted he could’ve left his home, driven over here, killed Leduc and got back home without anyone knowing he was gone.”