A Great Reckoning

  But the message was clear.

  Stay away.

  Beauvoir could not.

  For the umpteenth time that day, Jean-Guy Beauvoir stood outside the closed door and stared at it.

  “He’s inside?” he asked the Commander’s assistant, sitting at her desk, for the umpteenth time.

  “Oui. Has been all day,” said Madame Marcoux.

  “What’s he doing?”

  She looked at Beauvoir, incredulous and amused. He knew she wouldn’t tell him, even if she could. But he had to ask.

  He leaned closer to the door, but couldn’t hear anything.

  Now the amusement disappeared from Madame Marcoux’s eyes, to be replaced by disapproval.

  “He asked not to be disturbed. Have you found out who killed Professor Leduc?” she asked.

  “Not yet, but—”

  “Then maybe you should be doing that, don’t you think?”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Finally, at the end of the day, Jean-Guy returned, hoping to find the assistant gone, but she was still there.

  Beauvoir smiled at her, walked right by, tapped. And entered. As she stood and called, “Stop.”

  Armand Gamache looked up sharply, his hand instinctively going to the lid of his laptop.

  And as he looked at Jean-Guy Beauvoir, he slowly closed it. In a gesture that felt more like a slap to the face than any hand ever could.

  The two men stared, then Jean-Guy’s eyes dropped to the slender computer, closed.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the assistant, standing at the door and glaring at the intruder.

  “It’s not a problem, Madame Marcoux,” said Gamache, rising behind his desk. “You can leave us. I’m finished for the day anyway. Thank you for staying.”

  Madame Marcoux hesitated at the door.

  “It’s all right, Chantal.”

  With a severe look at Beauvoir, she left, closing the door softly behind her while the two men stared at each other.

  “We found out about the silencer,” said Beauvoir. “Made by a company in Tennessee. It specializes in customized weapons. They have a record of Leduc’s order. He must have smuggled it across the border.”

  Gamache made a sound of disapproval but not of surprise, and waved toward the sitting area of his office. Away, Beauvoir noticed, from his desk. And the closed laptop.

  “Is that what you came here to tell me?” asked Gamache, sitting down and taking off his reading glasses.

  Beauvoir took the chair across from him and leaned forward. “The joke’s over, patron. What’s this about? What’re you doing in here?”

  “Beyond the fact it’s my office?” There was an edge of annoyance in Gamache’s normally composed voice. “What do you want, Jean-Guy?”

  Beauvoir, faced with such a simple question, felt overwhelmed.

  He wanted to know why Monsieur Gamache had hidden away all day.

  He wanted to know why he’d just closed his laptop. What was on it?

  He wanted to know why he’d really taken those students down to Three Pines.

  He wanted to know why Gamache’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon.

  He wanted to know why he’d specifically asked for Paul Gélinas to join the investigation, and lied to Chief Inspector Lacoste, and himself, in the process.

  He wanted to know who Amelia Choquet really was.

  And he wanted to know who killed Serge Leduc, because in the early dusk it was slowly dawning on Beauvoir that Monsieur Gamache might know.

  But Jean-Guy Beauvoir sat there, mute. Staring at the familiar face, the familiar man. Who was becoming a stranger.

  “I want you to let me in.”

  Jean-Guy’s eyes left Gamache’s, and he slowly turned his head to the desk and the closed computer.

  “Why does Paul Gélinas suspect that I killed Serge Leduc?” asked Gamache.

  “I think it started with the fingerprints.”

  Gamache nodded. “And how did my prints get on the murder weapon?”

  Beauvoir sat there, a lump forming in his stomach.

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly, almost in a whisper. “But they’re only partials. They’re obviously not your prints.”

  “Oh, they’re mine.”

  And now there was complete silence. Except for the thrumming in Beauvoir’s ears, as the blood abandoned his extremities and ran to his core. Retreating. Running away. And leaving him light-headed.

  “What’re you telling me?”

  “You and I both know that partials aren’t admissible,” said Gamache. “We tell people we don’t take them seriously. But the fact is we do. And we should. How often have they led us to the murderer?”

  “Often,” admitted Jean-Guy.

  “And they do this time too.”

  “You’re not—”

  “Confessing? Non. I have never touched that gun. I didn’t even know he had it, and would never have tolerated it had I known.”

  “Brébeuf’s partials are on the gun. Are you saying it was him? But he’d have wiped the gun. As would you. Amelia Choquet? Her prints were on the revolver, and the gun case, and it was her map. Is she the one who killed him?”

  Into the silence he placed another question.

  “Who is she?” Jean-Guy asked.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Who is she?” Beauvoir asked again, more firmly this time. “There’s a personal connection, isn’t there? That’s why you reversed the earlier decision and admitted her to the academy. Paul Gélinas was right.”

  “Yes, he was. But I need to speak to Madame Gamache first.”

  “Is she—”

  “I won’t tell you any more, Jean-Guy. And the only reason I’ve gone this far is because I trust you.”

  “But not enough to tell me the truth.”

  “I have told you the truth. I just can’t tell you more right now. You need to trust me.” Gamache got up, and Jean-Guy rose with him. They walked to the door.

  “Do you know who killed the Duke?” asked Beauvoir.

  “I think I do, but I have no proof.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I can’t. But I will tell you that the key is in the fingerprints on the revolver.”

  Beauvoir stopped at the door, his foot against it so that Gamache couldn’t open it. “Deputy Commissioner Gélinas is planning to arrest you for murder, isn’t he?”

  “I think so.”

  “But you don’t seem worried.”

  “Just because I’m not screaming up and down the hallways doesn’t mean I’m not worried. But I’m not panicked. He has his plans and I have mine.”

  “You must regret bringing him in,” said Jean-Guy. “Why did you? You went behind Isabelle’s back to do it. You’d never have tolerated that when you were chief inspector, and yet you did it to her.”

  Now Gamache did look tired. He met Beauvoir’s gaze. At first Jean-Guy thought Monsieur Gamache was trying to make up his mind whether to confide in him, but then it became something else.

  Monsieur Gamache was holding on to Jean-Guy’s eyes like a mariner clings on to a bit of flotsam in a gale.

  He was a man overboard.

  “It seemed too good an opportunity to pass up,” said Gamache. “The Deputy Commissioner of the RCMP actually visiting Montréal. I had to ask.”

  “But you could’ve gone through Lacoste.”

  “Yes, but I doubt he’d have come down for her. He doesn’t know her.”

  “He doesn’t know you, if he suspects you of murder.”

  “You suspect me too, don’t you?”

  “I do not,” snapped Beauvoir, though they both knew that was a deception, if not a lie. “Is Gélinas going down to Three Pines with you again tonight?”

  “He is. I invited him down again.”

  “Why?” asked Beauvoir.

  “So he can keep an eye on me,” said Gamache, then smiled. “And I can keep an eye on him.”

  “Do you want me to come down with you
? I can stay over.”

  “No, you need to be with Annie. I spoke with her this afternoon. She sounds happy.”

  Armand Gamache offered his hand to the younger man in a gesture that was oddly formal.

  Jean-Guy took it.

  “Don’t believe everything you think,” said Gamache, before releasing the hand and opening the door. “Pema Chödrön. A Buddhist nun.”

  “Of course,” said Beauvoir and gave a heavy sigh as the door closed behind him. He turned to go, only to come face-to-face with Chantal Marcoux, who was standing by her desk in a long cloth coat. She was just putting a knitted hat on her head.

  She opened the door to the corridor and ushered him out.

  As he walked one way down the hallway, and she walked the other, Beauvoir wondered how much Madame Marcoux had heard. And he wondered if she’d been Serge Leduc’s assistant, before the putsch and the arrival of Commander Gamache.

  CHAPTER 36

  “So that was Roof Trusses after all,” said Jacques, when Nathaniel and Amelia finally joined them at their table in the bistro. “You can’t tell the little shithole was ever there.”

  “True,” agreed Amelia. “It wasn’t obvious. We had to actually work at it.”

  She glared at Jacques before taking the rich hot chocolate, topped with fresh whipped cream, from Olivier. “Merci.”

  Slightly startled by the pleasantry, Olivier smiled. “De rien.”

  “And after all that, all you found were a couple of buckets of maple syrup.” Jacques shoved his empty mug toward Olivier, who took it and left. “Well done.”

  “Sap,” said Nathaniel.

  Huifen had been watching the younger cadets’ earlier conversation with the old poet, and while she couldn’t hear what was being said, she could see that it had held the crazy old woman’s attention.

  It was more than sap they’d found.

  “What did you find?” she asked.

  “What’s it to you?” asked Amelia.

  “What’s it to us?” asked Huifen. “We might not have been there, but we’re all working together.”

  “No, we’re not,” said Nathaniel. “You left me on the side of the road. You got in the car and were about to drive away.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” said Jacques. “I just turned it on to get heat and to hurry you up.”

  “I wasn’t slow, I was still looking for Roof Trusses and you gave up, you lazy shit.”

  “You little piece of crap—” Jacques leaned toward Nathaniel, who jerked away. But Huifen stopped Jacques with a hand to his arm.

  Amelia noticed the subtle gesture and not for the first time wondered at the power this small woman held over the large man. And, not for the first time, wondered just how much influence she did have over Jacques.

  Huifen could stop him from doing something, but could she also get him to act?

  “You’re just afraid to admit you were wrong,” said Amelia.

  “I’m not afraid. Of anything.” Jacques glared at Amelia. “How many times do I have to prove it?”

  “Oh, you’re afraid now,” Huifen said quietly. “And you were afraid then. We all were.”

  The laughter, the warmth of the bistro disappeared as the four young people stared at each other.

  And then with a bang they were brought back to the bistro, as the front door slammed shut.

  Commander Gamache and Deputy Commissioner Gélinas had just arrived, the door blowing closed behind them.

  They stomped their feet, brushed wet snow off their coats, and slapped their hats against their legs. It was a singular Québec jig learned in the womb.

  The snow had turned back to sleet as night fell and now it was pelting against the bistro windows and piling up on the mullions.

  Gamache took off his wet coat and, after hanging it on a peg by the door, he looked around, rubbing his hands together for warmth and taking in the fires crackling away in stone hearths at either end of the beamed room. The bistro was surprisingly full for such a dreadful night. But some of the regulars were missing.

  He’d left Reine-Marie, Clara, Myrna, Ruth, and Gabri at his home in front of the roaring fire in the living room, sipping red wine and going through the boxes and boxes of items found in the basement of the Royal Canadian Legion.

  “Look.” Clara had picked up a picture. “There’s my place in the background.”

  She showed them the photo of two young men in puttees tied from their knees to their ankles. Their uniforms were too tight and their grins, Clara knew, way too big.

  They stood on the village green and between them was a farm woman in her Sunday best, awkward and bashful and full of pride, her robust sons on either side of her, their arms around her soft shoulders.

  “Look at the pines,” said Gabri. “They’re the same size as the boys.”

  They’d walked right by those same trees on their way to the Gamaches’ home. They now towered over the village, strong and straight and still growing.

  “I thought the trees had been here for centuries,” said Myrna. “Like Ruth.”

  “They have,” said Ruth. “Three pines of some sort have always been on the village green.”

  She spoke with such authority that Myrna began to wonder if Ruth really was a few centuries old. Rooted and pickled. Like an old turnip.

  “Maybe the originals died,” said Clara. “Is either of the boys in this photograph also in the stained-glass window?”

  Clara passed the picture around.

  “Hard to tell,” said Myrna. “They aren’t the main boy, but the other two are in profile.”

  “Is there a name?” Gabri asked.

  Ruth turned the picture over.

  “Joe and Norm Valois,” she read.

  The friends looked at her, their encyclopedia of loss.

  Ruth nodded. “And there was a third Valois on the wall. Pierre. Probably another brother.”

  “Oh, dear God,” sighed Reine-Marie, and looked away from the picture, unable to meet the eyes of Madame Valois.

  “I wonder if Pierre was taking the picture,” said Gabri. “Or maybe it was their father.”

  Clara took the photograph back. Was Pierre the younger son, or the oldest? Had he joined up later, to be with his brothers? Or was he already there? Did they find each other before they died? Most of the boys joined the same regiment, often the same unit. And ended up in the same battles.

  Ypres, Vimy, Flanders, the Somme, Passchendaele. All familiar names now, but unknown to the three in the photo.

  Clara stared and stared at the picture, with the young men and the young trees and her house, unchanged, in the background.

  Had they grown up in her home? Had the telegram been delivered there? Had they fluttered out of their mother’s hand, to the flagstone floor, one after the other? Piling up. A storm of grief.

  We regret to inform you …

  Is that why her cottage always felt so soothing? It was used to offering comfort to the inconsolable.

  Clara put the photograph on the sofa beside her and went back to the job at hand, searching through the boxes, looking for the boys in the window.

  Photograph after photograph showed fields of mud where French and Belgian villages had been bombed to oblivion. Disappeared, until they were a divot in the landscape.

  “Can we help?” Armand had asked when they’d changed out of their office clothes before heading to the bistro.

  He’d spoken to Reine-Marie, but she was silent, staring into a shoe box on her lap. He leaned over and saw what was in there.

  Telegrams.

  “Look at this,” said Gabri, breaking the silence. He held a compass and was turning it this way and that. “I never did learn how to read one of these things.”

  “A lost boy if there ever was one,” said Myrna, and Ruth snorted in amusement, or because she had an olive lodged in her nostril again.

  “You should take up orienteering,” said Gamache as Gabri handed him the compass.

  “I’m quite happy with my orien
tation, thank you,” said Gabri.

  The glass was shattered, but as Armand turned it, the needle still found true north.

  “When you stop playing with that, Clouseau, go see to your young people,” said Ruth. “They’re over at the bistro. They want to speak to you.”

  “Shall we?” Gamache asked Gélinas, who nodded.

  “A quiet Scotch by the fire sounds good.”

  After arriving at the bistro, Gamache gestured to Olivier for two Scotches, then he and Gélinas wound their way through the tables toward the cadets. Once at the table, the cadets rose and Commander Gamache waved them to sit back down.

  “Ruth said you’d like to speak to me,” Gamache said, smoothing his hair, disheveled from his tuque, and sitting down. “Is something wrong?”

  The four young people looked upset. Two of them pale, two of them flushed.

  “We were just arguing,” said Huifen. “Nothing new.”

  “About what?” asked Gélinas, taking a seat.

  “These two found Roof Trusses, or Notre-Dame-de-Doleur, or whatever it’s called,” said Huifen. “We gave up.”

  “Hardly matters,” said Jacques. “There’s nothing there but snow. And maple syrup.”

  “Sap,” said Nathaniel. “And there was something there.”

  “What did you find?” asked Gamache, after thanking Olivier for the Scotches.

  “The cemetery.” Nathaniel’s voice was eager now and his eyes bright.

  “It was overgrown,” said Amelia. “But still there.”

  “And?” asked Gamache.

  Nathaniel shook his head. “No Antony Turcotte.”

  “No Turcotte at all,” said Amelia.

  Gamache sat back, surprised. Considering.

  “Didn’t the toponymie man say Turcotte had been buried there?”

  “Yes. It was even in the Canadian Encyclopedia.”

  Gamache leaned forward again and, putting his elbows on the table, he folded his hands together and rested his chin on them. And stared out at the darkness, the snowflakes furious in the bistro light.

  “Could the gravestone have fallen over or been buried?” he asked.

  “It’s possible,” Amelia admitted. “But it’s not a big cemetery and most of the stones were fairly easy to find. We can go back tomorrow and take a closer look.”

  “But why bother?” asked Jacques. “He’s just trying to keep us busy. Can’t you see that? How can it possibly matter? Besides, he’s not part of the investigation anymore.”