by Louise Penny
Hancock was silent then. He’d seen the video and now he looked at the solemn, bearded man sitting on the cold stone floor with him, his dog’s head with its quite extravagant ears resting on Gamache’s thigh.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it’s my fault,” said Gamache angrily.
“Why are you so insistent? Do you want to be a martyr?” said Hancock. “Is that why you came out in a blizzard? Are you enjoying your suffering? You must be, to hold on to it so tightly.”
“Be careful.”
“Of what? Of hurting the great Chief Inspector’s feelings? If your heroism doesn’t put you beyond us mere mortals then your suffering does, is that it? Yes it was a tragedy, it was terrible, but it happened to them, not you. You’re alive. This is what you’ve been handed, nothing’s going to change that. You have to let it go. They died. It was terrible but unavoidable.”
Hancock’s voice was intense. Henri lifted his head to stare at the young minister, a slight growl in his throat. Gamache put a calming hand on Henri’s head and the dog subsided.
“It is sweet and right to die for your country?” asked the Chief.
“Sometimes.”
“And not just to die, but to kill as well?”
“What does that mean?”
“You’d do just about anything to help your parishioners, wouldn’t you?” said Gamache. “Their suffering hurts you, almost physically. I’ve seen it. Yes, I came out into the blizzard in hopes it would quiet my conscience, but isn’t that why you signed up for the ice canoe race? To take your mind off your failings? You couldn’t stand to see the English suffer so much. Dying. As individuals, but also as a community. It was your job to comfort them but you didn’t know how, didn’t know if words were enough. And so you took action.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Despite a city filled with people he’d alienated, only six people could have actually murdered Augustin Renaud. The board of the Literary and Historical Society. Quite a few volunteers have keys to the building, quite a few knew the construction schedule and when the concrete was to be poured, quite a few could have found the sub-basement and led Renaud there. But only the six board members knew he’d visited, knew he’d demanded to speak with them. And knew why.”
The Reverend Mr. Hancock stared at Gamache in the harsh light of the single, naked bulb.
“You killed Augustin Renaud,” said Gamache.
There was silence then, complete and utter silence. There was no world outside. No storm, no battlefield, no walled and fortified and defended city. Nothing.
Only the silent fortress.
“Yes.”
“You aren’t going to deny it?”
“It was obvious you either knew already or would soon find out. Once you found those books it was all over. I hid them there, of course. Couldn’t very well destroy them and couldn’t risk having them found in my home. Seemed a perfect place. After all, no one had found them in the Literary and Historical Society for a hundred years.”
He looked closely at Gamache.
“Did you know all along?”
“I suspected. It could really only have been one of two people. You or Ken Haslam. While the rest of the board stayed and finished the meeting you headed off for your practice.”
“I went ahead of Ken, found Renaud and told him I’d sneak him in that night. I told him to bring whatever evidence he had, and if I was convinced, I’d let him start the dig.”
“And of course he came.”
Hancock nodded. “It was simple. He started digging while I read over the books. Chiniquy’s journal and the bible. It was damning.”
“Or illuminating, depending on your point of view. What happened?”
“He’d dug one hole and handed me up the shovel. I just swung it and hit him.”
“As simple as that?”
“No it wasn’t as simple as that,” Hancock snapped. “It was terrible but it had to be done.”
“Why?”
“Can’t you guess?”
Gamache thought. “Because you could.”
Hancock smiled a little. “I suppose so. I think of it more that no one else could. I was the only one. Elizabeth never could do it. Mr. Blake? Maybe, when he was younger, but not now. Porter Wilson couldn’t hit himself on the head. And Ken? He gave up his voice years ago. No, I was the only one who could do it.”
“But why did it need to be done?”
“Because finding Champlain in our basement would have killed the Anglo community. It would have been the final blow.”
“Most Québécois wouldn’t have blamed you.”
“You think not? It doesn’t take much to stir anti-Anglo sentiment, even among the most reasonable. There’s always a suspicion the Anglos are up to no good.”
“I don’t agree,” said Gamache. “But what I think doesn’t matter, does it. It’s what you believe.”
“Someone had to protect them.”
“And that was your job.” It was a statement, not a question. Gamache had seen that in the minister from the first time he’d met him. Not a fanaticism, but a firm belief that he was the shepherd and they his flock. And if the Francophones harbored a secret certainty the Anglos were up to no good, the Anglos harbored the certainty the French were out to get them. It was, in many ways, a perfect little walled society.
And the Reverend Tom Hancock’s job was to protect his people. It was a sentiment Gamache could understand.
But to the point of killing?
Gamache remembered stepping forward, raising his gun, having the man in his sights. And shooting.
He’d killed to protect his own. And he’d do it again, if need be.
“What are you going to do?” Hancock asked, getting to his feet.
“Depends. What are you going to do?” Gamache also rose stiffly, rousing Henri.
“I think you know why I came here tonight, to the Plains of Abraham.”
And Gamache did. As soon as he knew it was Tom Hancock in the parka he’d known why he was there.
“There would at least be a symmetry about it,” said Hancock. “The Anglo, slipping back down the cliff, two hundred and fifty years later.”
“You know I won’t let you do that.”
“I know you haven’t a hope of stopping me.”
“That’s probably true and, it must be admitted, this one won’t be any help,” he indicated Henri. “Unless the sight of a dog whimpering frightens you into surrendering.”
Hancock smiled. “This is the final ice floe. I have no choice. It’s what’s been handed me.”
“No, it isn’t. Why do you think I’m here?”
“Because you’re so wrapped up in your own sorrow you can barely think straight. Because you can’t sleep and came here to get away, from yourself.”
“Well, that too, perhaps,” smiled Gamache. “But what are the chances we’d meet in the middle of the storm? Had I come ten minutes earlier or later, had we walked ten feet apart, we’d have missed each other. Walked right by without seeing, blinded by the blizzard.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, what are the chances?”
“Does it matter? It happened. We met.”
“You saw the video,” Gamache said, lowering his voice. “You saw what happened. How close it came.”
“How close you came to dying? I did.”
“Maybe this is why I didn’t.”
Hancock regarded Gamache. “Are you saying you were spared to stop me from jumping over the cliff?”
“Maybe. I know how precious life is. You had no right to take Renaud’s and you have no right to take your own now. Not over this. Too much death. It needs to stop.”
Gamache stared at the young man beside him. A man, he knew, drawn to seawalls and jagged cliff faces and to the Anglos of Québec, standing just off shore where the ice was thinnest.
“You’re wrong you know,” Gamache finally said. “The English of
Hancock walked up to Gamache.
“I could walk right by you.”
“Probably. I’d try to stop you, but I suspect you’d get by. But you know I’d follow you, I’d have to. And then what? A middle-aged Francophone and a young Anglo, lost in a storm on the Plains of Abraham, wandering, one in search of a cliff, the other in search of him. I wonder when they’d find us? In the spring, you think? Frozen? Two more corpses, unburied? Is that how this ends?”
The two men looked at each other. Finally Tom Hancock sighed.
“With my luck, you’d be the one to go over the cliff.”
“That would be disappointing.”
Hancock smiled wearily. “I give up. No more fight.”
“Merci,” said Gamache.
At the door Hancock turned. Gamache’s hand, with a slight tremble, reached for the latch. “I shouldn’t have accused you of trading on your grief. That was wrong.”
“Perhaps not so far off,” smiled Gamache. “I need to let it go. Let them go.”
“With time,” said Hancock.
“Avec le temps,” Gamache agreed. “Yes.”
“You mentioned the video just now,” said Hancock, remembering another question he had. “Do you know how it got onto the Internet?”
“No.”
Hancock looked at him closely. “But you have your suspicions.”
Gamache remembered the rage on the Chief Superintendent’s face when he’d confronted him. Theirs was a long battle. An old battle. Francoeur knew Gamache well enough to know what would hurt him most wouldn’t be criticism over how he handled the raid, but just the opposite. Praise. Undeserved praise, even as his people suffered.
Where a bullet had failed to stop the Chief Inspector, that might.
But he saw, now, another face. A younger face. Eager to join them. And denied, yet again. Sent back into her basement. Where she monitored everything. Heard everything. Saw everything. Recorded everything.
And remembered, everything.
TWENTY–SIX
“Give Reine-Marie my love,” said Émile.
He and Armand stood by the door. Gamache’s Volvo was packed with his suitcase and assorted treats from Émile for Reine-Marie. Pastries from Paillard, paté and cheese from J.A. Moisan, chocolate made by the monks, from the shop along rue St-Jean.
Gamache hoped most of it made it back to Montreal. Between him and Henri, he had his doubts.
“I will. I’ll probably be back in a few weeks to testify, but Inspector Langlois has all the evidence he needs.”
“And the confession helps,” said Émile with a smile.
“True,” agreed Gamache. He looked around the home. He and Reine-Marie had been coming for many years, since Émile had retired and he and his wife moved back to Quebec City. Then, after Alice died, they came more often, to keep Émile company.
“I’m thinking of selling,” said Émile, watching Armand look around.
Gamache turned to him and paused. “It’s a lot of house.”
“The stairs are getting steeper,” agreed Émile.
“You’re welcome to come live with us, you know.”
“I do know, merci, but I think I’ll stay here.”
Gamache smiled, not surprised. “You know, I suspect Elizabeth MacWhirter is finding the same thing. Difficult living in a large home alone.”
“Is that right?” said Émile, looking at Gamache with open suspicion.
Armand smiled and opened the door. “Don’t come out, it’s cold.”
“I’m not that frail,” snapped Émile. “Besides, I want to say good-bye to Henri.”
At the sound of his name the shepherd looked at Émile, ears forward, alert. In case there was a biscuit involved. There was.
The sidewalk was newly plowed. The blizzard had stopped before dawn and the sun rose on a white, unblemished landscape. The city glowed and light sparkled off every surface making it look as though Québec was made of crystal.
Before opening the car door Gamache scooped up some snow, pressed it into his fist and showed Henri the snowball. The dog danced, then stopped, intent, staring.
Gamache tossed it into the air and Henri leapt, straining for the ball, believing this time he’d catch it, and it would remain perfect and whole in his mouth.
The snowball descended, and Henri caught it. And bit down. By the time he landed on all fours he had only a mouthful of snow. Again.
But Henri would keep trying, Gamache knew. He’d never give up hope.
“So,” said Émile, “who do you think the woman in Champlain’s coffin was?”
“I’d say an inmate of Douglas’s asylum. Almost certainly a natural death.”
“So he put her into Champlain’s coffin, but what did he do with Champlain?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
“Of course I don’t. I wouldn’t be asking if I did.”
“I’ll give you a hint. It’s in Chiniquy’s journals, you read it to me the other night. I’ll call you when I get home, if you haven’t figured it out I’ll tell you.”
“Wretched man.” Émile paused, then reached out and laid his hand briefly on Gamache’s as it held the car door.
“Merci,” said Gamache. “For all you’ve done for me.”
“And you for me. So you think Madame MacWhirter might need a little help?”
“I think so.” Gamache opened the car door and Henri jumped in. “But then, I also think the night might be a strawberry.”
Émile laughed. “Between us? So do I.”
At home three hours later, Gamache and Reine-Marie sat in their comfortable living room, a fire crackling away in the grate.
“Émile called,” said Reine-Marie. “He asked me to give you a message.”
“Oh?”
“He said ‘Three mummies.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
Gamache smiled and nodded. Three mummies were taken to Pittsburgh but Douglas had only brought two back from Egypt.
“I’ve been thinking about that video, Armand.”
He took off his half-moon glasses. “Would you like to see it?”
“Would you like me to?”
He hesitated. “I’d rather not, but if you need to I’d watch it with you.”
She smiled. “Merci, but I don’t want to see it.”
He kissed her softly then they went back to reading. Reine-Marie glanced over her book at Armand.
She knew all she needed to know.
Gabri stood behind the bar of the bistro, dish towel in hand, wiping a glass clean. Around him his friends and clients chatted and laughed, read and sat quietly.
It was Sunday afternoon and most were still in their pajamas, including Gabri.
“I’d love to go to Venice,” said Clara.
“Too many tourists,” Ruth snapped.
“How do you know?” Myrna asked. “Have you been?”
“Don’t need to go. Everything I need is here.” She took a sip of Peter’s drink and screwed up her face. “Dear God, what is that?”
“Water.”
The friends drifted over to the fireplace to chat to Roar and Hanna Parra while Gabri took a handful of licorice allsorts from the jar on the bar and scanned the room.
His eyes caught a movement outside the frosted window. A familiar car, a Volvo, drove slowly down du Moulin into the village. The sun gleamed off the fresh snow banks and kids skated on the frozen pond on the village green.
The car stopped halfway through the village and two men got out.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Armand Gamache. They paused beside the car then the back door opened.
Clara turned at the sound of soft thudding at the bar. Allsorts were spilling from Gabri’s hand. The conversation in the bistro dropped then disappeared as patrons first looked at Gabri, then out the window.
Gabri continued to stare.
Surely not. He’d imagined, fantasized, pretended so many times. Had seen it clearly only to have to come back, alone, to the real world. Not taking his eyes off the sight, he walked from behind the bar. Patrons parted, making way for the large man.
The door opened, and Olivier stood there.
Gabri, unable to speak, opened his arms and Olivier fell into them. The two men hugged and rocked and wept. Around them villagers applauded and cried and hugged each other.
After a time the two men parted, wiping tears from each other’s faces. Laughing and staring at each other, Gabri afraid to look away in case it was taken away, again. And Olivier overwhelmed by all that was so familiar and beloved. The faces, the voices, the sounds he knew so well and hadn’t heard in what seemed a lifetime. The scent of maple logs in the fire, and buttery croissants, and roasted coffee beans.
All the things he remembered, and ached for.
And Gabri’s scent, of Ivory soap. And his strong, certain arms around him. Gabri. Who’d never, ever stopped believing in him.
Gabri dragged his eyes from Olivier and looked behind his partner to the two Sûreté officers.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Inspector Beauvoir deserves the thanks,” said the Chief Inspector. The place was quiet again. Gamache turned to Olivier. He needed to say this for everyone to hear. In case there were any lingering doubts.
“I was wrong,” Gamache said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t forgive you,” Olivier rasped, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “You have no idea what it was like.” He stopped, regained his composure then continued. “Maybe, with time.”
“Oui,” said Gamache.
As everyone celebrated, Armand Gamache walked out into the sunshine, into the sound of children playing hockey, and snowball fights, and tobogganing down the hill. He paused to watch but saw only the young man in his arms. Bullet wounds through his back.
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