by Louise Penny
“Not at first,” said Beauvoir. “When we got into his laptop and uncovered his search history, we found that he seemed to be searching for something. At first we assumed he was looking around for places to put the money, but then we checked the timelines and realized it wasn’t that.”
“He was trying to retrace someone’s steps,” said Armand. “To figure out who was responsible.”
“He started with his own company,” said Jean-Guy. “With Madame Ogilvy, in fact. Then spread it out. When all else failed, he began looking further afield.”
“Or closer to home, really,” said Armand. And not, he thought, in a field but in a garden. Apparently healthy but actually choked with bindweed.
He tried to imagine Anthony Baumgartner’s shock when he realized who was stealing. And setting him up.
Matthew 10:36.
Armand sometimes wished he’d never paused on that piece of Scripture. And he certainly wished he didn’t know the truth it contained.
“What I don’t understand is how Anthony Baumgartner even found that trail,” said Stephen. “Hugo would’ve hidden it well.”
“Let me ask you this,” said Armand. “If you were going to embezzle, would you use your own computer?”
Stephen’s face opened, and he gave a small grunt. “No. I’d use someone else’s and take the opportunity to implicate them while I’m at it, in case it’s ever caught. Smart Hugo.”
“Smart Hugo,” said Beauvoir. “He and Anthony got together once a week for meals. While Tony cooked, Hugo used his brother’s laptop, supposedly to get caught up on the markets.”
“But actually to transfer money,” said Stephen.
“But wouldn’t it be obvious?” asked Olivier. “I do our accounting online, and it’s all right there.”
“Not hard to bury it,” said Beauvoir. “Especially if you want to. And Hugo wanted to. But not too deep. He also wanted people to be able to find it, if need be. And we eventually did. And yes, it made it look like Anthony was the one doing it. Why wouldn’t it? Without the password for the numbered account in Singapore, there’d be no proof it was anyone other than Anthony.”
“But Anthony found it?” said Clara.
“Oui,” Beauvoir continued. “We found Anthony’s searches. He’d made no attempt to hide those. They were more and more frantic, it seems. And then, in September of last year, they stopped.”
“He had what he was looking for,” said Armand.
“He knew then, months ago, that Hugo was stealing?” said Stephen. “Why didn’t he stop it then? Why wait until now to say something? Denial?”
“Maybe,” said Armand. “But I think it might’ve been something else.”
“His mother,” said Clara. “He waited until his mother died.”
“Yes,” said Armand.
“I can see why Hugo would need someone else to blame, but why not use Shaeffer for that too?” asked Olivier. “Why drag his own brother into it?”
“Hard to tell,” said Jean-Guy. “There was the convenience of the laptop and the fact Anthony was already tarred by the street. Hugo isn’t admitting anything.”
“I think there was something else,” said Myrna. “Jealousy. And can you blame him?”
“For killing his brother?” asked Clara. “I think I can.”
“No, I mean for being jealous. Resentful. One tall, handsome, respected, decent. Married with children. The other squat, physically unattractive, even slightly repulsive. Imagine growing up together?”
“But lots do,” said Gabri. “I have a younger brother who’s not nearly as attractive as me. It hasn’t led to murder.”
“Early days,” said Olivier.
“But there was more,” said Myrna. “Who was the Baroness’s favorite? Who understood Clara’s painting? Hugo might’ve looked like his mother, but Anthony was more like her in every way that mattered. That’s why Hugo dragged Anthony’s name into it.”
“‘The sins I was told were mine from birth,’” said Stephen, looking down at the woman drooling on his sweater, “‘and the Guilt of an old inheritance.’”
Ruth woke up with a snort. “Guilt? Sin?”
“You were singing her song,” said Gabri.
“Wait a minute,” said Stephen. “I know about these numbered accounts. You got the number for the one in Lebanon from that Shaeffer fellow, but what about the other?”
“We found it behind Clara’s painting,” said Beauvoir.
“Yes, yes, but how did Anthony Baumgartner find it and put it there? These codes are closely guarded. The bank only sends them out over secure, encrypted emails. There’s no way Anthony could’ve just stumbled on it and then written it behind that painting. By the way,” he said to Clara. “I’d like to see the original. Is it for sale?”
“Ten bucks and she’s yours,” said Gabri, pointing to Ruth.
“We can talk,” said Clara.
“You’re right,” said Jean-Guy. “Anthony could never find the code. It’s the one thing that Hugo knew would incriminate him. The only place where he needed his real name. On the account in Singapore that had three hundred seventy-seven million in it.”
Olivier groaned.
“So how did Anthony find it and get into the account?” asked Stephen.
“He didn’t.”
They stared at Jean-Guy.
Armand crossed his legs and sat back. Marveling at Jean-Guy. His protégé, who now no longer needed any protection. He was soaring on his own.
“Anthony Baumgartner didn’t write the access code there,” said Jean-Guy. “Hugo did.”
“And Anthony found it?” asked Myrna.
“No. He didn’t. When he confronted Hugo that night at their old farmhouse, he didn’t have the final proof. I think he must’ve begged Hugo to explain, but when Hugo couldn’t, Anthony told him he’d have to turn him in.”
“And that’s why Hugo killed him,” said Ruth.
“Oui.”
“Do you think Hugo meant to kill him?” asked Gabri.
“How should I know?” asked Ruth.
“I was asking the head of homicide,” said Gabri. “Not the demented poet.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, go on, numbnuts.”
“Hard to tell,” said Jean-Guy. “He was a man who planned. He must’ve had some sort of exit strategy, in case the embezzlement was found out. But I doubt his plan was to kill his brother.”
“He was cornered,” said Armand. “And when Anthony refused to turn a blind eye, he lashed out.”
“You see what comes of integrity, Armand?” said Stephen. “Of decency?”
“Some godfather,” said Myrna.
“Decency didn’t kill him,” said Armand. “Indecency did. Jealousy. Greed. Resentment.”
“We were looking at one feud when it was another that did the damage,” said Myrna.
They were quiet for a moment, until Gabri broke the silence.
“Is it rude to say I’m hungry?”
“So’m I,” said Stephen. “What’s for dinner? Lobster?”
“Stew,” said Olivier.
“Eh,” said Stephen. “Let’s call it boeuf bourguignon.”
“I see you’re reading the book I gave you,” Ruth said to Jean-Guy as they got up. She pointed to the coffee table.
“You gave him The Gashlycrumb Tinies?” asked Stephen. “By Edward Gorey? Oh, I think I really do love you,” he said to Ruth.
While Stephen read the book out loud, Jean-Guy took Myrna aside.
“We found the letter,” he said.
“In the wreck of the farmhouse?”
“Yes. Torn and dirty. It was exactly what Katie Burke described. Written in her hand, though the envelope looked like it was written by the Baroness. In it she asked Anthony to share the fortune should it come their way. Which it did.”
“Thank you for telling me,” said Myrna.
Annie caught her husband’s eye. Jean-Guy took a deep breath, and then, excusing himself from Myrna, he approached his father-in-law.
/> “I’m going to say good night to Honoré. Want to come? Gets us out of preparing dinner.”
“After dinner to avoid the dishes would be better,” said Armand, but he followed Jean-Guy to their room.
As he left, he noticed Annie taking Reine-Marie into the study and closing the door.
“Why didn’t you accept the job you were offered?” asked Jean-Guy, once in the bedroom with the door closed.
After calling Reine-Marie the day before, about his meeting with the Premier and the decision of the disciplinary committee, he’d called Jean-Guy. And told him he’d been asked to resign as Chief Superintendent.
Which he’d done. He’d had the letter prepared and in his breast pocket.
“You told me about resigning,” said Jean-Guy in a whisper so as not to wake up his son. “But you didn’t tell me you were offered your old job back. As head of homicide.”
“True,” said Gamache. “It was academic. I was never going to accept.”
“Because of Lacoste?”
“Non. I made it a condition of my resignation that Isabelle was offered the post of Superintendent in charge of Serious Crimes. It’ll be held for her until she’s ready. Did you know they’ve started the paperwork to foster the little girl?”
“No, I hadn’t heard. That’s terrific.”
Beauvoir sat on the side of the bed and looked at the crib where Honoré was sound asleep. He gave a deep sigh.
“I hope she accepts,” said Armand, joining him. “The Sûreté needs her.”
“It needs you, patron. So if not because of Isabelle, then why turn down Chief Inspector of Homicide? Ego?”
Gamache laughed and tapped Beauvoir’s knee. “You know me better than that, old son.”
“Then why?”
“You know why. It’s your job. Your department. You’re more than ready. You’re Chief Inspector Beauvoir, the head of Homicide for the Sûreté. And I couldn’t be more pleased.” His smile faded, and he looked serious. “Or proud.”
“Take the job.”
“Why?” asked Armand, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Jean-Guy.
“Because I’m leaving.”
He saw his signature, scribbled quickly before he could change his mind, on the papers that had been pushed across the polished desk.
“I’ve accepted a position with GHS Engineering. As their Head of Strategic Planning.”
There was a long silence finally broken by, “I see.”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner but couldn’t find the right time.”
“No, no. I understand. I really do, Jean-Guy. You have a family, and it comes first.”
“It’s more than that. These last few years have been brutal, patron. And then to be suspended and investigated by our own people? It was just too much. I love my job, but I’m tired. I’m tired of death. Of killing.”
They sat quietly, looking at the sleeping child. Hearing his soft breathing. Inhaling the scent of Honoré.
“Time to live,” said Armand. “You’ve done more than anyone could ever ask. More than I could ever ask or expect. You’re doing the right thing. Look at me.”
Jean-Guy dragged his eyes from the crib to look at Armand. And he saw a smile that started at his mouth and coursed along the laugh lines. Up to the deep brown eyes.
“I’m happy for you. This is wonderful news.”
And Jean-Guy could see there was genuine happiness there. “One more thing,” he said.
“Oui?”
“The job’s in Paris.”
“Ahhh,” said Armand.
* * *
“So that’s the famous picture,” said Stephen, taking a seat beside Ruth and gesturing toward Clara’s painting.
“No, that’s of the Three Graces,” said Ruth. “The one the Baroness had is of me.”
“The Virgin Mary,” said Clara.
“The Virgin Mary as me,” said Ruth.
“Other way around,” said Clara.
“There you are,” said Gabri as Jean-Guy returned. “Our little boy learned any new words? ‘Merde’? ‘Tabernac’?”
“No, he’s sleeping. Papa’s just tucking him in,” said Jean-Guy, serving a portion of stew and creamy mashed potatoes and handing it to Annie.
“And Mama’s gone to help,” said Annie, taking it and catching his eye.
* * *
“You okay?” Armand asked Reine-Marie.
She’d closed the door behind her and put a hand on Armand’s back as he held the sleeping infant.
It was a good thing, thought Armand, putting his face close to the child’s head and inhaling, that the scent was uniquely Honoré. If he ever came across it unexpectedly—on a walk, in a restaurant, from a passing infant—he’d be overwhelmed with the grief he felt now.
And yet there was happiness there too.
It was wonderful and terrible. Joyous and devastating.
And there was relief.
Jean-Guy was out. He was safe. And so were Annie and Honoré. Safe and far away.
He handed Honoréto his grandmother, then put his arms around them both, smelling again the scent of the child mixing with the subtle perfume of old garden roses. He closed his eyes and thought, Croissants. The first log fire in autumn. The scent of fresh-cut grass. Croissants.
But it would take a very long list of things he loved to overcome this.
Reine-Marie held her grandson and breathed in the scent of Honoré and sandalwood. And felt Armand’s embrace and the very slight tremble of his right hand.
She never thought Paris would break their hearts.
* * *
After dinner Stephen took Armand aside.
“I have some news for you.”
“But first I want to thank you. Jean-Guy’s accepted the job,” said Armand. “And he’ll be good at it. Strategic planning’s what he’s been doing for years at the Sûreté.”
“Only now no one will be shooting at him,” said Stephen.
“Exactly. But he must never know it came from you or me.”
“I’m a cipher.”
“You didn’t tell me the job was in Paris.”
“Would it have mattered?”
Armand considered for a moment before answering. “Non. It just would’ve been nice to have warning.”
“Désolé. I should have told you.”
“What’s your news?”
“Remember I told you that I had an idea and would do some digging around about that will thing?”
“I do remember, but you don’t need to anymore. It’s been decided in favor of the Baumgartners.”
“Yes, I heard. I asked colleagues in Vienna to look into it. That Shlomo Kinderoth was a piece of work. He must’ve known the trouble it would cause, leaving the estate to both sons.”
“Maybe he just couldn’t decide,” said Armand.
“Or maybe he was a numbskull. A hundred and sixty years of acrimony. My people tell me there’s no money left. What didn’t go in legal fees was stolen by the Nazis.”
Armand shook his head. “Not a surprise, but tragic.”
“Yes, well, there’s more. Besides the money the Baroness left a large building in the center of Vienna.”
“Yes.”
“But, unlike the money, that building is real. It’s still there and actually did once belong to the family. She wasn’t totally delusional. It’s now the head office of an international bank.”
Armand nodded, but Stephen kept looking at him. Waiting for more.
“What is it?” Armand asked.
“The Nazis. There’s reparation, Armand. The Austrian government is paying billions to families who can prove that the Nazis took their property. There’s clear title.”
“What’re you saying?”
“That building’s worth tens of millions. Maybe more. If the Baumgartners and Kinderoths can get together and file a joint claim, the money will be theirs.”
“My God,” said Armand. He was silent for a moment, thinking of the young cou
ple in the basement apartment. “My God.”
* * *
After dinner Ruth invited Stephen back to her place.
“To look at her prints,” said Stephen with a gleam in his eye and a duck under his arm.
“Don’t be late,” said Armand. “I’ll be waiting up.”
“Don’t,” said Ruth.
Myrna had left with Clara.
“Nightcap?” asked Clara at the door to the bistro.
“No, I can’t.”
Clara was about to ask why not when she saw why not.
Billy Williams, all scrubbed and shaved and in nice clothes, was sitting by the fire. Two glasses of red wine and a pink tulip on the table in front of him.
“I see,” said Clara.
After giving her friend a hug, she walked back to her home. Smiling and humming.
Pausing at the door, Myrna tilted her head back and looked up into the night sky. At all the dots of light shining down on her.
Then Myrna stepped forward.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A funny thing happenned on my way to not writing this book.
The truth is, I've known since I began writing Still Life that if Michael died, I couldn't continue with the series. Not simply because he was the inspiration for Gamache, and it would be too painful, but because he's imbued every aspect of the books. The writing, the promotion, the conferences, the travel, the tours. He was the first to read a new book, and the last to criticize. Always telling me it was great, even when the first draft was quite clearly merde.
We were truly partners.
How could I go on when half of me was missing? I could barely get out of bed.
I told my agent and publishers that I was taking a year off. That might have been a lie. In my heart I knew I could never write Gamache again. (And, sadly, would have to give back the next advance.)
But then, a few months later, I found myself sitting at the long pine dining table, where I always wrote. Laptop open.
And I wrote two words: Armand Gamache
Then the next day I wrote: slowed his car to a crawl
And the next day: then stopped on the snow-covered secondary road.
Kingdom of the Blind was begun. Not with sadness. Not because I had to, but with joy. Because I wanted to.
* * *
My heart was light. Even as I wrote about some very dark themes, it was with gladness. With relief. That I get to keep doing this.