Glass Houses

CHAPTER 6

“Who else have you told about your cobrador theory?” Armand asked Matheo.

It was early afternoon and the visitors had invited some of the villagers to the B&B for tea. Gamache had taken the journalist into a corner where they could have a quiet word.

“No one. I wanted to run it by you first.”

“Bon. Please keep it that way.”

“Why?”

“No real reason. I just like to confirm things before rumors get out of control.”

“It is confirmed,” said Matheo, getting slightly annoyed. “I told you.”

“Unfortunately, monsieur, your word alone, like mine alone, still needs to be verified.”

“And how do you do that?”

“One of my agents is looking into what you told us. I scanned the photograph to him. We’ll have the confirmation soon. Then we can talk about it.”

“Fine.”

“Merci.”

“Hurry up,” called Ruth from the sofa. “I’m dry.”

“You haven’t been dry since 1968,” said Gabri, who was pouring her scotch into a fine bone china teacup.

“Nixon’s election,” said Ruth. “Very sobering.”

“Have you noticed that the thing now has birds all over it?” asked Clara.

“Looks like a statue,” said Reine-Marie.

“Hope they shit on it,” said Matheo.

With the birds perching on its head and shoulders, the robed figure should have been comical, and yet the sparrows simply added to the sense of the macabre. He looked like a black marble statue in a cemetery.

“You okay?” Reine-Marie asked.

Like everyone else, Armand was staring at the figure on the green. He’d gone into a sort of trance.

“I just had the oddest feeling,” he whispered. “For a moment I wondered if we had it all wrong, and he wasn’t here to hurt, but to help.”

“You’re not the first to think the cobrador’s heroic,” said Matheo, who was standing beside them and had heard. “A sort of Robin Hood. Righting a wrong. But that”—he inclined his head toward the window—“is something else. You can almost smell the rot.”

“That’s manure,” said Gabri, refreshing Matheo’s wine. “Monsieur Legault is spreading it on his fields.” He took a deep, satisfied breath and exhaled. “Ahhhh. Smells like shit. What did you call it? A cobrador?”

“It’s just a word,” said Matheo. “A nickname.”

He walked away before Gabri could question him further.

“He gave the thing a nickname?” Gabri asked the Gamaches.

Armand shrugged and watched Matheo, now chatting with Clara. And wondered if Matheo had called it a cobrador, in front of Gabri of all people, on purpose. Right after Gamache had asked him to keep it quiet.

Was it an honest mistake? Willful? Strategic?

“Where’s Katie?” asked Myrna.

“She was here a few minutes ago,” said Patrick, looking around.

“She said she was heading to the microbrewery in Sutton to get more beer,” said Lea, raising her glass. “Proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. Benjamin Franklin.”

Gamache watched Lea Roux and wondered if one day in the not-too-distant future he’d be working for her. The next Première Ministre du Québec.

Gabri, following Ruth with the scotch bottle like some Victorian retainer, said, “I hate beer. Won’t have it in the house. Brings the whole tone down.”

“And the duck doesn’t?” asked Patrick, eyeing Rosa.

“We make exceptions,” said Gabri. “Both the duck and the fuck are family.”

“Actually, we like having Ruth and Rosa around. They make the rest of us look sane,” Clara explained.

“Well…” said Lea.

“Glass houses,” said Ruth, clutching Rosa to her and glaring at Lea.

She absently laid a veined hand on Rosa’s wings, folded tight to her back. Like a very small archangel. Rosa was nothing if not arch.

Lea took a breath and smiled. “Quite right. My apologies.”

“And you are quite wrong.”

“Sorry?”

“Benjamin Franklin didn’t say that about beer,” said Ruth.

“Who did?” asked Myrna.

“Franklin,” said Ruth.

“But you just said—” Patrick began.

“It’s not about beer,” said Ruth. “He was writing to a friend about wine. The quote got hijacked by people who felt it was better to paint the intellectual and diplomat as a man of the people. A lover of beer, rather than wine. Such is politics, non?” She turned back to Lea. “Illusion.”

“You got that right,” said Lea, and toasted the elderly woman with her beer.

But there was no amusement in her eyes anymore.

Yes, thought Gamache, holding the scotch Gabri had poured him, but not drinking it, there was definitely more here than, well, met the eye.

“Does he look familiar?” asked Reine-Marie.

No one had to ask who she meant.

“Well, he’s been standing there for more than a day now, so yes, he does,” said Clara.

“No, look again.”

In silence they contemplated the robed figure standing alone on the gray November day.

The quiet seemed to extend beyond the room. Beyond the B&B. Into the entire village. It was as though the bell jar was growing. Taking over more and more of Three Pines.

Two days earlier, children had been playing, laughing and shouting on the village green. Now there was nothing. No commotion. No motion. Not even the birds on its shoulders moved. It was as though in touching the thing, they’d turned to stone.

“He looks like Saint Francis of Assisi,” said Clara.

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Reine-Marie. “All those birds.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” said Lea. “That’s no saint.”

“Did you ask the Archangel Michael about our visitor?” Gamache asked.

Reine-Marie turned to him, surprised by the question. And yet curious to hear the answer.

No one believed an archangel actually visited the mad old poet. Not really. They didn’t even believe she believed it. Not really.

But they were curious.

“I did.”

“And?”

Just then a car appeared at the top of the hill into Three Pines.

“Must be Katie,” said Patrick. “Nope. Not our car.”

The vehicle stopped level with the creature. The stone birds took flight, but the robed figure did not.

Finally, the car moved forward.

It was Jean-Guy, bringing news.

“What had Inspector Beauvoir found out?” asked the Crown attorney.

It was nearing the end of the day and he was pushing, hurrying the Chief Superintendent along. Wanting to get this piece of information in before the judge broke for the day.

Wanting to leave the men and women of the jury with this as the last thing planted in their heads, before they headed to the terrasses and brasseries for a beer on this hot summer afternoon.

The Crown nodded to the clerk. “Exhibit A again, s’il vous plaît.”

And up came the village and the dark mark in the middle. This time, instead of silence, or that long sigh, there was a murmur of recognition, of excitement even.

Their shock had turned to familiarity, titillation. The alarm was gone. They felt almost comfortable with it, and proud of themselves for adjusting to so odd a sight.

Of course, it was just a picture. Not the real thing.

And their bravado was false. Not the real thing.

It was a mistake, Gamache knew, and suspected they did too, to get comfortable with such a creature. Even in a photograph.

“So?” the Crown prodded Gamache forward.

But while Gamache agreed with the strategy to hurry, he knew from years of testifying in this high court that it was a terrible mistake to rush along and leave questions unanswered. Leave loopholes for the defense to tear wide, through which a guilty person could escape.

Now Armand Gamache found himself performing that high-wire act of clarity and speed.

And there were things even the Crown didn’t know. And must not find out.

“Inspector Beauvoir had spent his Saturday researching the cobrador del frac. When he had what he considered enough information, he drove down.”

“But why drive down? Why not just call or email?”

“He wanted to see the thing for himself. To be sure. He was going on just the photograph I’d sent. He needed to see it in person.”

What Gamache didn’t say was that Jean-Guy also felt the need to give him the information face-to-face. To judge the reaction.

“And?”

“How much do you know, patron?” Beauvoir asked.

They sat in the living room of the Gamaches’ home in Three Pines. Jean-Guy, Reine-Marie and himself.

“Just what Bissonette told us, and I passed along to you,” said Armand. “The cobrador del frac.”

“The debt collector,” said Beauvoir. “Oui. But not the original.”

He put aside his hot chocolate and brought a file folder from his satchel. From the file he withdrew a few pages, mostly photographs, and spread them on the coffee table, reorganizing them slightly, so that he looked like a street shill playing a shell game.

When he finished, there was a fan of photos in front of the Gamaches.

“This”—Beauvoir picked up the outlier—“is a cobrador del frac.”

It showed the now familiar image of a man in top hat and tails. White gloves. Briefcase. With Cobrador del Frac writ large.

“But this’s what I want to show you,” said Jean-Guy.

He moved the first photo in his lineup closer to Gamache.

“This is from 1841. A village in the Pyrenees. It’s one of the earliest surviving photographs. A daguerreotype.”

The image was gray, blurry. It showed a narrow cobbled street winding between rugged stone buildings. Off in the distance it was possible to make out mountains.

“The people and animals don’t show up,” Beauvoir explained. “The film had to be exposed for ten minutes. Anything that moved in that time disappeared.”

Armand put on his glasses and leaned over the photograph. He grew even more still. Had Monsieur Daguerre photographed him, Armand Gamache would have shown up.

And then he looked up, over his glasses, at Jean-Guy.

And Beauvoir nodded.

“It’s called a cobrador,” said Jean-Guy, almost in a whisper. “The del frac was added much later by some clever marketer. But this is the real thing. The original.”

Reine-Marie leaned in. She could see the buildings, the street, the landscape beyond. But nothing else. Her eyes scanned, moving quickly over the photograph.

Only when she slowed down did she see it.

It came to her, emerging from the image. Slowly. Resolving. Becoming clearer and clearer.

Darker and darker.

Until it was unmistakable.

There, against one of the walls, stood a man. So still that an exposure of ten minutes or more had captured him. And only him.

All other living things, the horses, dogs, cats, people, had disappeared, as though they’d abandoned their village. Leaving just the thing in the dark cape and hood, with the black expressionless face.

It looked like one of those horrific images from the bombing of Hiroshima, where people were vaporized, but their essence was seared onto a wall. A permanent shadow. But no longer a human.

There, in this small Spanish village, a shadow stood. There was no anger, or sorrow, no joy, or pity, or triumph. No judging. The judgment had already been passed.

A collector. There to collect.

“It was only recently, when an exhibition in Paris was being put together of Louis Daguerre’s work, that someone noticed the image,” said Beauvoir. “This one”—he pointed to the next photograph, somewhat clearer—“is from the 1920s, and this”—he picked up the next one—“is from 1945. The week after the war in Europe ended.”

It showed the robed figure standing in front of a middle-aged man, who was vehemently protesting while others looked on.

“The man was dragged away and hanged as a collaborator,” said Jean-Guy. “He’d informed on friends and neighbors. Offering hiding places to Jews, then turned them in in exchange for favors from the Nazis.”

Looking at the terror in the man’s face, his hollow, unshaven cheeks, pleading eyes, his wild hair and disheveled clothes, it was hard not to feel some sympathy for him. Until they thought of his victims. The men and women, boys and girls, who’d gone to their deaths. Because of him.

The cobrador had found him. And followed him. Hounding him. To his death.

“Did the cobrador hang him?” asked Reine-Marie.

“No. He just pointed the finger,” said Jean-Guy. “The others did the rest.”

A crooked finger, thought Gamache. Maybe Ruth was right.

“There was an uptick in cobrador sightings in Spain after the war,” said Jean-Guy. “And then nothing for a long time.”

“Matheo said when he did his research he couldn’t find anyone who’d actually seen one of the original cobradors,” said Armand. “And he didn’t find these photos.”

“He probably wasn’t looking very hard,” said Reine-Marie. “In my experience in the national archives, freelance journalists have tight schedules and are very focused. His article was on the modern cobrador del frac. Not the old one.”

“That’s probably it,” said Armand.

“But there have been some more recent sightings,” said Beauvoir. “Of the original.”

“Like here,” said Reine-Marie.

The Old World cobrador had crossed into the New World. Into their world. And they could almost smell the decay. The rot. Though Gamache was beginning to wonder if the smell wasn’t from the cobrador at all. But someone else. Nearby. Whoever the creature had come for.

“So all this started back in the 1800s,” said Reine-Marie, looking again at the daguerreotype. “I wonder why.”

“Non,” said Beauvoir. “Non, non, non. Not the 1800s but the 1300s.”

“Seven hundred years ago?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Yes. You must have an atlas.”

Armand went to one of the shelves in the living room and brought back a large book.

“There’s an island off the coast of Spain, between Spain and Morocco,” said Beauvoir, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “It was called Cobrador.”

Gamache leaned in. “But it doesn’t say Cobrador.”

“No, the name’s been changed. But that was the name back then. It’s where plague victims were sent. And not just plague, but lepers, the insane, babies who were born with deformities. Those suspected of being witches were taken there by the Inquisition. Being put on La Isla del Cobrador was considered worse than being burned at the stake. At least that only lasted a few minutes. These people were damned by the Church for eternity. And this”—Jean-Guy tapped the island in the atlas—“was hell.”

Gamache’s brows drew together. “Except—”

Jean-Guy nodded. “Except not everyone read the fine print. Inconveniently, they didn’t all die. The Church and the authorities assumed either the plague would kill them or they’d kill each other. There was some of that, of course. But then something happened. It started with the women. Some of them began caring for the babies. Nursing them to health. Raising them.”

“The witches performed a mitzvah,” said Armand.

“That would drive the Inquisition crazy,” said Reine-Marie.

“The infighting stopped and they began helping each other,” said Jean-Guy. “They built homes, planted crops. Away from the shit-hole cities, many of the plague victims recovered.”

“Remarkable,” said Gamache. “Beautiful, really. In its own way. But what does that have to do with the cobrador?”

He gestured outside.

It had been there for almost forty-eight hours, and the villagers, far from growing used to it, were growing more and more stressed. Nerves had begun to fray. Arguments were breaking out. Quarrels between long-standing friends could be heard in the bistro. Over trivial matters.

The short tempers could have been blamed on the fact that they hadn’t seen the sun in days. Felt like weeks. Felt like forever. The November skies remained cloudy. Occasionally dropping rain, sleet. That seemed to seep right through clothing, skin, and pool in the bones.

But the core of the problem stood on the dying grass of the village green.

A long, long way from an island in fourteenth-century Spain. A long way from home.

The bell jar had expanded again, the cobrador’s world was swelling, his dominion growing, while theirs seemed to be collapsing into itself.

Armand was wondering how much longer they had before something terrible happened.

“Some of those who were strong enough returned to the mainland,” said Jean-Guy. “But they were disfigured by disease, so they wore masks and gloves. And long cloaks with hoods.”

“Why return?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Revenge,” said Gamache. It was, he knew, a powerful force. Often overwhelming good sense.

“That’s what I thought too,” said Jean-Guy, turning to him. “But no. They went looking for the people who banished them. Damned them. Mostly priests, senior church officials. Magistrates. Even princes. But incredibly, when they found them, they did nothing. Just followed them. Which, of course, turned out to be quite something.”

“What happened?” Gamache asked.

“I think you know. I think they knew,” said Beauvoir. He didn’t need to consult his research. He doubted he’d ever forget what he’d read. “The first ones were beaten to death by mobs, who believed they were the embodiment of the Black Death. But as one died, another appeared. Little by little, the mobs noticed that the guys in the black robes and masks weren’t doing harm. There was even, it seems, a sort of dignity about them. Even when they knew they were going to die, they just stood still. They didn’t try to defend themselves. They didn’t fight back. They just kept staring at the person they were following until they were beaten to the ground.”

Gamache shifted in his seat and glanced over his shoulder, toward the village green.

Such devotion to a cause was admirable. But it was also, perhaps, insane.

“The priests and authorities couldn’t allow this to continue,” said Beauvoir. “They figured out who these people were, and where they came from. Soldiers were sent to La Isla del Cobrador, and every man, woman and child was slaughtered.”

Gamache inhaled sharply. Even from a distance, over time and territory, he could feel the outrage, the pain.

“When the population heard about that, there was a shit storm,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache glanced down at the printouts, fairly certain “shit storm” was not how it was described there.

“The robed figures became part of the mythology,” said Jean-Guy. “They were called cobradors, after the island. But it was a sideshow to all the other crap happening in Europe at the time. The cobradors were quickly forgotten.”

“But they didn’t disappear completely,” said Reine-Marie.

“Non. It seems not everyone from La Isla del Cobrador was killed. Some escaped. The theory was that they were helped by soldiers who couldn’t bring themselves to follow orders. Every now and then one would be spotted, mostly in the mountain villages.”

“And they continued to follow people who had done something terrible?” asked Gamache. “Something for which they had not been held accountable?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“And that’s how cobrador became debt collector.”

“No, that’s just it. That’s a modern interpretation. Cobrador translates, literally, into ‘collector.’ And there is that about them. The debt. But in the villages, they became known as something else. A conscience.”

The courtroom clock ticked past five.

All other cases had been adjourned for the day. They could hear footsteps in the hallway and voices murmuring and occasionally calling. Barristers who’d been pounding away at each other minutes before in court now invited each other for drinks on the terrasse of the nearby brasserie.

Inside Judge Corriveau’s courtroom, the atmosphere was close. The heat stifling. Everyone yearned to get out into the fresh air and sunshine. Get away from both the atmosphere and the increasingly claustrophobic story.

But there was one more question to be asked and answered.

“Chief Superintendent Gamache,” said the Crown. For once he didn’t sound self-important or pompous. For the first time all day he wasn’t preening or acting. His voice was quiet, grave. “From what Inspector Beauvoir found out about the cobrador, did you come to any conclusion?”

“I did.”

“And what was that?”

“That someone in the village had done something so horrific that a conscience had been called.”