How the Light Gets In

TEN

A tap on the door awakened Gamache at six thirty the next morning.

“Merci, patron,” he called, then threw off the duvet and went gingerly across the cold room to shut the window.

After showering, he and Henri headed downstairs, following the scent of strong coffee and maple-smoked bacon. A fire popped and leapt in the grate.

“One egg or two, patron?” called Gabri.

Gamache looked into the kitchen. “Two eggs, please. Thank you for the sandwiches last night.” He put the empty plates and mug in the sink. “They were delicious.”

“Slept well?” Gabri asked, looking up from pushing the bacon around the skillet.

“Very.”

And he had. It had been a deep and restful sleep, his first in a very long time.

“Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” said Gabri.

“I’ll be back by then.”

At the front door he met Olivier and the two men embraced.

“I heard you were here,” said Olivier, as they bent to put on their boots.

Straightening up, Olivier paused. “Gabri told me about Constance. What a terrible thing. Heart?”

When Gamache didn’t respond, Olivier’s eyes slowly widened, trying to take in the enormity of what he saw in the Chief’s somber face.

“It’s not possible,” he whispered. “Someone killed her?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“My God.” Olivier shook his head. “Fucking city.”

“Glass houses, monsieur?” asked Gamache.

Olivier pursed his lips and followed Gamache onto the front porch, where the Chief clipped Henri onto his leash. They were approaching the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The sun wasn’t yet up, but villagers were beginning to stir. Even as the two men and the dog stood there, lights appeared at windows around the green and there was a faint scent of wood smoke in the air.

They walked together toward the bistro, where Olivier would prepare for the breakfast crowd.

“How?” Olivier asked.

“She was attacked in her home. Hit on the head.”

Even in the dark, Gamache could see his companion grimace. “Why would anyone do that?”

And that, of course, was the question, thought Gamache.

Sometimes it was “how,” almost always it was “who.” But the question that haunted every investigation was “why.”

Why had someone killed this seventy-seven-year-old woman? And had they killed Constance Pineault, or Constance Ouellet? Did the murderer know she was one of the celebrated Ouellet Quints? And not just a Quint, but the last one?

Why?

“I don’t know,” Gamache admitted.

“Is it your case?”

Gamache nodded, his head dipping in rhythm with his steps.

They came to rest in front of the bistro and Olivier was about to say good-bye when the Chief reached out and touched his arm. Olivier looked down at the gloved hand, then up into the intense brown eyes.

Olivier waited.

Gamache lowered his hand. He was far from certain that what he was about to do was wise. Olivier’s handsome face was turning pink in the cold, and his breath was coming in long, easy puffs.

The Chief broke eye contact and concentrated on Henri, rolling in the snow, his feet thrashing in the air.

“Will you walk with me?”

Olivier was a little surprised, and more than a little guarded. It was rarely a good sign, in Olivier’s experience, when the head of homicide asked to speak privately.

The hard-packed snow of the road squeaked as they walked with a measured pace around the village green. A tall, substantial man and a shorter, slighter, younger man. Heads bent together, sharing confidences. Not about the murder, but about something else entirely.

They stopped in front of Emilie Longpré’s home. There was no smoke from the chimney. No light at the windows. But it was filled with memories of an elderly woman Gamache had greatly admired and Henri had loved. The two men looked at the house, and Gamache explained what he wanted.

“I understand, patron,” said Olivier after listening to the Chief’s request.

“Thank you. Can you keep this to yourself?”

“Of course.”

They parted, Olivier to open his bistro, Gamache and Henri for breakfast at the B and B.

A large bowl of café au lait was waiting for the Chief on the worn pine table in front of the fireplace. After feeding Henri and giving him fresh water, Gamache settled at the table, sipping his café and making notes. Henri lay at his feet but looked up when Gabri arrived.

“Voilà.” The innkeeper put a plate with two eggs, bacon, toasted English muffins, and fresh fruit on the table, then he made himself a café au lait and joined the Chief.

“Olivier called a few moments ago from the bistro,” said Gabri. “He told me that Constance had been killed. Is it true?”

Gamache nodded and took a sip of his own café. It was rich and strong. “Did he tell you anything else?” Gamache kept his voice light, but studied Gabri.

“He said she’d been at home.”

Gamache waited, but it seemed Olivier had kept the rest of their conversation secret, as he’d promised.

“It’s true,” said Gamache.

“But why?” Gabri reached for one of the toasted English muffins.

There it was again, thought Gamache. Like his partner, Gabri hadn’t asked who, but why.

Gamache, of course, could answer neither of those questions yet.

“What did you think of her?”

“She was only here a few days, you know,” said Gabri. Then he considered the question. Gamache waited, curious to hear the answer.

“When she arrived she was friendly but reserved,” said Gabri, finally. “She didn’t like gays, that was obvious.”

“And did you like her?”

“I did. Some people just haven’t met many queers, that’s their problem.”

“And once she had met you and Olivier?”

“Well, she didn’t exactly become a fag hag, but the next best thing.”

“Which is?”

Instead of a clever quip, Gabri grew serious. “She became very motherly, to both of us. To all of us, I think. Except Ruth.”

“And with Ruth, what was she like?”

“At first Ruth wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Hated Constance on sight. As you know, it’s a point of pride for Ruth, that she hates everyone. She and Rosa kept their distance and muttered obscenities from afar.”

“Ruth’s normal reaction, then,” said Gamache.

“I’m glad Rosa’s back,” Gabri confided in a whisper, then looked around in exaggerated concern. “But does she look a little like a flying monkey to you?”

“I wonder if we can stick to the point, Dorothy,” said Gamache.

“The funny thing is, after treating Constance like something Rosa pooped, Ruth suddenly warmed to her.”

“Ruth?”

“I know. I’d never seen anything like it. They even had dinner together one night, at Ruth’s home. Alone.”

“Ruth?” Gamache repeated.

Gabri put marmalade on his muffin and nodded. Gamache studied him, but Gabri didn’t seem to be hiding anything. And the Chief realized Gabri did not know who Constance was. If he did, he’d have said something by now.

“So as far as you can tell, nothing that happened here would explain her death?” asked Gamache.

“Nothing.”

Gamache finished his breakfast, with Gabri’s help, then he got up and called Henri.

“Should I keep your room for you?”

“Please.”

“And one for Inspector Beauvoir, of course. He’ll be joining you?”

“No, actually. He’s on another assignment.”

Gabri paused, then nodded. “Ahh.”

Neither man really knew what the “ahh” was supposed to mean.

Gamache wondered how long it would be before people stopped looking at him and seeing Beauvoir standing beside him. And how long would it be before he himself stopped expecting to see Jean-Guy there? It wasn’t the ache that was so difficult to bear, thought Gamache. It was the weight.

When the Chief Inspector and Henri arrived at the bistro, it was full with the breakfast rush, though “rush” might have been the wrong word. No one seemed in much of a hurry.

Many of the villagers were lingering over coffee, settling into seats by the fires with their morning papers, which came in a day late from Montréal. Some sat at the small round tables, eating French toast or crêpes or bacon and eggs.

The sun was just coming up on what would be a brilliant day.

As he walked through the door, all eyes turned to him. He was used to that. They would, of course, know about Constance. They knew she was missing, and now they’d know she was dead. Murdered.

The eyes that met his, as he scanned the open room, were curious, some pained, some searching, some simply inquisitive, as though he carried a sack of answers slung over his shoulder.

As he hung up his parka, Gamache noticed a few smiles. The villagers had recognized his companion, he of the ears. A returning son. And Henri recognized them, and greeted them with licks and wags and inappropriate sniffs as they walked through the bistro.

“Over here.”

Gamache saw Clara standing by a group of armchairs and a sofa. He returned the wave and threaded his way between tables. Olivier joined him there, a tea towel slung over his shoulder and a damp cloth in his hand. He wiped the table as the Chief greeted Myrna, Clara, and Ruth.

“Do you mind if Henri stays, or would you rather I leave him in the B and B?” Gamache asked.

Olivier looked over at Rosa. The duck was sitting in an armchair by the fire, a copy of the Montréal Gazette beneath her and La Presse slung over the arm, waiting to be read.

“I think it’ll be fine,” said Olivier.

Ruth whacked the seat beside her on the sofa, in what could only be interpreted as an invitation. It was like receiving a personalized Molotov cocktail.

Gamache sat.

“So, where’s Beauvoir?”

The Chief had forgotten that, against all odds and nature, Jean-Guy and Ruth had struck up a friendship. Or, at least, an understanding.

“He’s on another assignment.”

Ruth glared at the Chief and he held her eyes, calmly.

“Finally saw through you, did he?”

Gamache smiled. “Must have.”

“And your daughter? Is he still in love with her, or did he make a balls-up of that too?”

Gamache continued to hold the cold, old eyes.

“I’m happy to see Rosa back,” he said at last. “She looks well.”

Ruth looked from Gamache to the duck, then back to the Chief. Then she did something he’d rarely seen before. She relented.

“Thank you,” she said.

Armand took a deep breath. The bistro smelled of fresh pine and wood smoke and a hint of candy cane. A wreath hung over the mantel and a tree stood in the corner, decorated with mismatched Christmas ornaments and candies.

He turned to Myrna. “How’re you this morning?”

“Pretty awful,” she said with a small smile. And indeed, she looked as though she hadn’t had much sleep.

Clara reached out and held her friend’s hand.

“Inspector Lacoste will get all the hard evidence this morning from the Montréal police,” he told them. “I’ll drive into the city and we’ll go over the interviews. One main question is whether the person who killed Constance knew who she really was.”

“You mean, was it a stranger?” asked Olivier. “Or someone who targeted Constance on purpose?”

“That’s always a question,” admitted Gamache.

“Do you think they meant to kill her?” asked Clara. “Or was it a mistake? A robbery that got out of control?”

“Was there mens rea, a guilty mind, or was it an accident?” said Gamache. “Those are questions we’ll be asking.”

“Wait a minute,” said Gabri, who’d joined them, but been uncharacteristically quiet. “What did you mean, ‘who she really was’? Not ‘who she was,’ but ‘who she really was.’ What did you mean by that?”

Gabri looked from Gamache to Myrna, then back again.

“Who was she?”

The Chief Inspector sat forward, about to answer, then he looked over at Myrna, sitting quietly in her chair. He nodded. It was a secret Myrna had kept for decades. It was her secret to give up.

Myrna opened her mouth, but another voice, a querulous voice, spoke.

“She was Constance Ouellet, shithead.”