A Great Reckoning

CHAPTER 31

“Bonjour,” said Lacoste, when she arrived at the cadets’ table.

All four stood up. She introduced herself to those who hadn’t yet met her.

“I’m Chief Inspector Lacoste. I’m leading the investigation into the murder of Serge Leduc.”

For Amelia, it was like watching a play. A replay.

There was the head of homicide, petite, contained, in slacks and sweater and silk scarf, with three large men standing respectfully behind her.

“This is Deputy Commissioner Gélinas, of the RCMP,” said Lacoste, and Gélinas nodded to the cadets. “And you know Commander Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir.”

Four senior officers. Four cadets. Like before-and-after shots.

Olivier had dragged another table over, and they sat, the investigators fanned at one end and the cadets at the other. Regarding each other.

“What did you find out about the map?” Commander Gamache asked.

“Nothing,” said Jacques.

“That’s not true,” said Nathaniel. “We found out a lot.”

“Just none of it very useful.” This time no one contradicted him.

They described what they’d found out about the mapmaker, Antony Turcotte. As they spoke, they looked down at a copy of the map he’d made, sitting not far from the wall where it had been hidden for almost a hundred years.

It still had the red stain from the strawberry jelly. And a dusting of icing sugar. So that it looked like a drop of blood on snow.

“You’ve done well,” said Lacoste, and meant it. “You found out who made it and confirmed it was probably an early orienteering map.”

“Maybe to train his son, knowing the war was coming,” said Beauvoir, and wondered how a father could do that. How would a father feel, seeing the war on the horizon?

What would I do? Jean-Guy wondered.

And he knew what he’d do. He’d either hide his child, or prepare him.

Jean-Guy looked down at the map and realized it wasn’t a map at all. At least, not of land. It mapped a man’s love of his child.

“But there’s a problem,” said Huifen.

“There always is,” said Commander Gamache.

“There’s no record of him ever owning this place. Or any place.”

“Maybe he rented,” said Beauvoir.

“Maybe,” said Jacques. “But we couldn’t find Antony Turcotte anywhere. In any of the records.”

“There’s a mention in The Canadian Encyclopedia,” said Amelia, her voice eager for the first time since Gamache had known her. She handed the photocopied sheet to Lacoste.

“Merci,” said Lacoste, and examined it before passing it along to the others. “According to this, Monsieur Turcotte eventually moved to a village called Roof Trusses and was buried there.”

“Roof Trusses?” the other officers said together.

“What did they say?” demanded Ruth.

“I must’ve misheard,” said Gabri. “It sounded like Roof Trusses.”

“Oh yes, I know it,” said Ruth. “Just down the road a few kilometers.”

“Of course,” said Gabri. “Not far from Asphalt Shingles.”

“Ignore him,” said Olivier. “He just likes saying asphalt.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” Clara turned to Myrna and Reine-Marie, both of whom shook their heads.

“That’s because only old Anglos still call it Roof Trusses,” said Ruth. “The Commission de toponymie changed its name a long time ago to Notre-Dame-de-Doleur.”

“Our Lady of Pain?” asked Myrna. “Are you kidding? Who calls a village that?”

“Pain,” said Reine-Marie. “Or maybe grief.”

Our Lady of Grief.

It was not much better.

“Jesus,” said Gabri. “Can you imagine the tourist posters?”

“Roof Trusses?” asked Beauvoir. “Who calls a village that?”

“Apparently Antony Turcotte,” said Huifen. “His one big mistake when mapping and naming the area.”

She explained.

“Have you been there?” Gamache asked.

There was silence, none of the cadets wanting to be the one to speak.

“The toponymie man said the village died out,” said Huifen.

“Might still be worth a visit,” said Lacoste. “Just to see.”

“See what?” asked Jacques, and was treated to one of her withering looks.

“We don’t know, do we? Isn’t that the point of an investigation? To investigate.”

Amelia was nodding as though hearing the wisdom of ages.

“If Turcotte made this for his son”—Gamache touched the edges of the map—“that would mean the soldier’s name was also Turcotte.”

“That’s another problem,” admitted Huifen. “None of the names on the memorial list is Turcotte.”

“Maybe he survived,” said Nathaniel. After all this time staring at the young soldier, Nathaniel had grown to care. The boy would be dead now, of course. But maybe of old age, and in his bed.

“Do you think so?” asked Amelia, speaking to Chief Inspector Lacoste.

“Do you?” Lacoste asked her.

Amelia shook her head, slowly. “Whoever he was, he didn’t come home.”

“What makes you say that?”

“His face,” said Amelia. “No one with that expression would have survived.”

“Maybe he never existed. He might be a composite of all the young men who were killed,” said Beauvoir.

“The stained-glass version of the Unknown Soldier,” said Gamache, and considered. “Made to represent all the suffering. Perhaps. But he seems so real. So alive. I think he did exist. Briefly.”

“What’re they saying now?” demanded Ruth.

“The stained-glass soldier,” said Reine-Maire. “They think his name might’ve been Turcotte.”

Ruth shook her head. “Saint-Cyr, Soucy, Turner. No Turcotte on the wall.”

“He’s there somewhere,” said Gamache. “One of the names matches that boy.”

Once again, Huifen pulled out her phone and displayed the photograph they’d taken of the list of names.

They all leaned forward, reading. As though the lost boy might make himself known.

“He’s there somewhere,” said Ruth. “Maybe not Turcotte, but one of them. Etienne Adair, Teddy Adams, Marc Beaulieu…”

They Were Our Children, Jean-Guy thought.

“Bert Marshall, Denis Perron, Giddy Poirier…”

“We’re going to need to speak with each of you,” said Gélinas. “Alone. Beginning, I think, with you.”

He turned to Amelia.

“Joe Valois, Norm Valois, Pierre Valois.”

They listened to Ruth. It was one thing to read the names etched into the wood, and another to hear them out loud. The old poet’s voice like the tolling of a bell. As they searched for the one boy, among the dead.

“There’s a private room just through there,” said Gamache, getting to his feet with the others.

“Merci,” said Gélinas. “But I don’t think we need you, Commander.”

“I’m sorry?” said Gamache.

“We can take it from here.”

“I’m sure you can, but I’d like to be present when you interview the cadets.”

The students, as well as Lacoste and Beauvoir, looked from Gamache to Gélinas as the two men faced each other. Each with a pleasant look hardening to his face.

“I insist,” said Gamache.

“On what grounds?”

“In loco parentis,” said Gamache.

“What did he say?” asked Ruth.

Around them the murmur of conversation continued, interrupted by the occasional burst of laughter.

“I think he said he was crazy,” said Clara. “Loco.”

“In parentheses,” said Gabri.

“Why parentheses?” asked Ruth.

“In loco parentis,” said Reine-Marie. “Standing in place of the parent.”

“You’re standing in for her parents?” asked Gélinas, half amused, half disbelieving. “Standing in for her father?”

“For all their parents,” said Gamache. “The students have been entrusted to my care.”

“I’m not a child,” snapped Amelia.

“I don’t mean to be patronizing—”

“That’s exactly what you mean to be,” said Amelia. “That’s what in loco parentis means.”

“We can contact her father, if you like, Commander,” said Gélinas. “If that would make you happy. We can probably have him here within the hour.”

“No,” said Amelia, and while Gamache didn’t speak he looked startled. For an instant. As though slapped.

Reine-Marie, across the room, noticed and wondered if anyone else had.

“Don’t be angry at Monsieur Gamache,” Gélinas said to Amelia. “He can’t help it. I suspect he has an overdeveloped sense of protection because of his own experience. He doesn’t want anyone to suffer as he did.”

“What do you mean?” asked Huifen.

“That’s enough, Commissioner,” warned Gamache.

“His parents were killed by a drunk driver when he was a child. The driver would’ve been just a little younger than you at the time,” he said to the students. “How old were you?” he asked Gamache, who was staring at him, barely containing his outrage. “Eight, nine?”

“Why would you bring that up?” demanded Beauvoir. “It has nothing to do with this.”

“Really?” asked Gélinas, and stared, in heavy silence, at Gamache before going on. “At the very least, the cadets need to understand that we all have burdens, don’t you agree, Commander? Some so weighty we carry them our whole lives. They can blight our very existence, or they can make us stronger. They can make us bitter or teach us compassion. They can drive us to do things we never thought ourselves capable of. Wonderful achievements, like becoming Chief Inspector and Commander. Or horrific things. Terrible dark deeds. Maybe Michel Brébeuf isn’t the only object lesson. Maybe they can learn from you too, Monsieur Gamache.”

Now the entire bistro was watching and listening.

“A discomfort of cadets,” said Ruth.

And she was right. But the students weren’t the only ones squirming. The whole bistro twisted in their seats while Gamache himself stood perfectly still.

“You see,” Paul Gélinas turned to the cadets, “you aren’t the only ones with unhappy childhoods. Some are beaten. Some are bullied. Some are ignored. And some wait at home for a mother and father who will never return.”

He considered Gamache, like a specimen.

“Imagine what that does to a child. And yet he rose above it.” He returned his attention to the students. “And you can too.”

Reine-Marie stood up and went to her husband, taking his hand.

“That is enough, monsieur,” she said to Gélinas.

“Madame,” the RCMP officer bowed slightly. “I meant no harm. But it’s important that these students understand that their burden is shared by everyone and can’t be used as an excuse for their own brutality.”

“He’s right,” said Armand, his voice bitterly cold. “We all make choices.”

He spoke directly to Gélinas, who shifted his shoulders, as though some tiny, sharp object had just been inserted between his blades.

“Bon,” said Gélinas, decisively. “This is an active police investigation. Chief Inspector Lacoste has been very kind to include you so far—”

“And I see no reason to exclude Commander Gamache now,” said Lacoste.

“Well, I do. Speaking as the independent observer, I think it’s now time for him to step aside. Had he been anyone else, he would never have been this involved. We must treat Monsieur Gamache as we would any other suspect.”

“Suspect?” asked Reine-Marie, and there was a murmur of surprise in the bistro.

“Well, yes, of course,” said Gélinas. “Your husband isn’t above the law or above suspicion.”

“It’s all right,” said Armand, squeezing her hand. “Once again, Deputy Commissioner Gélinas is correct.”

He took a small step back, away from Gélinas. Away from the cadets. Away from Lacoste and Beauvoir.

At the door to the private room, Beauvoir turned to see Gamache staring after them. No, not them, Jean-Guy realized.

He was staring at Amelia Choquet.

Beauvoir glanced at Reine-Marie, who was also watching her husband.

Perplexed.

Beauvoir followed Amelia with his eyes as she walked past him into the room. And wondered just what her relationship was with the Commander, that Gamache would look at her in such a way.

He had an idea. An unwanted one. An unworthy one.

Beauvoir closed the door, shutting out the man and the thought.

But the gate had been opened and the traitor thought had slipped in.

In loco parentis. But was it really in place of?