Kingdom of the Blind

CHAPTER 10

“Come in, come in,” said the neighbor, gesturing. “Get out of the cold.”

She was young, in her mid-thirties, Gamache guessed. Only slightly older than his own daughter, Annie. And she probably shouldn’t be letting complete strangers into her home.

But by the way she’d looked at him when she’d answered his knock, Gamache suspected he wasn’t a complete stranger. And that was confirmed a moment later when he took off his gloves and offered his hand as they crowded into her vestibule.

“Désolé,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you, especially on a day like this. My name is Armand Gamache. I live down the road, in Three Pines.”

“Yes, I know who you are. I’m Patricia Houle.”

She took his hand, then turned to Myrna. “I know you too. You run the bookstore.”

“I do. You’ve been in quite a few times. Nonfiction. Gardening books. But also biography.”

“That’s me.”

Lucien introduced himself, and then she turned to Benedict.

“Benedict Pouliot,” he said. “Builder.”

“Come in, get warm.”

They followed her into the heart of the home, the kitchen, where a large woodstove was throbbing out heat.

As with her home, there was nothing pretentious about Madame Houle. She seemed to be someone without need to impress, who, because of that, was impressive. Like her strong, simple home.

“I have a pot of tea on. Would you like a cup?”

“Not for me, thank you,” said Myrna. The others also declined.

“We won’t take much of your time,” said Armand. “We just have a couple of questions.”

“Oui?” asked Patricia.

“Did you know the woman who lived next door?” Myrna asked.

“The Baroness? Oh yes, though not well. Why?”

She’d noticed her visitors exchanging glances but could not have known the significance of what she’d just said. Patricia Houle had just confirmed that Ruth was right. Bertha Baumgartner was the Baroness.

“Nothing,” said Myrna. “Go on.”

“Was it that I called her the Baroness?” asked Patricia, looking from one to the other. “It wasn’t our nickname for her. Believe me, we wouldn’t have chosen that one. She called herself that.”

“How long have you known her?” Lucien asked.

“A few years. Is everything all right?” She looked at Armand. “You’re not here officially, are you?”

“Not in the way you think,” he said. “We’re liquidators of her estate.”

“She died?”

“Yes, just before Christmas,” said Lucien.

“I hadn’t heard,” said Patricia. “I know she moved into a nursing home a couple of years ago, but I didn’t know she’d passed away. I’m sorry. I’d have gone to the funeral.”

“You witnessed her will?” asked Armand. When she nodded, he went on. “Did she strike you as competent?”

“Oh yes,” said Patricia. “She was all there. She was a little odd, granted. She did insist on being called Baroness, but we all have our eccentricities.”

“I bet I can guess yours,” said Myrna.

“I bet you can,” said Patricia.

“You like poisonous plants. Probably have a bed dedicated to them.”

“I do,” Patricia admitted with a laugh.

“How did you know that?” Benedict asked.

“The books she bought,” said Myrna. “The Poison Garden was one, as I remember. Another was…” Myrna strained her memory.

“Deadliest Garden Plants,” said Patricia. She looked at Armand and cocked her head. “Bit of a clue, that.”

Armand smiled.

“That’s how I first got to know the Baroness and how I learned about poison gardens. She had one. Walked me through it and pointed out that foxglove is digitalis. Deadly. She also had monkshood, and lily-of-the-valley, and hydrangea. All toxic. Among other perennials, of course. But, strangely enough, the poisonous ones are the most beautiful.”

Myrna nodded. She was also a keen gardener, though it had never occurred to her to dedicate a bed to plants that kill. But enough people did so that there were a number of books written about it. And Patricia Houle was right. The deadly flowers were among the most beautiful. And, perversely, the longest-lived.

“There’re flowers that’ll really kill someone?” asked Benedict.

“Supposedly,” said Patricia, “though I wouldn’t know how to get the poison out. You probably need a chemistry degree.”

“And a desire,” said Gamache.

His voice was pleasant, but his eyes took in Patricia Houle, and he amended his earlier impression. She gave off an aura not just of confidence but of competence.

He’d noticed her car parked outside, completely cleaned off. The snow around it shoveled with crisp, straight lines.

When she did a job, she did it well and she did it thoroughly.

He suspected if she needed to, she could figure out how to squeeze poison from a daffodil.

Thanking her for her help and hospitality, they left Madame Houle and headed next door.

Bertha Baumgartner’s home seemed to be tilting even further under the weight of the new snow. It would be folly to go anywhere near it, and Gamache made a note to call the local town hall and get warning tape put up. And, as soon as possible, a bulldozer should be brought in.

They dug out Myrna’s and Lucien’s cars, but when they’d cleared off Benedict’s pickup truck, Armand stopped the young man from getting in.

“You can’t drive without winter tires.”

“But I have to. I’ll be fine.”

Those were, Gamache knew, the last words of too many young people.

“Yes, you will be fine,” he said. “Because you’re not going anywhere in that.”

“And if I do drive?” asked Benedict. “What’re you going to do? Call the cops?”

“He wouldn’t need to call,” said Lucien, and saw that Benedict still didn’t get it. “You really don’t know who he is?”

Benedict shook his head.

“I’m the head of the Sûreté du Québec,” said Armand.

“Chief Superintendent Gamache,” said Lucien.

Benedict said either “Oh shit” or “No shit.” Either way, merde was involved.

“Really?”

Gamache nodded. “C’est la vérité.”

Benedict looked behind him, to his pickup, and mumbled something that sounded like “What fucking luck.”

Gamache grinned. He’d had luck like this too, when he was Benedict’s age. Took a long time before he realized it was, in fact, good luck.

“I guess I have no choice,” said Benedict.

“Bon. Call the CAA when the phones come back. Have it towed to a garage and decent winter tires put on. Not the cheap ones. D’accord?”

“Got it,” Benedict mumbled to the snow on his boots.

“It’s all right,” said Gamache quietly. “We’ll pay for the tires.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“Just give me that lesson in driving on snow you promised. We’ll call it even.”

“Merci.”

“Good.” Gamache turned to Lucien. “Let me know about the meeting with Madame Baumgartner’s children.”

“I will,” said Lucien.

As she drove Benedict back to Three Pines, Myrna looked at the thick snow in the yard. And thought of the poisonous plants buried there. Frozen, but not dead. Just waiting.

Though the real threat, Myrna knew, didn’t come from the poison flowers. Those you could see. Those you knew about. And besides, they at least were pretty.

No. The real danger in a garden came from the bindweed. That moved underground, then surfaced and took hold. Strangling plant after healthy plant. Killing them all, slowly. And for no apparent reason, except that it was its nature.

And then it disappeared underground again.

Yes, the real danger always came from the thing you couldn’t see.