World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 12

The Reverend Robert Mongeau stared at Armand.

“Are you saying that that young woman is a murderer? She killed her mother?”

“She was found guilty, yes.”

They were sitting in one of the pews in the tiny St. Thomas’s church in Three Pines. It was early on Sunday afternoon, the day after the graduation and the party.

While the Gamaches rarely attended services, they had asked the minister and his wife to their home afterward for Sunday lunch. Then Armand had walked back up to the church with Robert, leaving Sylvie and Reine-Marie to have a lemonade in the sun-trap of their back garden.

Fiona had joined them for the meal, then helped clean up the dishes before going across to the bistro to see her brother.

As they’d arrived at the church, Armand noticed the new caretaker touching up the white paint that had chipped off in the winter.

“He’s quite a find,” said Armand. “Obviously cares for the place.”

“Claude never misses a repair or a weed or a spot of dirt. Or a service, for that matter,” said Robert, watching the older man carefully scraping off the chipping paint. “I often find him sitting in the church alone.”

“I thought Gabri looked after the church and grounds.”

“Yes, as head of the Anglican Church Women. But Gabri hinted he was done with that. Claude was recommended by a guest at the B&B actually. He needed a job and I needed a caretaker.”

Claude was slender, wiry really. For a man who spent a lot of time outside, his skin was surprisingly sallow. He wore dark glasses and a baseball cap low over his face.

At the top of the stairs leading to the chapel, Armand paused. From there he had a good view of the village. Patrons were sitting on the terrasse outside the bistro enjoying lunch or a drink this early June afternoon.

Any mess from the party the night before had been cleared away. The only evidence was the trampled grass on the village green. But it would soon spring back.

Armand had suggested a stroll to walk off the large meal, but the minister had needed to return to the church to do some work and clean up after the service.

“Clean up?” asked Armand. “What exactly do you do in your services?”

“The usual. Sacrifice a chicken. Dance naked. Sure you don’t want to come?”

Armand laughed. He could see why Robert and Sylvie had fit in so quickly and so well.

He had an ulterior motive in inviting Mongeau for a walk. It was to see if the minister wanted to talk privately. About anything, but specifically Sylvie’s health. Not her condition. That wasn’t his business. He wanted to hear about Mongeau’s condition. How he was doing. How he was feeling.

Armand knew that severe illness could be very isolating.

But he didn’t get a chance. As they’d entered the peaceful little chapel, Robert had asked him about Fiona and Sam.

“I noticed the way that young man was looking at you,” said the minister. “And how you were looking at him. Do you want to talk about that?”

Armand, while a little surprised by the question, found no reason not to answer. There’d been the public court case, the reports in the media. Granted, it was more than ten years ago now, but it was a case not easily forgotten. Everyone in Three Pines was aware of it.

So he found himself in the quiet little church telling the minister about the murder of Clotilde Arsenault. When he’d finished, Robert seemed at a loss for words.

“Then,” he managed, “how…” He moved his hands, trying to form the thought into words.

“How, if she’s a murderer, did she come to stay with us?” Armand helped him out.

The minister nodded.

“After a few years, Fiona came up for parole, one day a month. I’d been visiting her in prison, making sure she was all right. Reine-Marie and I agreed to supervise her. The parole board eventually extended that to one weekend a month.”

Fiona spent those weekends in Three Pines with the Gamaches.

“But why…?” Again the poor minister struggled. “How—?”

Armand took pity on him again. “—could I trust her? I was the arresting officer.”

At that, Mongeau’s eyes widened. “Really? But you don’t do that for everyone you arrest.”

Gamache smiled. “God, no. This was a special case. It’s all in the public record, so I’m not telling you anything you can’t find by looking it up.”

What the public record didn’t show were his doubts. He suspected Fiona might’ve been the one to administer the blow. To actually kill her mother. But he was far from sure it had been her idea.

In his heart, Armand believed Fiona was not responsible, could not be held responsible. She’d been abused by every adult in her life, and then abused again by the court.

He’d wanted to do something to try to make it up, and Reine-Marie had agreed.

Armand and Robert sat in the light through the stained-glass window. It had been commissioned and created at the end of the Great War by a mother who’d lost all three of her children. The window in the chapel showed the three brothers, two of whom were in profile, marching forward into battle. Afraid but determined.

One, the youngest, was staring straight out at the congregation. At generations of congregations. Not in blame or anger, not in fear or even sadness. But in forgiveness. He forgave them. As though, thought Armand, such a thing were possible.

But now the boys had been turned into light. And warmth.

Below the window was a plaque listing all the young men and women from the region who’d been killed in wars. And the simple words below the names.

They Were Our Children.

Armand sat in the cheery blue and green and yellow light spilling through their bodies, and described the abuse Clotilde’s children had suffered in that house. Years of it, according to the ledger their mother had carefully kept, and then the children kept up when she’d become too drug-addled to do it.

That had been one of the many elements that had muddied the waters at Fiona’s trial.

Instead of running away. Instead of turning away the men when their mother could no longer function, Fiona and Sam had continued the business.

A psychiatrist who specialized in this field had testified that by then they were so programmed, so damaged, they no longer knew different. They’d known “wrong” so long they no longer recognized “right.” Or felt they had a choice.

On top of that, it brought in the money the children needed to survive.

They were trapped.

“I arrested Fiona on charges of manslaughter, but with extenuating circumstances. I argued that the charges should be dropped, and she and Sam should be given counseling. The prosecution disagreed. Even though she was a minor, they chose to try her as an adult.”

“Why?” asked Mongeau.

“She was almost fourteen by then. The prosecution argued in keeping those records and running the household, she was essentially acting as an adult—”

“But the abuse started—”

“Based on the records, when she was ten.”

“Oh, dear God,” sighed the minister.

“Between the written records, the fact it seemed she’d taken over from her mother and was prostituting her brother, and that she’d sold the car to that man, the car used to take their mother’s body to the lake, well, it looked like she was less a victim and more an instigator. But there was one more damning piece of evidence. One I contributed to. Her brother said she’d tried to kill him too. In the alley. She was the one who’d beaten him almost to death.”

“How did you contribute? How could you have?” Robert asked.

“I delayed arresting them by a day. By then they knew that I was coming over, and they suspected why. It spooked them. My decision to delay gave them the time they needed to run away.”

“But that wasn’t your fault.”

“If I’d gone over right away, Sam wouldn’t have suffered those injuries, and the prosecution and ultimately the judge wouldn’t have decided Fiona was a willful murderer who’d succeeded once with her mother, and attempted again with her own brother. She was a danger.”

Robert Mongeau looked down at his hands, then lifted his eyes to Armand’s. “Were they wrong? If she did those things…”

“She was a child herself. Even if she did those things, was she likely to be able to make rational decisions? I don’t think so.”

“But still…” Mongeau struggled. He looked around and settled on the brittle boys before turning back to Gamache. “If she did those things, if she couldn’t tell right from wrong then, are you sure she can now? I know you believe in second chances. So do I. God knows, I’ve been given one. But there is a limit, isn’t there? Could she still … be a danger?”

Armand lifted his hands in resignation. “I don’t think she ever was.”

He’d fought the prosecutor’s decision. He’d been appalled, infuriated, that they’d tried Fiona Arsenault as an adult. That they’d tried her at all. He’d argued that even if what Sam said was true, Fiona was clearly not responsible for her actions. She’d been hurt, abused, raised in a twisted environment without a moral compass or a role model. She needed help, not punishment.

He’d argued, even shouted at the prosecutor. To the point where he’d been threatened with expulsion from his office.

Not only was it patently unfair to try Fiona as an adult, there was another reason the head of homicide fought so hard to have the charges reduced or dropped completely.

He didn’t believe Fiona had acted alone. In fact, he came to believe that Fiona hadn’t even conceived the plan. Sam had. And he suspected Sam had hurt himself in that alley, banging his head against a wall to create injuries that looked much worse than they were. Head wounds bled, and there was a lot of blood. But they were, finally, superficial.

It was not a murder attempt. It was an attempt to shift blame.

He did not tell Robert Mongeau this. Only Beauvoir knew his suspicions. Ones that could never be proved.

And so the case had gone to trial. Sam had, at the very least, been an accomplice in the murder of his mother. That was not denied. But he was deemed too young, too fragile, too damaged to know what he was doing. The prosecution argued that he’d been controlled, abused, assaulted by his older sister.

Sam Arsenault was sent to what was apparently a happy and calm foster home, where he was followed closely and received psychiatric help.

Fiona was convicted and sentenced to fifteen years in prison.

“But if Sam was cleared of all charges,” Mongeau asked, “why that look between you last night? He looked…” The minister searched for the word. “I honestly don’t know how he looked. But it wasn’t pleasant. And you.” He stared at Gamache, bathed in the light through the stained-glass boys. “Forgive me, Armand, and I might be very wrong, but just for a moment there you looked frightened.”

Armand was about to deny it, then stopped himself. Robert Mongeau was right. He was afraid of Sam Arsenault. Yesterday had confirmed what Armand had suspected. The boy, now the man, could still get into his head. Could still mess around in there.

Only one other person had been able to do that. A serial killer, a psychopath named John Fleming. A genuine lunatic who was now in prison for life. Not the person you want wandering around in your thoughts. And since thoughts can drive feelings, he’d invaded those as well.

Armand checked once a year to be sure Fleming was still in the Special Handling Unit, reserved for the most dangerous criminals. Though no one would ever release such a maniac.

And now, Sam Arsenault was not just in his head, he was in the village where Armand lived. Where his family and friends lived.

Yes, Armand was frightened. It was a free-floating fear. As though an arrow had been shot but hadn’t yet found its target.

“You might be right” was all he said to the minister, and made a note that not much got by this man. “I seem to have dominated the conversation. I meant to ask how you are.”

Mongeau took a deep breath and exhaled. “Honestly? I’m frightened too. What a pair we make.” He gave a small laugh, then looked around. “As long as I’m here, in this space, I feel at peace. I know what’s happening to Sylvie is God’s will.” He could not bring himself to say exactly what was happening. “And that thought comforts me, while I’m here. But as soon as I leave, go through that door, I’m lost and terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing her, of course.”

“But there’s more,” said Armand, quietly.

The minister looked at his companion and seemed to come to a decision. “I’m afraid of not being enough. Not being able to do it. I’m afraid it’ll get so bad I’ll run away. Not physically but emotionally. I’m afraid I already am, when I come here. To hide.” He appealed to Armand. “You know?”

Armand nodded. He knew that feeling. The fear of not being strong enough. Not being able to do what was needed.

“This isn’t hiding, this is comfort. This is respite. It gives you the strength you need to go back and be there with Sylvie. For her. It’s natural to feel as you do. It would be strange if you didn’t. Believe me, you won’t run away.” He remembered the dance from the night before. The intimacy. “If you ever feel you want to, come to me. We’ll talk. Sylvie knows she’s loved. What more do any of us want?”

“Time?” Robert looked around again as though surprised to find himself there. Then, placing his hands on his knees, he pushed himself up. “Merci, mon ami. I might take you up on that. But only if you promise to come to me when you’re afraid.”

“Deal.”

“Shall we go back and join our wives?”

Now you will feel no rain / For each of you will be shelter for the other, Armand thought as he too got to his feet. It was the First Nations blessing he and Reine-Marie had had read at their wedding.

Now there is no more loneliness.

Go now to your dwelling place / To enter into the days of your togetherness.

He and Robert emerged into the sunshine of the early June day. In this village that seemed to defy time. If only, thought Armand, that were true.

And may your days be good and long upon this earth.

Clara, Ruth, Myrna, and Billy Williams sat on the terrasse with a pitcher of iced tea, and waved as Armand and the minister walked across the green. Armand waved back, then noticed Harriet sitting at another table. Wearing dark glasses. He was about to go over and find out how her head was when Fiona and Sam emerged from the bistro with three lemonades and joined her.

Sam looked at him, and in an instant Armand was back in the courtroom.

Chief Inspector Gamache remembered one thing above all else from that day. It wasn’t the verdict. It wasn’t even Fiona being led away.

No, what lived in the longhouse of Armand’s memory was Sam Arsenault when the verdict was read.

The boy had turned to him and winked.

And he did it again now.