World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 21

When he got home, Armand put the grimoire in an evidence bag while Reine-Marie watched. Though she understood, he still felt he’d come between his wife and a long-lost friend.

Now the diners helped themselves to grilled salmon, fresh-cut asparagus, and baby potatoes, while Jean-Guy sliced the baguette. A green salad with vinaigrette was already on the table.

Amelia had joined them just as dinner was being served in the Gamaches’ kitchen.

Ruth was also there, though uninvited. The final guest was Anne Lamarque, very much present, if only in spirit.

Ruth and Reine-Marie had described for the newcomer what the grimoire was. Amelia, always fascinated with books, was wide-eyed.

“What happened to her?” Amelia asked.

“Anne Lamarque?” said Ruth. “She died.”

“At the stake?” asked Amelia.

“Steak? Is there steak?” Ruth looked around, hopefully.

“The stake,” said Amelia. “The stake,” she repeated, as though the word sounded strange in her mouth. “Staaaay-kuh.”

Giggles burbled up, like indigestion. Out they came, in short hiccups of laughter.

Everyone stopped what they were doing to look at the young woman.

She grabbed a piece of baguette and stuffed it in her mouth, but it only seemed to make it worse.

“Is she…?” Reine-Marie whispered to Armand.

“You’re high,” said Ruth, glaring at Amelia.

“Hi!” she replied, then made a sputtering sound, clearly cracking herself up.

“From your stash?” Ruth asked Armand.

“If I had one, I’m sure you’d have taken it by now.” He passed her the salad, which she ignored. “My only stash these days is eclairs.”

“Yeah,” said Reine-Marie. “Those should be made illegal.”

“I’m going to have to take the grimoire over to the evidence locker after dinner,” Armand said.

“Bye-bye,” said Amelia.

Reine-Marie sighed but nodded. “At least I got to hold it.”

Armand wished she hadn’t. It was his fault, but at the time there was no way they could have known the items in the hidden room had anything to do with a murder. And, to be fair, they still didn’t know. Not for sure. The only connective tissue was the Stone letter.

“So how did she die?” asked Reine-Marie. “We never got that far in the story.”

“She was arrested and put on trial,” said Ruth, pouring hollandaise sauce over the salmon and asparagus.

“For witchcraft?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Not at first. It was for promiscuity, running a brothel, adultery. Then the Jesuits heard about the grimoire and added witchcraft. Her husband testified against her, of course. Interestingly, his name was Folleville.”

“Crazy town,” declared Amelia, popping up straight in her chair, her voice loud and happy. She placed an asparagus spear between her nose and upper lip and turned it into a drooping mustache.

Reine-Marie pressed her lips together to stop from laughing.

“Exactly,” said Ruth, who didn’t seem to find anything at all odd in the behavior of the young agent. But then, the old poet had a duck on her lap.

“Her customers, all men, also testified against her—”

“Testified. Testified. No testes,” said Amelia, then bit the tip off the asparagus spear. Jean-Guy grimaced.

“Said her spells had lured them to her tavern against their will.”

“Did they believe it?” asked Jean-Guy. “The priests? Or were they just using fear to control the population?”

“Well, if they didn’t believe it at first, they eventually convinced themselves,” said Ruth. “People do begin to believe their own lies. Besides, these were men who supposedly believed in God. The Devil came as part of that package.”

That left them quiet. Most of those around that pine table believed in God. And, yes, the Devil came along for the ride.

Unlike for most people, for Armand Gamache neither God nor the Devil was abstract. He didn’t just believe in them. He knew them. Had met both. Had shaken hands with them. He had the scars to prove it.

Evil is unspectacular, and always human,

And shares our bed and eats at our own table,

And we are introduced to Goodness every day.

Even in drawing rooms, among a crowd of faults.

He looked around the table and smiled. If ever there was a crowd of faults …

“Any random calamity was blamed on witches,” said Reine-Marie. “Accidents, illnesses, drought, torrential rain, blizzards. If a pig ran away, or a child got sick, or an early frost killed the crops, it was the work of witches.”

“I read where a mosquito bite was thought to be a teat for the Devil to suckle,” said Ruth. “You can imagine the hysteria.”

“So what happened to Anne Lamarque?” Armand asked, picking Amelia’s napkin off the floor and handing it to her. “Was she burned?”

Amelia looked at her napkin, then let it drop again, watching as though gravity were magic.

“Burned?” said Ruth. “No.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Jean-Guy.

“What they did to her was worse.”

“Worse?” he said. “What could be worse?”

“Back in the 1600s, in New France? What’s worse is being banished. She was sent out of Montréal, rowed across the river, and left on the far shore for the demons to claim. Burning would be too quick.”

“She had to be damned before she died,” said Reine-Marie. “All the so-called witches were expelled, sent into the forests to die. Slowly.”

They tried to imagine what that would be like. Standing on the banks, Anne would have watched the boatman return to Montréal, the cesspool that passed for civilization. But however harsh, it was home.

Turning around, she’d face her future. The forest. Infested with terrifying creatures.

If the bears didn’t kill her, the demons certainly would.

It would be slow, and it would be agonizing, and when it was finally over, she’d be in Hell. For eternity.

“She wasn’t the only one,” said Ruth. “Most were never heard from again. They were swallowed up by the forest.”

“Most but not all?” Armand said, handing Amelia the napkin. Again. And looking into her eyes.

“Anne apparently survived into ripe old age,” said Ruth.

“How?” asked Jean-Guy.

“She traveled south until she came to a valley with a meadow and a river of spring water. There she stopped. Two other women, also banished as witches, found their way to her. They built homes. Planted crops. With the help of the medicinal recipes in the grimoire, they survived. Formed a small community. Eventually they each planted a tree in a clearing, as a sign for others. There was a safe place.” She looked at Reine-Marie and smiled. “For witches.”

“Here?” said Jean-Guy. “Are you saying Anne Lamarque founded Three Pines?”

“Who knows?” said Ruth. “Believe whatever you want.”

After the dessert of ice cream with salted caramel sauce, Armand went into his study and picked up the grimoire, now encased in plastic, noting again the charred leather cover.

He was sorely tempted to take the book into the living room, sit by the hearth, and read it. But he had to get it into the locker. As he left with the book under his arm, he looked back and saw Reine-Marie and Ruth watching.

He wondered if Anne was standing with them, the third woman. Watching over them. He then turned and watched Amelia make her way back to the B&B.

“Is she okay?” Jean-Guy asked.

As a recovering addict himself, he knew the dangers of even one drink, one toke. One snort. The problem was never the second or third, it was that first.

“Yes, she’s okay.”

They paused on the village green, looking up at the three huge pines. Was this the spot where an exhausted, emaciated, frightened woman, condemned for being strong and wise and independent, had stopped running?

Where she made a home. For herself and generations of others who were also lost. Who also needed a safe place. Including the two men standing shoulder to shoulder in the darkness.

Once back at the Incident Room, Gamache himself dusted and swabbed the book.

Some prints appeared, emerging from the pages, as though surfacing. Or expelled.

Jean-Guy watched him work, then asked, “Do you think Ruth was right? That Three Pines was founded by witches?”

“Not witches, Jean-Guy.” Armand handed the samples to him to bag and placed the book in the locker. “Just women. Like Reine-Marie. Like Annie.”

“Like Ruth.”

“No one’s like Ruth,” said Armand, peeling off the gloves.

Jean-Guy laughed. “What I don’t get is how Ruth knows all that about Anne Lamarque.”

“I sometimes think it’s best not to ask.”

“Maybe she was one of the women. I wonder how old she is.”

“I wonder how old the duck is,” said Armand.

Jean-Guy laughed. “Maybe Rosa’s one of them. Transformed into a duck.”

That might explain a few things, thought Armand.

It was a good point. Not the age, or duck, thing, but how Ruth knew. If Anne Lamarque and two other women really had founded Three Pines, how would anyone know that? They presumably died here. Would their stories not be buried with them? Lost and forgotten?

But was anything in Three Pines ever lost? Or forgotten?

There was a ding and Jean-Guy walked over to his desk. “The autopsy report on Patricia Godin has come through.”

Before Armand could get to his own desk to look, he heard the door open.

“Bonsoir,” said Olivier. “We were closing up the bistro and saw the light on. Thought we’d check.”

“Everything okay?” asked Gabri.

“Everything’s good,” said Gamache. “We’re just tidying up a few things.”

“Has something happened, Armand?” Olivier asked. “The crime scene tape in the loft. Is it a crime scene?”

“The truth is, we don’t think a crime itself was committed there, but there is a small possibility some of the things found in that room are connected to a crime.”

“A murder?” asked Gabri.

Gamache lifted his hands, to show he either could not or would not answer.

Olivier took a few steps into the Old Train Station and Gabri followed. The men were very familiar with the large open space. It was home to their volunteer fire department. Both were members, and Ruth was the chief. Self-appointed, admittedly. But being essentially a dumpster fire herself, she was familiar with flames.

“Is there something else?” Armand asked.

“Well, yes. I was telling Gabri about the elephant, and thought, since you’re here…”

“You want to see it?”

“Do you mind?”

“No, as long as you don’t touch it.”

A minute later they were standing in the evidence room. A single bright bulb hanging from the ceiling lit the odd assortment of items.

Armand put on gloves and picked up the bronze statue.

Gabri, by instinct, reached out, then drew his hands back and leaned in, moving his head this way and that. Then he stepped away.

“That’s it. That’s ours. My great-grandfather brought it back from India. I dusted it every day, I should know.”

“Every day?”

“Well, whenever we had guests staying in the room. It has the dented ear and crooked tusk from when someone dropped it.”

“Someone?”

“Focus, Olivier, that isn’t the lede here.”

“But ours didn’t have all that engraving, did it?”

“No,” Gabri admitted, looking closer. “But it’s still ours.”

Armand lifted the piece to the light and took a closer look at what was etched into the animal’s bronze skin. It didn’t form a pattern and it wasn’t writing of any sort. But there was something.

“All right, let’s say it is your elephant,” said Gamache. “Tell me again what happened. How and when this went missing from the B&B.”

“A guest was staying in that room,” said Olivier. “And when she left, the elephant was gone too. You asked for her name. I have it. And her address.” He brought a slip of paper out from his pocket.

“Lillian Virginia Mountweazel,” Armand read.

“Yes!” said Gabri. “That’s her. Can’t forget that name. I tried to get in touch with her, but she never answered the messages.”

“When was this?” asked Gamache.

“Eighteen months ago,” said Olivier. “I can give you the exact dates of her stay.”

“How long was she here?” As Armand spoke, he noticed Jean-Guy trying to catch his eye.

“She was booked in for a week, but left after five days,” said Olivier.

“Why would she want to take my great-grandfather’s elephant?” said Gabri. “Never mind put it in the attic room. It’s just bizarre.”

“It is that,” said Armand.

Replacing the statue, he ushered the men out of the room and to the door.

“Well, good night.” He gently closed the door in their baffled faces. Then he quickly crossed to Beauvoir’s desk.

“What’ve you got?”

“Look.”

Jean-Guy had highlighted a passage. It described Patricia Godin’s injuries and concluded they were compatible with a death by hanging. Suicide.

“But they’re not,” said Jean-Guy. “With hanging, the bruising would be up here.” He drew a line on his throat under his chin. “But see here. Her cartilage is crushed flat and the bruising is a perfect ring around her neck. These injuries were caused by ligature strangulation. Not hanging.”

Gamache reread the passage, then scrolled up and began reading the entire report. Jean-Guy gave up his chair so that the Chief could sit.

Ten minutes later, he took off his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes, and nodded. “You’re right. Patricia Godin was already dead when hung from the tree.”

“She was murdered.”

“Oui. The coroner missed it. He’d assumed suicide, then saw what he expected to see. To be fair, it’s an easy mistake to make.” Armand got up. “We change the cause of death and institute a full murder investigation. First thing in the morning, I want a team down here and a warrant to search the old Stone house.”

“D’accord, patron.”

As they walked back across the bridge over the Bella Bella, Jean-Guy said, quietly, to Armand, “She wasn’t stoned, was she.”

“Amelia? Non. She was practicing. A dry run. I think she figured if Ruth believed it, Sam will too. Smart woman.”

“I saw the look on your face when we were telling Amelia about the Arsenault case. Are you having second thoughts about Fiona?”

“Did I hear my name?” A voice came out of the darkness.

Fiona was sitting on the swing on the Gamaches’ front porch. Voices carried in the stillness of night, and she’d heard part, or all, of what they’d said.

“Yes,” said the Chief, thinking quickly. “We were talking about you. Jean-Guy here wanted to know if I was having second thoughts about you.”

There was nothing for it but to admit it. Lying about it would only heighten her suspicions.

“About my guilt, or my innocence?” She stood up.

Before Armand could answer, Jean-Guy jumped in.

“It’s the first time we’ve seen you and your brother together since the trial. I guess it brings back memories. Doubts even. Your case was far from clear.”

She gave a small unamused laugh. “‘Case’? You call it that? It’s my life. And yes, it was far from clear. What’s gained by reexamining it? I’ve done my time. I’m trying to rebuild my life. Are you trying to rebuild your case?”

They could only see half her face in the light spilling onto the porch from the kitchen. But even half a face was enough to show her anger. Though her tone more than made that clear.

“You want to get the whole family? Is that it? The box set of Arsenault kids?”

“I didn’t have a chance to answer Jean-Guy’s question. The answer,” Gamache said, looking her in the eyes as she turned to him, “is no. I am not doubting you.”

It was, of course, a lie.

Armand sat in the dark living room waiting for the footsteps in the bedrooms overhead to stop.

When there was finally silence, he crept upstairs and saw there was no light under Fiona’s door. Fortunately, her room faced the forest at the back of the home. She would not be able to look out her window and see what he did next.

He sent off a quick text: Meet me in Clara’s garden.

Not waiting for a reply, he put on his field coat and left the house. Glancing behind him to make sure he wasn’t followed, he walked quickly across the village green, skirting around the far side of the three huge pines. Using them as cover.

He let himself through Clara’s gate, leaving it open, and into the familiar backyard. There were no lights at the windows. Clara and the village were asleep.

He’d chosen this place because her garden could not be seen from anywhere in the village. They could not be overlooked or overheard.

Though the rain had stopped, clouds were still overhead, blotting out the moon and stars. Putting the village into near complete darkness. But there was no sensory deprivation. He could smell the lilac and wet earth. He could hear the rainwater still dripping off the leaves. But most of all, he could hear the riotous crickets and the spring peepers, tiny frogs and their high-pitched chirps.

They must be, he thought, all around him. While he knew what they were, he wondered what Anne Lamarque would have made of this racket.

He was just about to send off another text, and, if there was no answer, to go over there himself, when he heard a bump and a hissed “Tabarnak. Fucking hell.”

“Shhhh,” he said, and grabbing Amelia’s arm, he pulled her toward the river at the bottom of the garden.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“You need to leave. It’s possible Fiona overheard me telling Beauvoir that you were not really high.”

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew.”

“How?”

He looked at her and smiled. “Thirty years as an investigator has taught me one or two things. Besides, you promised you’d stay straight and sober, and I believed you.”

From anyone else, what he said would have sounded ludicrous, naïve. But she believed him.

“And,” he said, “I know how much you like mind games.”

She smiled. Mind games. Not mind-fucks. She realized she’d never actually heard him swear.

“You’re not sure Fiona heard what you said?” Amelia asked.

“No. But if she did, she’ll tell Sam, and there’s no telling what he’d do to you.”

“You really do think he’s sick.”

“Oui.”

“Then I should stay. I should help.”

“I’m not arguing, this isn’t a discussion, Agent Choquet. You’ll pack up and leave. Now. Tonight. If all seems clear, I’ll call you back.”

“For what it’s worth, I hope you’re wrong about him.”

“You like him?”

“God, no. I think the guy’s a whack-job. But you think he’s here to do something. Something bad, right?”

Gamache was silent.

“That’s where I hope you’re wrong. ’Cause I think if he wanted to, he would. And almost nothing would stop him. I also think you might be wrong about his sister. When I got back to the B&B, they were together. Not doing anything at all suspicious, but when they saw me, they sure looked guilty. It was not a … normal look.”

“And you know normal?” He said it with a smile.

She looked at him, surprised by the small tease. “I have observed normal, from a distance. Like in a zoo.”

“And which side of the bars were you on?”

Now she gave a small, stifled laugh. How well he knew her.

“What happened at the B&B?” he asked, serious again.

“Well, for one thing, it was Fiona who was pumping me for information, not Sam.”

“About?”

She paused. “About you. And what I knew about your family. She said she’d never met your grandchildren, but was hoping to. Sam said he was also hoping to meet them. Soon.”

Into the night she heard him whisper: “Fucking hell.”