World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 22

The team from homicide met at the Incident Room the next morning, where Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir went over the case so far.

The formal investigation into the murder of Patricia Godin had begun.

Everyone listened respectfully, though there were a few raised brows when they were told about the Stone letter and the hidden room.

The search warrant had come through, and they headed to the old Stone house, arriving just after seven a.m.

Disheveled, unshaven, and tying up his dressing gown, Monsieur Godin glanced past the Chief Inspector to the men and women ranged behind him. Then his eyes returned to Gamache.

“You believed me.”

“Oui.” Gamache introduced Inspector Jean-Guy Beauvoir and the team from the Sûreté homicide unit. “May we come in?”

Godin stepped back, and they followed him into the living room, where Gamache explained, in a voice that was gentle and clear, that Monsieur Godin was right. His wife had been murdered.

The man sank into a chair and stared ahead of him. It was one thing to believe something, it was another to know it. And now he knew.

“Why?”

Gamache had taken the seat across from him. “We don’t know. That’s what we hope to find out, but that means searching your home. We have a warrant.”

Beauvoir brought it out of his pocket, but Monsieur Godin waved it away.

“Just do what you have to. The house is yours. Tear it apart if you need to.”

While Inspector Beauvoir coordinated the search, Gamache took Monsieur Godin into the kitchen. There he made a pot of coffee for the stunned man, then joined him at the table.

“Did you have any visitors in the days before your wife died?”

“Only the family.”

“Had your wife been in contact with anyone? Anyone new?”

He shook his head.

They’d take her computer and go over her emails and texts. In case. It was the worst part of any investigation. This invasion of privacy. All those even remotely associated with the crime would have their private lives exposed. Events, messages, decisions, actions that had seemed reasonable, or perhaps a little shady, would suddenly look contemptible. Shameful. Even suspect, when examined closely and taken out of context by strangers.

Sometimes they discovered crimes not related to the investigation. If not outright evidence, then strong suggestions of wrongdoing.

Those were the things Armand kept in the locked room in their basement.

Everyone, he knew, had one. A locked room. Either in their home, or their head, or their heart. Where things that should never see the light of day lived, and waited. For their chance to escape.

“Was she worried about anything? Anything at all?”

Monsieur Godin considered, then shook his head. Non.

“Were you and your wife on good terms?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Arguments? It’s natural to have some.”

“Sometimes over money. And travel. Pat wanted to go places now that I’m retired. But I like it here.” He paused. “I’m afraid to fly.”

He stared down at the table, where they’d had so many meals. Many in silence. After thirty years of marriage, there didn’t seem to be a great deal to say to each other. It wasn’t an angry or regretful silence. More a peaceful quietude.

And now there was just silence.

“She wanted to see England. I should’ve gone.”

Armand let the moment rest before he continued. “What was your job?”

Monsieur Godin looked up and smiled. “I was a plumber. Like my father.”

Armand met his smile with one of his own. “I wish my son or daughter had married a plumber. I think my wife wishes she had too. We live in an old house, and in the winter, on particularly cold days and nights, we need to leave a few of the taps dripping so the water doesn’t freeze and burst the pipes. Happened our first winter there. Flooded the basement. What a mess.”

Godin nodded. “I bet. Was your home built before there was much indoor plumbing?”

“Must’ve been. It’s fieldstone. Looks like it was built in the early 1800s, but we don’t really know.”

“When plumbing was finally put in, it was often installed next to the outer walls, so there’d be something to support the metal pipes. But that means they freeze when it’s really cold. And drafts get in between the stones when the mortar gets old and loose.”

“What can be done about it?” Armand asked.

“Well, you have to move the pipes. Expensive job. They’d all have to be replaced. We use PVC now. Easier to manipulate and they don’t crack and burst.”

“But that would mean breaking into the walls, right? And then repairing and repainting them.”

“For sure. Like I said, big job. Expensive.”

“Did you do the repairs too, or someone else?”

“You’d need to get someone in to put in new drywall, then a plasterer, but I used to do that too if it was a small job. Not hard. I could recommend someone.”

“Merci.”

It was what Billy had said when showing him how the items got into the attic. Someone with skills had repaired and repainted the ceiling. Someone like Monsieur Godin.

The Gamaches had replaced all the wiring and plumbing before they’d moved into the home. He did not need it fixed, nor did he need to know how it was done.

But he did need to know if Patricia Godin’s husband could remove a section of the bookstore ceiling and then repair it.

“You know, someone did come by,” said Monsieur Godin, “but it was a month before Patricia died. He was interested in old documents. Asked if we had any. Said it was the latest thing. All the antiques in old barns and homes had been picked over, and now people were interested in paper stuff. He was looking for old books and maps and deeds and photographs.”

And letters? thought Gamache, though he remained quiet.

“Asked us to get in touch, if we found any.”

“Did you meet him?” asked Gamache.

“Yes. He seemed nice. Though I can’t see there’d be much of a market in old deeds.”

“Can you remember his name?” It seemed a long shot and, indeed, it was. Godin shook his head.

“Can you describe him?” Gamache almost made the mistake he always warned his agents against. Leading the witness, guiding them to an answer.

He was tempted to describe Sam Arsenault, young, auburn hair, slender, and ask if that fit the man who visited. Instead, he remained quiet while Godin thought.

“I’m sorry, I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

“But it was a man?”

“Yes.”

“Young? Old?”

Gamache waited.

“Oh, older. About my age. But I can’t really remember anything else.”

“Was he a big man? Or slender?”

Godin shook his head. “Désolé.”

“Did he return?”

“Not that I know of. I think Pat would’ve told me.” Now he stared at Gamache. “You don’t think…”

“He said to get in touch. Did he leave a card or anything?”

Godin’s brow dropped in thought. “Well, he must’ve, don’t you think? But I can’t remember seeing one. Now that I’m thinking about it, he called himself a detective.”

“He was a police officer? A member of the Sûreté?”

Surely not, in his late sixties or early seventies. But age was hard to guess. He suspected some younger agents thought he himself was ancient. Maybe the man was a retired detective, and this was his hobby.

“I think he was a sort of private detective,” said Godin.

“That old letter, from Pierre Stone, was sent here by someone,” said Gamache. “Do you have any idea who?”

“Not a clue. I didn’t even know it came here.”

“And you say you didn’t have a forwarding address for Monsieur Williams?”

“No. I have no idea how Pat got it to him. I mean, how would she even know that he was related to this Stone fellow? Different last names.”

Yes, thought Armand as he got up. Good questions.

He left his card for Monsieur Godin, had a word with Beauvoir, then drove back to Three Pines to meet the conservator from the Musée in Montréal. Well aware that he was leaving with more questions than when he’d arrived.