World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 25

Gamache picked up the phone.

“Come back,” he said to Beauvoir. “And bring that book with you.”

“On my way.”

Gamache then walked over to Robert Mongeau. “Why were you singing that song?”

“‘By the Waters of Babylon’?” said the minister, surprised by Armand’s tone. “It’s a hymn.” He waved toward the painting. “There. The sheet music by the girl. That’s what it is. Why? What’s wrong?”

There was obviously something very wrong. His hazel eyes searched Armand’s, but found no answer there. Just more questions.

“Can you help me roll up the painting? It needs to go back into the evidence room.”

“Yes, but, Armand, what’s wrong? Was it the song? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Mongeau himself seemed upset now.

“It’s all right,” said Gamache, even as he tried to steady the slight tremble in his right hand. The one that shook, since the shooting, since the grievous head wound, whenever he was especially tired or stressed. It, along with a small limp when exhausted, was his “tell.”

“What a strange painting,” said Mongeau. “Is that the Québec Bridge?”

The minister pointed to a jug, almost obscured by the other items on the table. It was painted in relief, and so the image was doubly difficult to make out.

Armand stared, then looked more closely.

It was the bridge. Painted at the very moment it collapsed. Tiny flailing figures were dropping into the cold waters of the St. Lawrence River below.

He reached into his pocket and felt the old ring. This could not, he knew, be a coincidence.

“Armand?” said Mongeau. “Everything okay? Is it the Québec Bridge?”

Gamache nodded, only partly hearing the minister. His mind occupied with an old hymn, and an old bridge. And an old ring.

He locked the door to the evidence room, and double-checked. More afraid that whatever was in there would get out than that anyone could get in. He knew it was insane, but he also, now, had some inkling who was behind all this. And yes, “insane” was the word that sprang to mind.

Gamache and Mongeau stepped into the shiny midday, as though emerging from a cave. Armand took a deep breath of the fresh air, turned his face to the sun, and felt his hand steady. Then the two men walked over the stone bridge across the Rivière Bella Bella and back into the village.

“What is it, Armand?” said Mongeau.

Gamache was sorely tempted to tell him about the last time he’d heard that song. The last person who’d hummed it. But he could not. Mostly because it might be a vital piece of the puzzle, but also because, well …

Armand Gamache knew how powerful words could be, and he did not, yet, want to utter them. That name.

“It’s nothing.”

“Something to do with the song?”

“It’s nothing, Robert,” Gamache repeated, his voice firm. The message now clear. No further. You will go no further.

And it was clear by his expression that Mongeau got the message.

To soften it a little, Armand said, “I heard that you defended me to Sam Arsenault. Thank you for that.”

“Troubled young man.”

“Oui. I also heard that you said you could see goodness in him. Is that true?”

Mongeau smiled. “I see goodness in most people. I think you do too.”

“Most, but not all. Do you see it in his sister, Fiona?”

Mongeau took a few steps in silence. It was a lovely spring day. The air was soft with the scent of sweet woodruff, and the lilac that flourished in Three Pines. Plants that appeared to die each fall but came alive again each spring. It always seemed a miracle.

But Gamache knew that resurrection was not always a blessing. Not everything dead should come back.

“My sight is imperfect. I see through the glass darkly,” Mongeau quoted in answer to Armand’s question about Fiona. “Sorry. Easier to take someone else’s words. Makes me sound smart.” He smiled. “What St. Paul said happens to be true. I only see part, not the whole.”

“And what do you see when you look at Fiona Arsenault?” Gamache pressed, knowing his own sight was almost completely obscured when it came to those two young people.

Mongeau stopped. “This is where I leave you. If you ever do want to talk, about yourself, let me know.”

Gamache watched the man head to the church. To his sanctuary. Where his wife was healthy and would outlive him.

Armand longed to spend a moment, just a moment, sitting on the bench on the village green. To close his eyes and tilt his face to the sun. A quiet moment of peace next to the three huge pines. These particular trees were planted more than a century ago by three brothers just before they headed off to war. They were still saplings when all three returned, as stained-glass figures.

Armand didn’t stop. There was no time to rest. No peace yet.

“Excusez-moi?” Reine-Marie said.

“I need you to go to England.”

“Why?”

Armand put out his hand to stop her slicing the bread. “Let’s sit.”

He told her about the ticket to the exhibition that Jean-Guy had found, tucked into the copy of Ruth’s poetry book.

“I think the person who was asking Patricia Godin about the Stone letter left it there.”

“When? Why?”

They were legitimate questions, and she deserved the answers. If he was asking her to go all the way to England, she needed to know why.

“I think he left the ticket in the book when he killed her. I think it was put there for us to find.”

“That’s a lot of thinking, Armand. Are you sure it isn’t guessing?”

He smiled. “Yes, maybe. But if the ticket was left on purpose, we need to follow up. The Paston Treasure, the real one, is at the Norwich Castle Museum. I need you to go there and see what the curators can tell us. And”—he paused—“can you use your maiden name?”

“But if what you’re saying about the ticket is true, wouldn’t we just be doing what the murderer wants?”

She’d hit on his big worry. “Yes. But we can’t ignore it.”

“You can, though, just call the Norwich Castle Museum. Or ask one of your colleagues in the UK to check it out. Why does Reine-Marie Cloutier, not Gamache, have to go?” Then she studied him more closely. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He stared at her for so long, she began to color. Then he picked up her hands and held them, twisting her simple, thin wedding ring. They’d both had to have them resized as their fingers had grown thicker, along with the rest of them.

He smiled, thinking again of the First Nations blessing at their wedding. The priest had been less than happy doing it but had finally agreed to have someone else read it.

And so Stephen Horowitz, Armand’s godfather, had gotten up and recited,

Now you will feel no rain,

for each of you will be shelter for the other.

Now you will feel no cold,

for each of you will be warmth for the other.

Now there is no more loneliness.

There was a cold rain falling. Armand could feel it. And yes, he wanted to shelter Reine-Marie Gamache, née Cloutier, from it.

Armand told her. Almost everything. He didn’t yet tell her about “By the Waters of Babylon,” and the abomination he thought was behind this. Not until he confirmed it.

Reine-Marie listened, taking it in.

“You want me to go away in case someone wants to harm us?”

As usual, she went straight to the heart of the matter.

“Well, yes. Partly. But I really do need information about The Paston Treasure, and I need the visit to be discreet. Unofficial. And in person. You have credentials as a senior archivist and historian.”

“You really expect me to run away?” She was glaring at him now. Rarely in their marriage had they had arguments, and most of those were over family. Their children. But this was different. It was about them as a couple.

“It’s not—” he began before being cut off.

“I’m not finished. I’m a grown woman, Armand, not a child. This’s my home. You’re my husband. I won’t run away, and I sure as hell won’t leave you behind to face whatever this is.”

She pulled her hands from his.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to treat you like a child. And you’re right. I’m your husband, but I’m also a senior Sûreté officer with responsibilities far beyond my own family. I need to focus completely on what’s happening, and the reality is, I can’t do that and worry about you. I know you say I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. I’m begging you. Please. Go to England. Find out what you can. We both know there’s no substitute for standing in front of a work of art. Being there in person. The Paston Treasure is obviously central to what’s happening. We need to find out why.” He held her eyes. “Please, Reine-Marie.”

“The ticket was left by the killer?” she repeated.

“Yes, I think so.”

“And Monsieur Godin didn’t notice?”

“No.”

“Does that strike you as odd? His wife died five weeks ago and he never noticed the poetry book lying around?”

“He didn’t strike me as the noticing kind.” Though even to his ears that sounded off. She had a good point. “Do you think it was left there more recently?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Where in Ruth’s book was the ticket to the exhibition left?”

“At the poem ‘Waiting.’”

She got up and found their worn copy of I’m F.I.N.E. Turning to the poem, she read, “And after all it is nothing new / It is only a memory, after all / a memory of a fear.” She closed the book. “That was meant for you, wasn’t it? Jean-Guy might know the book, but he’d never recognize that exact poem. Whoever killed that poor woman put it there as a message. For you.” She held his eyes. “I’ll go.”

He sighed. “Merci.”

“Come with me.”

Oh, how he wanted to, but he shook his head. “I’m needed here. I have Jean-Guy and others. I’ll be fine.”

She tried not to, but still her eyes drifted up to the deep scar at his temple.

“But I will send someone with you,” he said. “Someone discreet. To help.”

To protect, he knew, she knew, but didn’t say.

“Who? Isabelle?”

“Non. Lacoste is away with her family.” He pulled out his phone and made a call. “Agent Choquet? Do you have a passport?”

“Amelia?” Reine-Marie mouthed.

He nodded, then said into the phone, “Good. You and Madame Gamache are going to England. I’ll email you the details.”

He hung up and Reine-Marie began to laugh. “Who was that really? Isabelle?” When she saw his expression, her amusement stopped. “You’re serious? She’s the discreet investigator? You might as well send me with a marching band.”

“Well, no one will ever suspect she’s a cop.”

Reine-Marie nodded. That was certainly true.

They made the travel arrangements. Reine-Marie and Amelia Choquet would catch the seven p.m. Air Canada overnight flight to London.

When Jean-Guy arrived, the Gamaches were just finishing a quick lunch.

“Join us,” said Reine-Marie, getting up. “There’s plenty.”

He was sorely tempted. “Can’t. I already have a lunch date.”

Still, he stared at the chilled mint pea soup and the grilled gruyère and caramelized sweet onion sandwiches, and swallowed hard.

“What’ve you got?” asked Armand, getting up and guiding Beauvoir out of the room.

“The book and the ticket, patron.” He handed both to Gamache. “Forensics is finished with them.”

They were in the living room when Beauvoir stopped, turned, and lowered his voice. “What happened in the Incident Room? You sounded shaken.”

“In the painting, the girl is holding a book of music open to one song. Robert Mongeau began humming it.”

Now Gamache, in his deep baritone, also hummed. Then stopped when it was clear Jean-Guy recognized it.

“‘Babylon,’” he whispered. “You don’t think…”

“I don’t know. We need to check it out. I’m sending Reine-Marie to Norfolk, to see The Paston Treasure and speak to the curator. Agent Choquet’s going with her.”

“Grounds for divorce, patron.”

“Your lunch date. Sam?”

“Yes. If what you’re thinking is true, then he can’t be behind the stuff in the attic. Besides, the kid isn’t that clever. More a club-to-the-head sort of person.”

Or a brick, thought Gamache. Though he knew Beauvoir was right. Sam was cunning, but he didn’t have the patience for a plan that was meticulously thought-out and executed. Besides, the man who visited the Godins looking for the Stone letter was older.

Yes, the Arsenault kids were out of the picture.

Though maybe there was more than one “picture.” Or a much larger picture. Like The Paston Treasure. With far more elements than he knew.

When Jean-Guy left, Armand stood in the living room and opened the thin volume of poetry. To the ticket. To the poem. “Waiting.”

And after all it is nothing new / It is only a memory, after all / a memory of a fear. And then the line, the last one, that Reine-Marie had not read. Perhaps on purpose.

A memory of a fear / that has now come true.

“Is something wrong, Auntie Myrna?”

“Come with me.”

Up the stairs to the loft they went.

“Sit.”

Harriet sat.

Myrna took a few steps this way, then that. And finally ended up where she started. In front of her niece. She sat down and took a couple of deep breaths before speaking.

Harriet had her arguments all lined up, had rehearsed them. Prepared for the onslaught. What she wasn’t prepared for was what Auntie Myrna said.

“You know what I did before I retired?”

“I’m sorry for not coming…” She stopped. Huh? “Pardon?”

“My job. You know what it was, right?”

“You were a therapist, weren’t you?” Harriet’s mind raced. Yes, therapist, but what sort? Physical? Art therapy? Massage maybe?

“I was a psychologist. Had a private practice, but I also worked in the prison system with the worst offenders.”

“Really?” Harriet had been a child when Auntie Myrna had moved to this village. She’d known, somehow, that her aunt had been a therapist in Montréal, but to Harriet, she’d only ever been Auntie Myrna who ran the bookstore. “That must’ve been interesting.”

She was trying to figure out where this was going. Surely her aunt wasn’t suggesting that having consensual sex qualified as an offense, never mind a “worst” one.

Harriet wasn’t just physically attracted to Sam, she liked him. He paid attention to her, listened to her. He saw her. He was even interested in her peculiar hobby of collecting bricks, offering to show her one he had that might interest her.

“Had it since I was a kid,” he had said. “But don’t tell anyone. Gamache already thinks I’m weird.”

“You know about the Arsenaults?” said Myrna.

Ahhh, thought Harriet, here it comes.

“Yes. Their mother was murdered. Fiona was arrested by Monsieur Gamache and spent years in prison.”

“Yes. But there’s more.”

Myrna wasn’t completely sure how far to go. Sam, after all, was never arrested. His possible involvement was never made public. It was just something Armand suspected. Though he suspected more than just “possible.” And more than just “involvement.”

Was it fair to say this to Harriet? To smear a young man, without proof.

Rumor was loose in the air, hunting for some neck to land on.

Ruth had written those lines about witch hunts, but really the poem was about those young women killed in the Polytechnique. For being smart, independent women.

Yes. Rumor did that. Like an alchemist, it turned vague discontent into concrete action. And gave suggestive minds a target for their insecurities. Their free-floating fear and resentments were just waiting for some neck …

Myrna did not want to do the same thing to anyone. Turn a feeling, a fear, into a fact. But she had to say something.

“Before Fiona could be released on parole, she and her brother needed psychological evaluations. I was asked by Monsieur Gamache to speak to them, to find out if it was safe for him to vouch for Fiona. Which I did.”

Harriet waited.

“I stopped the interview with Sam after ten minutes. It was clear to me that he is deeply disturbed. Unwell.” Myrna searched her niece’s face. “Be careful.”

“Thank you.”

Never very open, Harriet now did exactly what Myrna had feared. She shut down. Shut her out. She was a past master at hiding her feelings, hiding from anything that even remotely resembled confrontation.

“How are you feeling about what I just said?” she asked her niece.

“Oh, I’m okay. Thank you.”

Harriet got up.

“Please,” said Myrna, following her to the stairs. “Can we talk?”

Harriet turned. “No need.” She smiled. “I’m just fine. Thank you.”

Jesus, thought Myrna. It’s like I shot her into outer space. She reached out for Harriet, but the young woman drew away.

“It’s all right. I think I might stay at the B&B for a while. You’re right. There’s no room for me here.”

“I never said that. There’s always room for you. You know that.”

“Thank you.” Harriet looked around for her knapsack. Picking it up, she walked by her aunt and down the stairs. The bell over the bookshop door merrily jingled.

Myrna went over to the huge window and watched Harriet walk across the village green. Armand stopped to say hello, but she walked right by him and disappeared into the B&B.

Armand stared after her, then looked up at the window. At her.

Myrna dropped softly onto the window seat and looked out at the three huge trees, the message Anne Lamarque and the other women had sent out four centuries earlier.

Three Pines was a safe place, they’d declared. Not safe from hurt or pain. Not from illness and accident and death. What the village in the valley offered was a place to heal. It offered company and companionship, in life and at the end of life. It offered a surefire cure for loneliness.

Like the women who were fleeing for their lives, almost everyone in the village now had come there to find a safe haven. Once again, Myrna questioned herself. Was she denying Sam the very thing they all sought? A safe place?

But there was a difference between Sam Arsenault and the rest of them. He was the one they were running from.