World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 31

Reine-Marie saw the man looking around, and waved.

The docent at the Norwich Castle Museum waved back and walked across the flagstone floor to greet them.

The castle was a huge cube dropped, nine hundred years earlier, onto the highest point in the city of Norwich. It was now a public space that included an art gallery and museum.

Reine-Marie and a revived Amelia had turned off their cell phones, as per the request on the noticeboard.

“Madame Cloutier?” the smiling guide said.

“Yes, that’s right. And this is my assistant, Amelia Choquet.”

He looked at Amelia as though trying to decide where in the gallery she should be placed.

“My name is Cecil Clarke, I’m the head docent here. I understand you’re interested in The Paston Treasure?”

He gestured for them to follow him.

He was in his late sixties or early seventies, Reine-Marie guessed. Of average height. Slender. His head was shaved close, as many balding men do. He had a trim white beard and cheerful blue eyes.

He sounded mid-Atlantic. Neither British nor North American.

They strolled by glass cases displaying a wide and wild variety of animals, including a polar bear.

Amelia paused to stare at the great auk, then ran to catch up to Madame Gamache and the docent.

“So many mysteries,” Clarke said as they walked through the museum. “It’s captivated people for years.”

“A World of Curiosities,” said Reine-Marie.

“Exactly that. So many secrets. What’s your interest in the painting?”

“I’m writing a paper on it,” Reine-Marie explained. “I’m retired now but spent my life as a historian in Québec. I want to branch out into art history.”

“Well, you couldn’t find a more fascinating place to start than”—they turned a corner—“here.”

And there before them was an immense canvas. The Paston Treasure.

Reine-Marie stood in awe and Amelia actually gasped.

The painting was overwhelming, almost shocking in its display of opulence. And yet it was also deeply human, almost innocent. As though it surprised itself.

“Captivating, isn’t it?” Cecil said, clearly enjoying the reaction. “I’ve studied it for years and am still enthralled.”

“It feels as though we can walk right into it,” said Amelia.

He turned and looked at her with interest. “Yes. I often feel I have. In fact, I play a game with myself. I try to imagine which objects I’d bring with me, to add to those already there. What treasures. Trophies.”

“And what would you?” Reine-Marie asked, keeping her voice light.

“Oh, it changes every day.”

“Today?” she asked.

“Probably a favorite piece of music. Maybe a film, definitely a book. If I could get the great auk in, I would.”

Reine-Marie smiled and returned her gaze to the canvas and said, casually, “It does lend itself to that thought. Do you know of anyone who’s actually done it?”

“Walked into the painting?”

She laughed. “No. I mean made a copy but added some modern touches.”

He considered. “There probably are some, but none I’m aware of.”

She brought out her phone and showed him a photo of the one in the attic. “What do you make of this?”

He stared at it, enlarging the image and moving it about on the screen.

“Now this is a curiosity. How fun.” He looked from her phone to the original, and back. “An interesting choice of modern objects. Did you do this?”

She closed her phone and laughed again. “No. I just found this copy. I actually became interested in The Paston Treasure when a friend invited me to an exhibition here a few years ago. I couldn’t make it, but I looked up the work. Were you here for that show?”

“The one three years ago or so? I’d just arrived. I’m Canadian too, from New Brunswick. Retired.”

“Art history?”

“No. Engineering, actually.”

Captain Moel met the Chief Inspector outside the Old Train Station and was glad she’d come down.

“This is where you live?” she asked as she got out of the car. “It looks like something out of a Disney animation. I half expect the butterflies to burst into song.” She had her back to him. “Peaceful.”

“You’d think.”

She turned and saw his face. Grim. Worried.

“Are you okay?”

“Been better.”

The normally well-dressed man was a mess. Hair disheveled, his clothing rumpled and dirty. He hadn’t had time to shower and change after the visit to the SHU.

Hardye Moel was now head of the Sûreté du Québec counseling division, having earned her Ph.D. She’d built up her department from practically nothing.

Chief Inspector Gamache was an early advocate for, and adopter of, the service. He’d sent many of his agents for counseling. And gone himself.

Dr. Moel was his colleague and therapist. Hardye Moel was his friend.

“How can I help?”

He told her what had happened at the SHU. The fact that he’d lost it, and it was only the presence of Jean-Guy Beauvoir that prevented him from hurting, maybe even killing, the warden.

“I don’t think it would have gone that far, Armand.” She studied him. “But you’re not sure? What did the warden do to bring this on?”

Gamache stared at her for a moment, knowing he’d have to tell her everything. But he hesitated.

Hardye waited. Giving him space and time. She saw his eyes drift from her over to the village. To the neighbors walking dogs. Sitting outside on the terrasse of the bistro. Working in gardens. She heard the birds, the lawn mowers, the shouted greetings.

And then his eyes came to rest. She turned to see that he was looking at the three huge spires of pine trees on the village green.

Of course, she thought. Three Pines.

When she turned back, his gaze was once more on her.

And then he told her. Everything.

As he spoke, he saw Captain Moel’s eyes widen, then narrow. As though she was squinting at something horrible approaching.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “John Fleming? He let Fleming go? He’s out?”

“Let’s go inside,” said Armand.

Once in the Incident Room, she stared at the huge canvas.

Dr. Moel had studied the Fleming case in her courses on aberrant behavior. She remembered reading that John Fleming had been a churchgoing man. Obsessed with it. A God-fearing man, he eventually feared God so much he ran straight into the arms of the other.

The Angel of the Morning. The Fallen Angel. God’s favorite. Until …

But Armand was pointing at the painting and saying something else.

“Pardon?”

“The faces, the heads. They’re of his victims. Jesus,” Armand said, wiping his hand over his face. “I should’ve seen it sooner.”

Captain Moel turned away, repulsed. “How could you? No sane person would see it, would believe an inmate at the SHU could be responsible. I read about his case, his trial. There was no mention of you.”

“No. I was there as an observer, assigned by the Crown.”

“Did Fleming recognize you? Is that why he’s doing this?”

It didn’t make sense, this obsession Fleming seemed to have with the Chief Inspector. Why not the arresting cop? The prosecutor? The judge. Why Gamache?

“A few years ago I needed his help in a case. He agreed, but in exchange I had to promise to let him go.”

Moel stared at him, incredulous. “You were willing to do that?”

“I had no choice.”

By then Fleming had been in the SHU for more than a decade. If he wasn’t mad before, he was by then. Though Gamache knew John Fleming had almost certainly come out of the womb a lunatic.

“At the last minute, the last second, I reneged. He’d taken a few steps outside, had a taste of freedom, before I had him taken back in.”

It was close, and Armand almost, almost, had to follow through with that terrible calculation. Release a madman into society to murder again. And again. Or allow plans for a weapon of mass destruction to be sold to the highest bidder.

Even at his most prolific, Fleming could not match that death toll. And Armand was confident he could recapture the lunatic, eventually. Eventually.

But finally, he didn’t have to.

He could still hear the screams, unholy shrieks, like some wraith being burned alive, as Fleming was dragged back into the hellhole.

Hardye Moel nodded. She understood. That event had focused his mania, his rage, on the Chief Inspector.

Armand checked his phone again. Still nothing from Reine-Marie or Amelia.

“I’d like to get in touch with some of the people who came to the exhibition,” said Reine-Marie. “To see why they’re so taken with The Paston Treasure. Especially people who came from a distance. North America, for instance. Any idea how I might do that?”

Amelia looked at Reine-Marie with new respect. This might work.

“Not a clue,” said Cecil.

“Was it possible to book a private tour of the exhibition?” Amelia asked. “I imagine a real enthusiast would want that.”

“Now that’s true,” said the docent. “I think I can find that list if you’re interested, since it would involve bookings and payment.”

“Please,” said Reine-Marie, and looked at Amelia with new respect.

He returned a few minutes later, waving sheets of paper.

“Here it is. The people who reserved private talks on The Paston Treasure during that exhibition.”

He handed Reine-Marie the list. It was two pages long, mostly academics who wanted exclusive access to the painting. But there, on the second page, was one Lillian Virginia Mountweazel.

Hardye took a seat in one of the comfortable armchairs, her back to the canvas. Armand had poured them each a coffee, which she gratefully took.

As he joined her, she leaned toward him. “Do you think Fleming’s here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see how he could be. I’d recognize him, I’m sure. Fairly sure. I think.” He heaved a sigh. “I need a clear head to find him, and I’m worried…”

She gave him space and time.

“… that I’m coming unhinged.”

“Because of what happened in the SHU this morning, with the warden.”

Gamache nodded.

“What’re you afraid of, Armand?”

“Besides going completely mad and committing murder myself?”

“Besides that.”

He’d actually been afraid of this question, suspecting she’d ask. But it was no use lying. Why invite her here to help him, then hide the truth?

“I’m afraid I’ll fail. I’m afraid that whatever happens, it will be my fault. Since I found out he’d escaped, it feels like only part of my brain is working. The rest is screaming at me.” He lowered his voice. “He’s screaming at me.”

“That’s only natural. Jesus, since you told me about Fleming, my head is screaming.”

“But you don’t have to find him,” said Armand. “I do.”

“True. The fear, the howl, will settle down. It’s just the shock.”

He shook his head. “It’s more than that, deeper than that. I almost assaulted the warden.”

“If it’s deeper than that, then you have to look deeper.” She held his eyes. “There’s something you aren’t admitting, isn’t there.”

He looked down at his hands and saw a tear, like a drop of rain, splash onto a finger. He looked up and met Hardye’s eyes.

“I’m afraid Fleming will kill my family. I’m afraid I won’t be able to save them.”

She nodded slowly. “Did you do this on purpose?”

“Of course not. Does it matter?”

“Mens rea. Yes, it matters. This isn’t your fault, Armand. This is Fleming’s fault, the warden’s fault. You and your team are the solution. You need to separate it out. You’re catastrophizing, allowing fear into the driver’s seat. You’re reacting to things that haven’t happened and behaving as though they have, or are inevitable. Focus on what is actually happening, here and now.”

“Surrender to reality,” he said with a small grin and, grabbing a tissue, he rubbed his eyes.

It was one of Hardye Moel’s favorite sayings.

“Yes. Stop fighting battles that don’t exist. Focus on what does. And don’t take it all on yourself. You have a smart, effective team around you.”

He took three deep breaths, closed his eyes. Then, opening them, he smiled at her.

“Merci. That helps.”

She looked at her watch. “I need to be getting back.”

“Ummm, actually, there’s another reason I wanted to see you. Sam Arsenault is here.”

“Ahhh,” she said, sitting back down. “I see.”

“You obviously remember him.”

“I do. The case is hard to forget. Those children.”

“You stayed with them in those early days. You observed them. What did you think of them?”

“Them or him?”

“Both, I suppose, but mostly him. My impression is that he was far more culpable in the death of their mother than we could prove. And when Fiona accepted guilt, there wasn’t much more we could do. But I want to know, need to know…”

“How sick he was? Is?”

He nodded.

“Before I answer, I need to know if I’m speaking to you as a colleague or a friend.”

Armand stared at her for a moment. “Which one will get me into less trouble?”

She laughed. “Well, let me start as your colleague. I haven’t seen him in years, and when I did, I wasn’t trained in criminal and aberrant behavior. So I couldn’t answer your question.”

“As my friend?”

“I’d say stay the fuck away from him. The kid’s a nutjob.”

“Well, that’s clear.”

She leaned forward again. “I’m serious. He hated you then, and that sort of hate only festers and grows in a personality like his.”

“Is he a psychopath?”

“I’d say yes.”

“And the sister, Fiona?”

“Well, that’s another question. She was clearly bright, but so damaged. When there’s not just a failure to protect and nurture, but pain of the most intimate type inflicted by your own mother, well, not many get out of that unscathed.”

“She’s here too. Jean-Guy pointed out that Sam cried when told about his mother. Fiona didn’t.”

“True. But what’s the most natural reaction? The fact is, Clotilde made them cry before she died. Sam’s tears were meant for you, not his mother. Fiona was much more honest in her reaction.”

“Is she dangerous too?”

“I don’t know, Armand. I wish I could tell you. It’s possible that on their own they’re under control. It’s only when they get together that something happens. They bring out the worst in each other.”

And both Hardye and Armand knew the “worst” was pretty bad.

“I need to get back to the city, but there’s one other thing. You said you didn’t think John Fleming was here now. That you’d recognize him. Honestly, if what you’re saying is true, then he’d almost certainly be here. He’d want to see you squirm. He’d want to see his plan unfold and be here in case anything goes wrong. He might not be right in the village, he might be camping nearby, or hiding in some home. You look relieved. I’d have thought having a raving lunatic in your backyard wouldn’t be the best news.”

“I sent Reine-Marie to the UK, to investigate the original.” He nodded toward the painting. “I wanted to get her away, but now I can’t reach her.” He looked again at his phone. Still no message. “If Fleming is here and not with her, that’s a relief. You really think he is here?”

“Probably.”

He walked Captain Moel to her car, then went home for a quick shower and to change.

Probably, thought Armand, was not a yes.

“Yes, I remember her,” said Cecil. “Quite a character. Exactly what you’d expect a Mountweazel to be.”

“This was years ago,” said Amelia. “She must’ve been memorable.”

“Oh, she was, but I don’t remember her from back then.”

“Then how do you know her?” Reine-Marie asked.

“She was here a couple of months ago. All wrapped in furs this time, and scarves, and wearing a sort of turban thing.”

He indicated his head, as though a turban could be worn anywhere else.

“What is it?” he asked, seeing their surprise.

“Nothing,” said Reine-Marie. “Virginia—”

“Lillian,” muttered Amelia.

“Lily didn’t mention she’d been back. Any idea why she came?”

“Not really. I do remember she called to say she’d lost something and wondered if we’d found it and could mail it back to her.”

“What had she lost?” asked Amelia.

“An old letter she said she’d found in a flea market. Something that belonged to her family.”

“Ahh, yes,” said Reine-Marie. “She did mention that. And you sent it back, right? To her old address or the new one?”

“I have no idea. We had the letter in our lost and found and mailed it, but we wouldn’t have kept a record of where. Why so interested?”

“We’re not really. Do you mind?” Reine-Marie held up her phone. “I’d love a photo with the three of us. To show her.”

“Of course.”

They took a selfie.

“I’ll just send it.”

“No phones allowed in here, but you can go out onto the terrace.”

Reine-Marie did. As soon as she connected up, her phone came alive with messages, all from Armand.

“You’re all right?” he said, picking up her call before the first ring had ended. He’d showered and had just changed into clean clothes.

“Yes, why?”

“I couldn’t reach you.”

“I’m sorry. What’s happened?”

He told her, succinctly, what he’d just told Captain Moel.

That John Fleming was out. That the former head guard had been murdered. That everything that was happening, including and especially the items in the bricked-up room and the altered painting of The Paston Treasure, was almost certainly done by Fleming.

Reine-Marie sat on a stone bench and stared, dazed, across the pretty city.

She remembered the trial in the closed courtroom in Montréal. They were still living in the city at the time. Armand would come home every evening more and more drained, as though his essence were seeping out as he listened to the testimony. As he looked at the photographs. Heard the recordings.

He’d become convinced that Fleming’s crimes were not limited to those seven murders. To that spree in New Brunswick. There were others, he was sure. Even after Fleming was convicted and put away, he spent years tracking down possible evidence. Still did.

But now it seemed he had to find the man himself.

“He’d be in his seventies now, wouldn’t he?” she said. “What does he look like?”

“He’s seventy-one. Five seven. Slight build, gray hair thinning. Bright blue eyes. Remarkable eyes.”

He did not sound very formidable. But Reine-Marie knew the power of madness. The strength it gave people. Not just physical strength, but strength of purpose. A person who was simply bad, nasty, would always try to justify their cruelty. A madman did not waste time and energy on that.

John Fleming at seventy-one would be as dangerous as he would have been at twenty-one. Perhaps even more so. He now had experience on his side.

“Can you send a photograph?” she asked.

“There are no recent ones. Why?”

“Because we’re talking to someone, the local expert on The Paston Treasure, who fits your description. I have a picture. I’ll send it.”

“You need to come home,” said Armand. “Now. Get David to drive you straight to Heathrow and get on the first flight out. Anywhere. Then make your way home.”

“Oh, he’s coming over,” she said, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “His name’s Cecil Clarke. With an e. Armand, he’s Canadian, from New Brunswick. Au revoir. Je t’aime. I’ll call you from the car.”

With that, she hung up and put the phone away.

She forgot to send the photo. She also forgot, or didn’t realize it might be important, to tell him that Cecil Clarke was a retired engineer.

Reine-Marie texted to say they were in the car with David. He could relax.

Armand called his team in Montréal and had them do a search for a Cecil Clarke, about seventy years old, from New Brunswick, now living in Norwich, UK.

When he returned to the Incident Room, cleaned up and feeling more under control, he called Captain Moel.

“Hardye, I have one more question, though I think I know the answer.”

“Go on.”

“Why would Fleming leave that ticket to the exhibition? He must know we’d find it.”

“Why do you think?”

“Because he wanted us to go there. To waste time.”

“It’s not just that, it’s more insidious. He’s toying with you. He wants you to know that he’s in control. He can make you do anything he wants.”

It confirmed what Armand sensed. He was being manipulated. Every step preordained.

Fleming had had years to plan. He’d had just hours to try to catch up.

“There is one other possibility,” said Hardye. “Something that came to me in the car. It’s possible Fleming is working through someone else.”

“Someone who arrived in the village just before the hidden room was discovered,” Armand said. “You’re thinking of Sam?”

“And Fiona, yes. In fact, honestly, most likely Fiona. She has far more access to you. But that would mean there was some connection between Fleming and the Arsenaults.”

It wasn’t the news he wanted, but he did need to face reality.

He called Beauvoir for an update.

“The warden’s terrified. Refuses to admit anything. Should I send out an alert for Fleming?”

Gamache was prepared for the question.

“Non. We have no proof. And we don’t want him to be warned and go to ground. We need to get Annie and Daniel and the kids away. Someplace safe. I have a friend with a cabin on Lac Manitou in the Laurentians. I’ll call him then send you the address.”

“Yes, yes, good.” Jean-Guy was feeling more and more stressed. “I’ll get them there.”

“Jean-Guy?”

“Oui?”

“About what happened in the SHU—”

“Nothing happened.”

“Merci quand même,” said Armand. Thank you anyway.

If a man’s foes were of his own household, Gamache knew that his friends were too.

When he hung up, Armand noticed Robert Mongeau’s car descending into the village and parking by the church.

The minister got out, slowly, as though walking through hardening concrete. Every movement forced. His head bowed. His eyes to the ground.

Armand’s brows drew together as he watched the slow, labored progress. He could guess what had happened. But he didn’t have time …

He called his friend with the lake house and got permission and a promise to tell no one. After sending Jean-Guy the address, he looked at a photo that had just arrived from Reine-Marie. It was a selfie of her, Amelia, and Cecil Clarke. The man looked nothing like John Fleming.

Armand was about to exhale when he read her message. Clarke was an engineer.

“Damn.” He put in a call to Nathalie Provost.

“I was about to call you, Armand. I sent the serial number on the ring to the Société des Ingénieurs. I just got the list of people who wore it.”

“Is there a John Fleming on it?”

There was a pause that felt longer than it was. “Non.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not a long list, Armand. Yes, I’m sure.”

“How about a Cecil Clarke?”

“Non, not him either.”

“Merci.”

This was the first bit of good news. It meant Fleming hadn’t dropped the ring. Hadn’t been down in their basement. It meant Reine-Marie hadn’t had a madman’s hand on her shoulder.

He sat back in his chair and stared out the window for a moment. Then, taking a last look at the peaceful village, he turned away and tilted his head back, staring at the tongue-and-groove ceiling. If Fleming was inside his head, that might mean he could get inside Fleming’s. If he tried.

Armand closed his eyes. And waited. And waited.

Out of the darkness, eyes appeared. Startling blue.

His own eyes flew open, and his chair tilted forward, almost throwing him out of it.

Unlike the elderly and embittered Ruth as the Virgin Mary in Clara’s portrait, where Clara had put a dot of light in her angry eyes, creating hope in the midst of despair, Fleming’s eyes gleamed bright. But in them there was a black spot. A blight. A cave.

Armand saw the invitation to enter. Into despair. And knew he had no choice.

He sat up straight, planted his feet firmly on the floor, placed a hand on each knee, closed his eyes again, and took several deep breaths.

I’m coming for you.

In the distance he heard a sound. So deep was his reverie, so complete his focus, it took him a moment to realize it was his phone.

“Gamache.”

“Armand, I’ve figured out the code,” said Jérôme Brunel. “It’s written in a mix of shorthands, including Tironian. It’s actually the same phrase in French, English, Latin, German, Hebrew, all mixed together. A chaos of languages, like speaking in tongues.”

“What does it say?”

“I’m coming for you.”

Armand felt his blood rush to his core.

And after all it is nothing new / It is only a memory, after all.

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