World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 33

The two men sat quietly. One silenced by grief, the other by knowing there were no words.

Armand could not even offer companionship. The man beside him was alone. Standing on an island in some vast ocean, no mainland in sight.

And so Armand sat quietly, also bathed in the brilliant boys. He’d have to leave soon to meet Jean-Guy, but for another few minutes Armand could sit with his friend. And hope and pray that a bridge, or a boat, might one day appear that would take Robert to a place of peace.

“She’s gone.” The words caused the dust caught in the sunshine to swirl about.

“Oui.” Armand waited a moment. Two. Before saying, “Would you like to talk?”

Armand assumed the silence was the answer, but then …

“She was fine when we went to bed.” Robert spoke to the Bible in his hand. “I gave her her meds, then I read to her until she fell asleep.” He continued to stare straight ahead. “We weren’t even halfway through the book.”

It seemed a non sequitur, but Armand understood. It was no longer a book, it had become a symbol.

He remembered finding, at the age of nine, the book his father had been reading. It was on the bedside table with a bookmark where he’d stopped. Where he’d expected to continue. But never did.

Young Armand took the book into his own bedroom and placed it in a drawer. Safe for when they came back. So that his father could pick up the story where he left off.

It had taken Armand more than forty years to finally open the book. He’d sat on the bench above Three Pines, day after day, holding it but not yet daring. And then, one day, he dared.

Armand, a grandfather by then, read to the end, finishing what his father had started. He hoped that one day Robert would too. But the minister did not have forty years to wait for the bridge, or the boat.

Jean-Guy got to the rendezvous location much earlier than planned and pulled into a small opening where Monsieur Godin, or Fleming, could not see him.

After confirming that Annie, Honoré, and Idola, along with Daniel and his family, were safely at the lake house, he opened an email from Reine-Marie.

Attached was a photo of the clock from the original Paston Treasure. All around the face there were lines, markings.

“Oh, merde,” he said. His heart was beating fast, in excitement or dread or both.

Curator just found this on original painting. Not there before.

Beauvoir forwarded it to Dr. Brunel to decode, copying Gamache.

“I remember the day I came home and told Sylvie I wanted to enroll in divinity school,” said Robert, smiling.

Armand listened. He wondered if the minister remembered he was there, or if he was talking to himself.

“She didn’t argue. Wasn’t surprised, though it meant a complete change in lifestyle. No more private clubs, no more business class travel. No more fine meals in ridiculously priced restaurants. We’d have to sell the business, the house, the lake house at Manitou. We’d have to watch every cent. But she didn’t argue. I think she was relieved that I’d finally seen what had been obvious to her for years. I was miserable and making everyone around me miserable.”

He turned slightly and looked at Armand. Studying his face for something. Then he looked away again.

“This’s our first posting, you know. I wanted a church in Montréal or Québec City, so the bishop sent me here.” He chuckled. “Took us a few days to even find the place. I kept calling the diocese to make sure they got it right.”

Robert shook his head. Lost in the past. Where Sylvie was beside him in the car.

As Armand watched, Robert reached out, palm up, then slowly closed his hand over hers as they searched the countryside for the place that seemed more myth than real.

“She’d decided to stop treatment by then. She wanted to just live out the rest of her days. That’s really why I wanted a city, so we’d be close to a hospital. But she wanted the countryside, where she’d be close to nature. She loved going for walks around here. Every evening after dinner, we walked, though recently we just sat in the garden.” He fell silent, remembering. And then he remembered. And lost her again, the island drifting farther out to sea.

For Robert Mongeau there would always be a before and an after. All events would henceforth be dated from Sylvie alive and Sylvie dead.

As Robert squeezed his eyes shut, Armand felt the sharp thrust into his own heart.

“I know, I know, I know she’s with God,” said Robert. “I know she’s at peace. But oh God, oh God.”

Armand reached out and took his hand.

He was aware of time ticking by. Aware Beauvoir was waiting for him. Aware Fleming might be too, just outside that door.

But this was important. He hoped, if something happened to Reine-Marie, someone would hold his hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” repeated Robert, crying openly now.

“It’s all right,” Armand whispered. They were, he knew, empty words. But he had to offer something.

Mongeau gathered himself, sat up straighter, took his hand from Armand’s, and wiped his eyes and nose with a handkerchief. Then unexpectedly smiled.

“I can’t imagine what Claude thought. I practically ran him over when I backed out of the drive on my way over here. After they’d…”

It took Armand a moment to understand what he was saying. “The driveway? At your house? Claude was at your place this morning?”

“Yes. I pay him extra to do odd jobs around the place. He was weeding the drive. In my hurry to get here, to get away, I didn’t see him. Thankfully he managed to get out of the way. He’s far more agile than he looks.”

“Was he there yesterday too?”

“Yes, but only after he’d finished work here.”

Armand stepped carefully, but Robert seemed grateful for the change of topic.

“Can you tell me how you came to hire Monsieur Boisfranc?”

“Claude?” The minister paused to think. “I thought I told you. He was recommended. Some woman staying at the B&B came to service one Sunday.” He paused. “I remember because Sylvie was too weak to come. It was a bad few days for her. First service she’d missed.” He reflected for a moment, then continued on. “The woman stayed for coffee and cake after and must’ve overheard Gabri and me talking about the search for a caretaker.”

“What did she say?”

“That she volunteered for a group in Montréal, a halfway home for former convicts. Claude was one. Convicted of petty crimes. In and out of prison. I interviewed him and decided to hire him.”

“A former convict?”

Robert shifted in his seat to look at Gamache. “You’re the last person I’d expect to deny someone a second chance. You have, after all, a convicted murderer in your home. The worst Claude did was steal some clothes.”

“I’m not blaming or accusing you of anything.”

“Are you accusing him?”

“No.” Not yet. Though this did explain Boisfranc’s loathing of Gamache. Almost certainly of all cops. And who could blame him?

But alarms were going off for the Chief Inspector. “Do you know the name of the halfway home?”

“No, but I can find it for you. Does it really matter?”

“Do you have Claude’s address?”

“Here? I let him stay in the church basement. Why?”

“How about the name of the woman who suggested him?”

Robert laughed. “You’re kidding, right? That’s almost two years ago.” Then he stopped and tilted his head. “Actually, strangely, I do remember. It was—”

Before he even said it, Gamache knew.

“—Mountweazel,” said Robert. “I know that Claude’s a little odd, taciturn. But he’s been a godsend.”

“Yes, I’m sure he has. Listen, Robert, Reine-Marie won’t be back until tomorrow at the earliest. Come over for dinner. Stay the night. Please.”

The minister considered for a moment. “Merci. I’d like that. I’m not sure I could sleep at home…”

“Yes.”

They were silent, Armand aware of the need to leave soon.

“I hope Reine-Marie’s enjoyed herself,” said Robert. “Sylvie and I used to love visiting galleries and museums in London. And Paris, of course. Her favorite thing in Paris were the flea markets. The big one, what’s it called again? My mind isn’t working.”

“Les Puces.”

The minister gave one short laugh. “Of course. Les Puces. The Fleas. You must miss Reine-Marie when she’s away.”

“I do.”

“You must tell her that, Armand.” The minister turned and looked at him directly, for the first time since Armand had arrived.

“She knows.”

“Yes, I imagine she does. But you can never say it too often. You can never let someone know too often that they’re precious. That they’re missed.” He paused. “Believe me.”

And Armand did.

“Did anyone visit Sylvie yesterday?”

“No. We were at Clara’s briefly, but no one came to the house. Why?”

“Think, Robert. Anyone?”

“What is it, Armand, why’re you asking?”

“I’m just wondering.”

“You’re more than wondering,” said the minister. “Tell me.”

“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”

Mongeau stared at him. “Occupational? You’re not thinking she was … That’s insane.” His voice was rising into the hysteria range. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m not saying anything, Robert.” Armand’s voice was steady, calm. “I’m just asking.”

“She had cancer, for God’s sake. What’re you suggesting?”

“I’m sorry.” And he was. But still, he had to ask. Again. “Did anyone come to the house yesterday? A delivery, maybe?”

“No.” But now there was a hesitation, a slight shift in the minister’s attitude. “Actually, something was delivered. Sylvie said she didn’t remember ordering it, but I think the cancer had gone to her brain. She was forgetting things, getting more muddled.”

“What was it?”

“A clock.”

“Clock?” Armand thought of the photo Reine-Marie had sent of the detail from the real Paston Treasure. “Do you know what time it was set for?”

“Of course not. Who notices that?”

Gamache was almost afraid to ask the next question. “Was there any writing on it?”

The minister looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Writing? What are you talking about? Sylvie’s dead. Don’t you care? For sure, let’s talk about clocks now.”

“I’m sorry, of course I care.” He leaned forward. “I wish I didn’t have to do this, but … Robert, where was she taken?”

The minister looked perplexed, then his eyes widened. “Good God, you’re not suggesting an…”

“Autopsy. Not yet, but we need blood and tissue samples. And I need to see the clock. I am deeply, deeply sorry, but if someone did something to Sylvie, we need to know. It might help us find the person and stop him hurting anyone else.”

Appealing to the minister’s sense of social responsibility might have been manipulative, but it also happened to be the truth. They had to get possession of Sylvie Mongeau’s body before she was embalmed.

“But it’s ludicrous. Why would anyone hurt Sylvie?”

“I don’t know, and she probably died peacefully and naturally. But we need to be sure.”

“No autopsy?” said Robert. “You promise?”

“No autopsy. Not without telling you. I promise.”

Mongeau gave him the name of the funeral home. Armand got to his feet.

“I won’t be able to come to your home after all.” The minister’s voice was cold, formal. “I’ll have Claude drop the clock off at the Old Train Station.”

With that he turned his back on Gamache.

“I wish you’d reconsider, Robert.” The minister didn’t move, but Armand had one more question. “Does Monsieur Boisfranc have a key to your home?”

But Robert just continued to stare ahead. Though Gamache was pretty sure he knew what the answer was.

Instead of heading outside, Armand went down into the basement, where he found the caretaker’s room. It had a single bed and dresser. Armand stood at the threshold and looked in. He had no right to search the man’s place, and anything he found could not be used as evidence.

He considered. Weighing the consequences. The legal and the moral.

And then he entered the room and searched. Quickly, expertly.

But there was nothing there. No photographs, no letters. No handwriting of any sort.

This was the modest room of a man without roots. Then Armand looked behind the door and found a poster. It was from Clara’s first solo show at the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal.

The museum had chosen the extraordinary portrait of Ruth Zardo as the abandoned, forgotten, embittered Virgin Mary, clutching a blue shawl to her scrawny neck and looking out at the world with contempt.

Except, except, except. For those who did not hurry by, there was a reward beyond imagining. It was the tiny dot in her eyes. The tiniest hint of hope.

Did this man lie in bed at night and stare at it? And if so, what did he see? The despair or the hope?

Was this an insight into a man trying to right his life? Or was it another sign from Fleming? Of all the posters Boisfranc could have chosen, he’d pinned up one unique to this village. One that spoke of an enraged mother of Christ.

Yes, it was just the sort of image a fallen worshipper might choose. And exactly the sort of image he would misinterpret.

As Armand left, he looked for the caretaker, but Claude Boisfranc was nowhere to be seen, though the scraper was lying by the clapboard wall.

As he walked to his car, he thought about his exchange with Boisfranc. While not particularly pleasant, no alarms had been set off. He’d looked into those eyes and had not seen John Fleming. But then even eyes could be disguised with colored contact lenses.

As he considered that, he realized he’d just left another man who, roughly speaking, fit the description of John Fleming. Add weight. A trim beard. Put in contact lenses …

Armand paused by his car and placed a call. After being transferred a few times, he finally got through.

“Bishop Hargreaves? My name is Armand Gamache, I’m the—”

“Yes,” said the man. “I know who you are.” It was said with good humor and even warmth. “How can I help you, Chief Inspector? Not a crime, I hope.” His voice grew grave.

“No. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but Sylvie Mongeau passed away last night. She’s the wife of one of your clergy, the minister who’s assigned to my village church in Three Pines.”

He waited for the Bishop to recall.

“Robert Mongeau. Yes. Oh, dear. We knew it was coming, but it’s always a shock, isn’t it? I’ll call him and say prayers for them both.”

“Can you tell me a bit about him?”

There was a pause. It was clear the Anglican Bishop wanted to ask why but restrained himself.

“Well, his records are private, of course, but I can tell you that he graduated from divinity school just a couple of years ago and applied for a position in Montréal. I was going to assign him to one in Westmount, but Sylvie came to me privately and asked for a posting in the country.”

“Why Three Pines?”

“She asked for it specifically. Said she’d heard from a woman friend how nice it was. Peaceful. With a good community feel. A place that would be supportive.”

“Of her, because of her cancer.”

“No. She was thinking of Robert. That he’d need that support, one day.”

Armand glanced toward the church and the man he’d just left, even more devastated than when he’d arrived. He let out a long breath and continued.

“I don’t suppose she told you the name of the woman friend.”

Now the Bishop laughed. “You must be practiced at praying, Chief Inspector. There’s no way I’d remember that, even if she told me, which I doubt. I looked up the village, and sure enough, Three Pines had had itinerant ministers, as you probably know, but no permanent one. In fact, we rotate responsibility for the care of the souls between priests, ministers, and rabbis. I asked my colleagues, and they all agreed to let Monsieur Mongeau minister full-time. I wouldn’t normally assign a dedicated minister to such a small congregation, but I sympathized. I’d lost my own wife a year before.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Merci. But it does tenderize a person. I’m sorry about Madame Mongeau. I liked her. I like them both. Robert is extraordinary. But then people who find God again, after wandering in the wilderness, often are.”

“Merci, Your Grace.”

He hung up, relieved. He hadn’t expected any other answer from the Bishop, but he had to be sure that Robert Mongeau was who he said he was. He then called Correctional Services, for the file on Claude Boisfranc. And, most important, a photograph.

As he drove to the rendezvous with Jean-Guy, Armand pledged to try to stop seeing ghosts, or Flemings, behind every tree. There were a lot of trees. And a lot of ghosts.

Jean-Guy looked down the dirt road. Again.

Gamache had texted to say he’d be a few minutes late. It was all Beauvoir could do not to get out of the car and pace. Finally, he saw the Volvo approach.

Beauvoir was there almost before the vehicle had fully stopped.

“I went over Fleming’s file,” he said, clutching the dossier and getting in the passenger seat. “There’s a list attached to the back of the last page. It’s of places he lived and dates. John Fleming was in the same town as Clotilde Arsenault twenty-six years ago. I called up the Arsenault file and compared. And get this, he was in the next village over when Clotilde was murdered.”

Gamache stared at Beauvoir, stunned. “It’s not in the file I have.”

He took the paper and put on his reading glasses. He’d spent hours and hours at that desk in the little room in his basement, going over and over, over the years, the thick dossier.

There were huge holes in the timeline. And in those holes, Chief Inspector Gamache was convinced, were buried more victims. In those holes he might find the name of an accomplice, still out there.

In those holes he might now find the escaped madman.

The list of places and dates that Beauvoir handed him was scribbled on paper torn from an exercise book like the ones his granddaughters brought home from school. All that was missing were the little pony stickers.

“This’s information he gave them while at the SHU,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache took off his reading glasses and looked out the windshield at the sun-dappled dirt road. His mind worked quickly, going back to that November day by the shore of the iron-gray lake. To that house. Those children. The videos. Could Fleming be on one?

Could Fleming have somehow been involved in Clotilde’s murder?

“It could be more lies,” he said. “To confuse us, have us running off in the wrong direction.”

“Thought of that. I called detention and spoke to the warden. He admitted lots in the file was faked. The ID, the fingerprints, DNA. But not that list.”

“I’m not saying the warden necessarily fabricated it. I’m saying Fleming lied to them about where he lived and when. We only have his word, and we know what that’s worth.”

The list might as well have been written on toilet paper. But still, Gamache didn’t dare dismiss it outright. It was certainly more manipulation, but that did not make it untrue. And it was certainly strange that, if he made it up at random, he’d choose those towns and those years.

“We need to find out if his name was in Clotilde’s ledger.”

“Will do.”

“In that file”—he nodded to the dossier on Beauvoir’s lap—“is there mention of a wife? Children?”

“No. But that’s something else, patron. I did the math. If what’s in here is true, John Fleming was not only in the same town as Clotilde twenty-six years ago, he was living there when she gave birth.”

“To whom?” Though he could do the math himself.

“Fiona.”

There was silence for a beat, two, as Gamache stared at Beauvoir.

“Are you suggesting that Fiona Arsenault is John Fleming’s daughter?”

“Yes. Maybe. It’s possible. There’s no father listed on her birth certificate, and Fleming was gone by the time Sam was born. We can get her DNA records, and once we find Fleming’s, we can compare them.”

Armand felt like someone had just struck him hard on the side of the head.

Could it be even worse than he had feared?

Not Sam after all, but Fiona, as Jean-Guy had always maintained. As others had maintained. But he’d ignored them. So sure of himself.

Fiona. The young woman whose release he had secured. Who was released into his custody. Released into his home. Into his family.

“You couldn’t have known, patron.”

“You knew.”

“I guessed. I didn’t know and still don’t.”

And yet, for all Armand didn’t want to believe it, one of his strengths was seeing the truth, no matter how awful. And this looked like the truth. And this was awful.

Jean-Guy reached for the door handle, but Gamache stopped him.

“I have news too.”

He told Beauvoir about Sylvie Mongeau.

“I called the funeral home,” he said. “They’re sending her body to the coroner. I’ve alerted Dr. Harris to just take blood and tissue samples for now and get them analyzed quickly.”

“You think Madame Mongeau was murdered? By Fleming? But why would he?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she wasn’t. Or maybe she knew something, saw something. I think she met the Mountweazel woman. She specifically asked that they be assigned to Three Pines because some woman had told her it was a peaceful place. I think that woman was Mountweazel. Maybe Fleming was worried that Sylvie would recognize her.”

“So you think she’s here too?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she hasn’t arrived yet. Maybe that’s why Sylvie needed to be killed now, before she does.”

Maybe, maybe, maybe. But there was one more, and a big one.

“Sylvie asked Myrna to bring a book, even though they were only partway through the one they were reading. I think the book was an excuse to talk to Myrna. As a therapist, perhaps, but maybe it was as Harriet’s aunt. Maybe she recognized Sam from somewhere and wanted to warn Myrna.”

“Maybe,” said Jean-Guy, but Armand could interpret the look, the tone.

He thinks I’m unwilling to accept Fiona’s the one we need to watch, not Sam. And he might be right. Maybe it was Fiona she recognized. But then, why speak to Myrna and not Reine-Marie or me? No, it must be Sam …

He was desperate to believe that the monster in their midst was not the one he had released. Not Fiona.

Not Fiona.

Not Fiona.

But Sam.

Dear God, maybe it’s both.

“Maybe asking to see Myrna has nothing to do with her death,” said Jean-Guy. “She just liked books and wanted her company.”

Gamache nodded. It was the simplest explanation, and the most likely.

“Maybe.”

“Poor Mongeau,” said Jean-Guy.

“Oui.” Armand would try again to see if the grieving man would come over for dinner and stay the night.

He flipped through the file once more, his eyes coming to rest on the list of Fleming’s victims.

Armand, of course, knew them all by heart. Their names. Their families. Their communities and jobs and friends and faiths.

The Hudson’s Bay clerk. The fisherman. The bridge builder.

“Oh, my God,” Gamache whispered.

He stared at the list. Then, getting out of the car, he walked away. In the opposite direction of the Godin house. Jean-Guy was about to go after him, but knew enough to let the man just think. He watched as Gamache turned and walked back. Then turned again and walked away. His hands clasped behind his back, his head bent as though leaning into a whirlwind.

Then he stopped, turned, and stared at Jean-Guy.

“What is it?” asked Beauvoir.

But Gamache was on the phone. It rang and rang, then went to voice mail.

“Nathalie, it’s Armand. Can you send me that list?” When he hung up, he walked quickly over to Jean-Guy, talking as he strode. “Fleming’s fourth victim, Connor McNee. He was a bridge builder.”

“Yes.” Beauvoir’s eyes opened. “Is that why there was the picture of the Québec Bridge in the painting?”

“I think so. Those engineer’s rings are made from the remains of the bridge. I think Connor McNee was an engineer. I think that was his ring.”

“But he’s dead. He couldn’t have left it there.”

“No, but Fleming could have. The bodies were never found. Just the heads.”

“Oh, fuck me,” muttered Beauvoir. They’d gone way past palaver.

Gamache checked his messages in hopes Nathalie had already sent the list of people who’d worn that ring. She had not. But there was one from Jérôme Brunel.

“What is it?” Beauvoir asked, seeing Gamache’s expression.

“Dr. Brunel has decoded the message on the clockface of the real Paston Treasure.”

Armand turned his phone around for Jean-Guy to see.

Time’s up.

“Oh, dear,” whispered Beauvoir.