World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 39

“Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit,” said Harriet, as she greeted the month of July.

She got up, stretched, then went for her early-morning run before the day got too hot.

By the time she got back, the villagers had gathered on the bistro terrasse for a late breakfast.

“Happy Canada Day,” said Harriet, kissing her Auntie Myrna on the top of her head.

“You stink,” said Ruth when the young woman sat down beside her.

“Merci,” she said. “And you look like crap.”

Ruth laughed. Then, lifting her middle finger, she waved to Armand and Reine-Marie, who were just stepping off their front veranda, Henri, Fred, and Gracie tumbling after them.

“Welcome home,” Clara called.

After greeting everyone, Armand and Reine-Marie sat down.

“Who’s that?” Harriet pointed to a young man, shirt off, placing logs in a teepee pattern in the firepit on the village green. Ready for the Canada Day bonfire that evening.

“My nephew,” said Billy. “He’s just started working with me.”

They all looked over. The young man was glistening in the mid-morning sun.

While the others turned back, Myrna noticed that Harriet had not. Myrna and Billy exchanged glances. Ahhhh, to have that many pheromones again.

Olivier placed French presses on the table for the Gamaches, along with jugs of hot, frothy milk.

“Merci, mon beau Gabri,” said Reine-Marie. She plunged, then poured the coffee while servers took their orders.

“How was the cabin?” Gabri asked.

It was a delicate way to ask how they were. And, just possibly, to dig for information.

As soon as they were able, after the siege at their home, Armand, Reine-Marie, and Jean-Guy had gone to the lake house. To spend the rest of June with their family. To swim and canoe. To sit on the dock and watch the early-morning mist rise from the lake, then burn off as they drank their coffee and did their sums and welcomed a fresh new day. One that, for a while that long night, they never thought they’d see.

The best sound ever, Armand decided, was the slamming of a screen door. It meant the children were awake and racing out to play.

It meant all was right with the world.

It meant that all was well.

He and Reine-Marie and Jean-Guy went for long walks in the late afternoon. The others, Annie, Daniel, Roslyn, left them to themselves. Understanding this was time they needed. Alone. Together.

At first they just walked, in silence. Each lost in their own thoughts. Then, little by little, they opened up. About what had happened.

Through the sunshine, through the woods, up and down the hills, over the wooden bridges, along the dirt road, they talked. And talked. And walked. And listened.

Sometimes they’d stop as one or the other halted. Overcome. Unable to go on.

They’d wait. And when the person was ready, they’d walk some more. Moving forward. Slowly. But always forward.

On clear, warm nights a bonfire would be lit. Marshmallows and hot dogs would be burned. Florence and Zora would crawl onto their grandfather’s lap, nestling into his open arms, while Honoré would curl up next to his grandmother, sharing a Hudson’s Bay blanket.

Jean-Guy always held Idola. Keeping her warm against his chest. Rocking her slowly. Back and forth. Back and forth. He’d push his chair back a little from the light so that no one could see his tears.

But rainy days were Armand’s favorites. They’d sit on the screened porch watching the warm rain on the lake, listening as it drummed on the roof. He’d get out the Monopoly board and, with Idola on his lap, he’d play all day with his grandchildren.

When they tired of Monopoly, he taught them cribbage and always, always, always cheated. Counting his cards to a ridiculous point total, to howls of protest.

And then it was time to leave.

If Armand’s and Reine-Marie’s embraces were a little tighter, a little longer, than normal, no one noticed. Or, if they did, they didn’t say anything.

John Fleming was dead. His skull crushed by the brick. Though Armand was honest enough to know it wasn’t the brick that did it. He did it. The brick just happened to be the tool at hand.

Sam Arsenault survived the gunshot wounds and was recovering in the prison hospital. He was charged with the murders of Claude Boisfranc and Monsieur Godin. Though Gamache suspected he was also responsible for the death of Madame Godin. Or was at least an accomplice.

But it was someone else’s case. He was now a witness.

He’d been interviewed, of course. And twice agents from his own department had traveled to the lake. He, Jean-Guy, and Reine-Marie had insisted the interviews not take place at the cabin, but in the detachment in Ste-Agathe. So as not to upset the children.

And now they were home in Three Pines.

Both Reine-Marie and Armand had wondered, as they’d driven back, how the place would feel.

Would they walk into their home and be overcome with terror? Would those ghosts come out of the walls, the floorboards, down the chimney and attack?

The place had been cleaned professionally, of course, in their absence. Several times. Then Clara and Myrna, Ruth, Olivier and Gabri, Monsieur Béliveau and Sarah and other friends and neighbors had gone in and scrubbed it down again.

What worried Armand and Reine-Marie as they got closer and closer to Three Pines weren’t the physical traces of what had happened. It was what could not be seen. That there was more in their home now than met the eye.

Armand unlocked the front door and reached for the handle, but Reine-Marie stopped him.

He looked at her, wondering if maybe she was about to say she could not go in. The place was not theirs anymore. John Fleming had taken possession of their home.

They would sell it and find a place somewhere else.

But instead, she laid her hand on top of his. “Let me.”

As she walked in, Reine-Marie was met with the familiar aromas of coffee and wood smoke and pine. The scents were embedded in the home.

But there was something else …

She turned and saw the huge bouquet of fragrant bee balm on the coffee table. And through the open door to the kitchen, she saw vases overflowing with roses and lavender. All from gardens around Three Pines.

Perennials. That never failed to return each year, no matter how harsh the winter.

She closed her eyes and dared the monster to do his worst.

Come on, she taunted. Come and get me.

She waited, but all she sensed was peace. And calm. And safety. There were spirits here, yes. But no demons.

Opening her eyes, she noticed a new painting. It was Clara’s latest.

The wild, exuberant, vibrant swirls of colors seemed to spill out past the unframed canvas and tumble into the room.

Reine-Marie couldn’t help but smile. She knew immediately what it was. Who it was.

She turned to her husband. Armand was searching her face. She reached out and placed her palms on his chest so she could feel his heartbeat.

“Welcome home.”

A few minutes later, as she embraced Clara, Reine-Marie whispered, “Merci. The painting is magnificent.”

They sat down and enjoyed breakfast together as the friends brought the Gamaches up to speed on village life.

The play Gabri was organizing.

The cooking course Olivier had decided to offer.

“I need to show you the new bedroom,” said Myrna. “Harriet’s room.”

“It’s finished?” asked Armand. “So quickly?”

“We all helped,” said Ruth.

They looked at her. Rosa had been more help than the old poet.

“There is one more thing we need to do,” said Clara. “But we’ve been waiting for you.”

“First, though, I have some questions.”

“For God’s sake, Ruth,” hissed Gabri. “We agreed not to ask.”

“You did. I never agreed to anything.”

“You did so,” said Clara.

This went on for some minutes while Reine-Marie finished her Croque Monsieur, the melted Gruyère and béchamel sauce dripping out of the crispy croissant and onto her plate. Armand poured more maple syrup over his blueberry pancakes until they looked like islands in a sweet sea.

“Just one question then,” said Ruth. She turned to the Gamaches. “What happened?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Olivier.

Armand opened his mouth, then started laughing. “That is the question, Ruth.”

With that, the levee broke.

Clara leaned forward. “It started when we realized there was a hidden room, right? What would’ve happened if we hadn’t? I mean, it’s been there, bricked up for more than a century.”

Armand was shaking his head. “It all started—”

“With the letter,” said Billy. “From Pierre Stone. Was it real, or did Fleming forge it?”

It was one of the first questions Armand asked too.

“It was real, and you’re right. That’s where it started. John Fleming was in the SHU, but determined to get out. He knew how, and he knew he’d pay me back for what I did to him. What he needed was a plan. He spent years researching me, researching all of us. Working out our desires, our triggers, our core beliefs, our fears. All those details became the building blocks—”

“The bricks,” said Harriet. She’d been staring at the young man building the bonfire, but now turned to meet Armand’s eyes.

“The bricks,” he agreed. How she’d changed, he thought, as he regarded the self-possessed young woman. “But what he needed was the structure. Sylvie’s job was to find something that would act as a catalyst. It took a long time, but finally, on searching the local historical society archives, she came across the Stone letter. She recognized the potential.”

“But how did something that important go unnoticed for so long?” asked Gabri. “It’s been around for a hundred and fifty years.”

Reine-Marie sighed. “It’s our fault. Historians, archivists, researchers, professors, biographers. We look to the so-called important figures. We value the papers left behind by Premiers, Prime Ministers, Presidents—by the most prominent witnesses to history—and forget there are other witnesses. The people who actually lived it. The First Nations. The farmers. The cooks and cleaners and salespeople. The laborers. The immigrants, the minorities.”

“The women,” said Harriet.

“Yes. The Stone letter was among the papers of a stonemason. A bricklayer. No one thought they could be of value.” She shook her head. “It is a terrible flaw in written history.”

“We were also wrong to assume Pierre Stone was next to illiterate,” said Armand. “The fact is, he went to university, but had to drop out when his parents died. He needed to find a skill to support his family.”

“The most obvious one was as a stonemason,” said Billy. “Like his father and grandfather. He discovered he was not only good at it, but liked it.”

“Sylvie found the letter and gave it to the head guard to give to her husband,” said Armand.

“So they knew there was some hidden room,” said Olivier, “but how did they know where it was?”

“Sylvie had all Pierre Stone’s papers,” said Armand.

“There were more?” asked Myrna.

“Oh, yes. All his letters to his fiancée, who became his wife. Whenever they were separated, he wrote her. Every day. He told her everything, including where the room was. Sylvie stole the letters. We found them in their home.”

The “we” of it wasn’t completely accurate. The investigators, led by Inspector Lacoste, found them while Armand was cheating at cribbage with the children.

“As soon as he saw the Stone letter, Fleming recognized the potential,” Armand continued. “From there he built his plan. It sounds, when I talk about it now, as though it all fell into place easily. It didn’t. It took years to put together all the elements.”

He stopped and took a small breath, suddenly visited by that voice.

Time and patience. Time and patience, Armand.

His friends waited for him to recover.

“All right?” said Ruth.

“All right,” he said.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” said Rosa.

He looked at the duck, and the duck looked at him.

“You got that right,” said Armand, nodding. But then, he often did. “The next big breakthrough for Fleming was when Sylvie sent him a photo of The Paston Treasure. He knew he could use it as a sort of Trojan horse, hiding within it all the items designed to alert but also alarm me. The art conservator from the Musée called it offensive, and that’s what he wanted.”

“But, but,” sputtered Gabri. “The room. If the Stone letter is real, why was Pierre hired to brick it up?”

“He doesn’t say in his letters. I doubt he looked into the room. Probably frightened.” Armand turned to Ruth. “But I think you know what was in there.”

“I think I do. What was the one thing that didn’t really belong?”

“The book,” said Myrna.

“Yes,” said Reine-Marie. “The grimoire.”

“We’ll never know for sure,” said Ruth in a rare admission of uncertainty, “but I think it was dug up when they were first excavating for the building, back in the 1870s. The guy who was putting up the buildings realized what it was, and it scared him. As far as he knew, the grimoire was a book of the damned, designed to raise demons. He tried to destroy it. There’re burn marks on it. But then he changed his mind, either because the leather wouldn’t catch, or he was afraid of angering the evil spirits.”

“And bricking them up wouldn’t?” asked Gabri.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” said Olivier.

“Well, he must’ve been out of his mind,” said Ruth. “I’m no expert, but I suspect demons can get through walls.”

They suspected Ruth was, in fact, an expert. She did have the ability to show up unexpectedly, and uninvited.

“It’s hard to get rid of—” Clara began.

“Ruth?” said Gabri.

“—beliefs. Think about what we’re planning to do later.”

“What are you planning to do?” asked Armand, half afraid of the answer.

“You’ll see,” said Clara.

It was the answer he was afraid of.

“Did you say it?” Myrna asked Harriet.

“Of course. It’s the first of the month. Did you?”

Auntie Myrna nodded. She’d taught Harriet to say Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit when her niece was just a child.

“It brings good luck,” she’d explained to the wide-eyed girl, who seemed to need luck. “But you have to say it first thing, before anything else, at the beginning of each month.”

And Harriet did. Even as a rational scientist, she still did it. Because … because you just never knew. It did no harm. And Harriet Landers was beginning to understand that believing something was even more powerful than knowing it.

I’ve seen worse, I’ve seen worse was her new mantra.

Fear no longer had her by the throat. She would always be afraid, but she’d come to realize it was not so much a matter of less fear, but of more courage. And Harriet Landers had that. Now.

“So, the owner put the grimoire in the attic and commissioned the stonemason to brick it up,” said Billy, guessing the rest. “He chose Pierre Stone because he hadn’t worked on the original building and he wasn’t known in the village. He couldn’t tell anyone about the commission, even if he wanted to.”

“But he did tell one person,” said Reine-Marie. “His fiancée.”

Armand nodded. Each of Pierre’s letters to her, and there were many through their lifetime together, ended with the same thing.

I love you. I miss you.

The letters had sat, in a box in the basement of a rural historical society, buried and dismissed. The unimportant memories of a stonemason and his wife.

Or maybe, thought Gamache, they were waiting. For Sylvie Fleming to find them and set all this in motion.

Part of Armand railed against the notion of fate, preferring to think they had at least some control over their lives. But another part of him found comfort in the idea of predestination.

So far the Fates had been kind. Though not everyone, looking at events in his life, especially recent ones, would agree.

But any agency that allowed him to spend a month by the lake with his family, then return home to this village, to have breakfast with close friends, his beloved wife by his side, was kind indeed.

“Armand?” said Myrna.

“Wake up, Clouseau,” said Ruth.

A car had stopped at the crest of the hill down into the village. The driver got out and stood, staring down.

The one investigator Armand had invited to join them at the cabin by the lake was Isabelle Lacoste.

“You know, patron,” she’d said as they strolled down the dirt road, the sound of laughing and screaming children fading into the distance, “this isn’t a social call. I’m here to question you, as part of the investigation.”

“I know. It’s all right.”

The last time she’d seen him was very different. She and her team from homicide had arrived in Three Pines, afraid of what they’d find.

What Inspector Lacoste found was Agent Choquet working on a badly wounded young man in the living room, another woman kneeling beside him, holding his hand and rocking back and forth. Whispering that it would be all right.

Chief Inspector Gamache was holding a bandage to Beauvoir’s bleeding head.

And a wild woman was standing in the middle of the room, clutching a tree branch.

“Oh, Isabelle. Thank God,” said Reine-Marie.

Lacoste scanned the room, making sure there were no threats, then turned to Gamache.

“Ambulances are on their way, patron,” said Lacoste. “Are you all right?”

Armand didn’t know how to answer that, so he said nothing. Isabelle understood. She went over and bent down beside the wounded man.

“I shot him,” whispered Choquet, trying to stem the bleeding.

Lacoste took her bloody hand and adjusted the pressure. “You were told to wait for backup.”

“Sorry. Next time.”

As Lacoste got up, she whispered, “Well done, Agent Choquet.”

Isabelle Lacoste had taken charge of the situation. Issuing orders, coordinating the collection of evidence. Placing the victims and witnesses in the kitchen, away from the shambles.

“John Fleming’s in the basement, Isabelle,” Gamache said to her quietly. “I killed him.”

It was a simple statement of fact that gave the man no pleasure. At all.

She’d gone into the basement and found the body. John Fleming was clearly dead. Still, as she’d approached him, Isabelle had slowed, then stopped.

The eyes, open, glassy, glaring, seemed to be inviting her closer. Trying to create an intimacy, into which he could place all the horrors of the world.

She did not back away. She did not blink. Isabelle Lacoste did the one thing she knew was a defense against this monster. Not prayer. Not singing.

Isabelle Lacoste smiled.

Then she stepped forward and closed those lunatic eyes for good.

Days later, she drove up to the lake house to debrief Beauvoir, Madame Gamache, and the Chief Inspector again. They’d been through it once, that night. But often the second time through was more useful, when the shock wore off.

She was just about to ask the first question when the Chief began to talk. His hands behind his back, his face forward, Armand told her what had happened. It felt a bit like he was relating a Grimms’ Tale, or a fable de La Fontaine.

A tale of demons and witches, hidden rooms and unexpected saviors.

Of Fate both cruel and kind.

Armand left his friends on the bistro terrasse and walked past their home, past the church. Up the hill, to greet the young woman he’d invited down.

Amelia Choquet had parked the Sûreté vehicle and was now standing on the grass verge, looking out past the village, to the forests and hills. To the endless expanse of what seemed wilderness but was not.

To find the wilderness, they had to look inward, not outward.

Amelia knew that. Had learned that on the streets. Here, now, she felt only peace.

“I’m glad you came,” said Armand.

They sat side by side on the bench in silence, warmed by the July sun.

Below them the villagers had gathered on the green. Armand and Amelia watched as Ruth and Rosa, Olivier and Gabri, Clara and Reine-Marie and Harriet formed a circle around Myrna. Monsieur Béliveau and Sarah the baker left their shops to join them.

Myrna lit something and passed it around.

“Looks like a huge joint,” said Amelia and heard the Chief Inspector grunt with amusement.

They both knew what it really was. A sage stick.

Each villager took the thick bundle of bound-up sage and sweetgrass and wafted the smoke over themselves. Smudging themselves. Cleansing themselves of any ill spirits, in a ritual as old as the hills and forests and streams.

“Well, that’s just weird,” said Amelia.

“Glass houses,” said Armand and saw her smile.

They watched for a little longer before he turned to her.

“Thank you. You saved our lives. My life. My family’s life.”

She looked at him. Saw the terrible scar at his temple. Saw the lines down his face. Saw the hurt, the pain, in his eyes as he thought of what might have been.

But there was something else in those eyes. A bright spot. Maybe from the sun.

Below them, the villagers were just making their way to the little chapel. Once there, Myrna wafted the sage toward the white clapboard building, taking extra care with the stained-glass boys.

Only when they disappeared inside did Amelia speak.

“I know it doesn’t make us even. But maybe it helps.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t make us even.” He turned to her again. “I am indebted to you. And I owe you an apology.”

She cocked her head, confused, but said nothing.

He took a breath. “When you first applied to the Sûreté Academy, I turned you down. Not because I didn’t think you’d make a good, even an exceptional, agent. But out of revenge.”

Instead of rushing his words, he spoke clearly, precisely. “I wanted to hurt you, to hurt your father.”

“Because of the death of your parents,” she said. “Because of what my father did.”

He exhaled a long, long breath. “Oui. I suspected if I turned you down, you’d remain on the streets.” He paused and gathered himself. “You would die on the streets.” He held her eyes. “I’m sorry. It was a terrible thing to do and I’m ashamed of myself.”

“Are you asking for forgiveness?”

He nodded. “I am.”

“I don’t see why. You did save me. You admitted me to the Academy.” She thought for a moment. “If you hadn’t, I couldn’t have saved you. Funny how that works.”

“Yes.” He watched the procession walk back across the village green and into the bookstore, where they would cleanse the loft. “Funny that.”

He looked down at his hands. He was clutching a book, and now he offered it to her.

“It belonged to my father. I want you to have it. I think he’d want it too. As thanks.”

She hesitated, but finally took it.

“Merci. It will be treasured. And for what it’s worth, patron, I forgive you too.”

The procession below them was now heading for the Gamache home, trailed by Henri, Fred, and Gracie. Harriet disengaged herself and approached JJ, the shining youth.

“Will you join us for Sunday dinner?” Armand asked Amelia. Who nodded.

The home had already been smudged by the time they got there.

Everyone was now in the living room.

Ruth had stuck the sage stick into the vase of bee balm and sweet pea and was pouring herself a scotch.

“Ruth,” said Reine-Marie. “It’s only…” She looked at the clock on the mantel. “Oh, what the hell.”

She poured drinks for everyone, while Armand stared at the framed picture Florence had made. The one with the rainbow. The one Fiona had taken off the wall and held that night almost a month ago. Her finger had been pointing to the words his granddaughter had written in her careful hand.

Ça va bien aller.

Armand hadn’t known for sure, but he’d thought, wondered, hoped, prayed that Fiona was sending him a message. That yes, she had helped her brother, helped her father. But unlike them, she had limits. And had reached them.

She would not help them murder the Gamaches.

All would be well.

That was Armand’s last hope. The one he clung to even as time was running out. Ran out.

When Fiona had left the home, he knew it could mean one of two things. Either she was, as she said, looking out for the police to warn the others. Or she was going to flag them down, guide them to the house. Which was what she’d done.

The three women together—Fiona, Amelia, and Harriet—had saved their lives.

On their way home from the lake house, Reine-Marie had asked Armand to stop at the women’s prison where Fiona was being kept. She would spend many years behind bars for her role in what had happened.

Armand knew he would speak, once again, on her behalf. On behalf of John Fleming’s daughter. Though he wasn’t ready to see her. Not yet. But Reine-Marie wanted to. Needed to.

When she returned to the car, she was pale. But calm.

“What happened?” he’d asked.

Armand went over to Myrna.

“Drink?” she asked, lifting hers.

“Please. Scotch, neat. Can I borrow this?” He’d picked up the still smoldering smudge stick from among the flowers.

“You can have it. It’s done its job.”

“Not quite.”

He went downstairs for the first time since the confrontation with Fleming. As he descended, he could smell the musky sage and sweetgrass. Here too had been cleaned and cleansed. Washed, sanitized. Exorcised. But he needed to be sure.

Armand knew that ghosts could be stubborn.

Walking around the room, he wafted the smoldering sage stick toward the walls, the floors. The boxes of Christmas ornaments. He spent extra time on the pile of bricks, the ones he’d meant to get rid of. But had not.

The head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec went through the ancient ritual, solemnly smudging every corner of the room.

Then Armand turned to the bolted door and punched in the code: 1206. December 6th. The date of the shootings at the École Polytechnique.

Standing in the middle of the little room, surrounded by secrets, he closed his eyes and wafted the sweet smoke over himself. As men and women had done for thousands of years.

Then, noticing that Fred had followed him down, he picked up the smelly old dog and carried him upstairs.

That night a bonfire was lit on the village green in front of the three huge pines, celebrating Canada Day as they’d also celebrated, a week earlier, St-Jean Baptiste.

“Whatever happened to the women?” Harriet asked. “Anne Lamarque and the others.”

JJ, Billy’s nephew, was sitting on the log beside her. His name, perhaps not surprisingly for a family that had produced a Pierre Stone and a Billy Williams and a Mable the Maple, was John Johnson. JJ.

“The witches?” said Ruth. “Many years after being exiled, they each returned to the places that had banished them, just once, to confront the people who did that to them.”

“That must’ve been a shock for their families,” said Olivier.

“For the priests,” said Gabri. “Imagine seeing the witch return? Must’ve scared the shit out of them.”

Reine-Marie thought of the painting Clara had left in their living room. The bold swirls of vibrant colors had coalesced into a face. An old woman’s face, with blue eyes and sunburned skin and wild white hair.

And a surefire cure for warts.

“Did they go back to curse them?” asked Olivier.

“Non,” said Ruth. “To forgive them. That was the magic.”

The wizened Anne Lamarque in Clara’s painting was smiling. Happy and free.

“What happened?” Armand had asked Reine-Marie that morning when she’d returned to the car after confronting Fiona.

“I think you know.” She smiled. “Let’s go home.”