by Louise Penny
“It’s only Billy Williams,” he reported. “Come for his lunch.”
They relaxed, but not completely. The tension, pushed aside by the story, was back.
Gabri shoved another couple of logs into the woodstove. They all felt slightly chilled, though the room was warm.
“Constance was trying to tell me something,” said Myrna, picking up the thread. “And she did. She told us everything, but we just didn’t know how to put it together.”
“What did she tell us?” Ruth demanded.
“Well, she told you and me that she loved to play hockey,” said Myrna. “That it was Brother André’s favorite sport. They had a team and would get up a game with the neighborhood kids.”
“So?” asked Ruth, and Rosa, in her arms, quacked quietly as though mimicking her mother. “So, so, so,” the duck muttered.
Myrna turned to Olivier, Gabri, and Clara. “She gave you mitts and a scarf that she’d knitted, with symbols of your lives. Paintbrushes for Clara—”
“I don’t want to know what your symbol was,” Nichol said to Gabri and Olivier.
“She was practically leaking clues,” said Myrna. “It must’ve been so frustrating for her.”
“For her?” said Clara. “It’s really not that obvious, you know.”
“Not to you,” said Myrna. “Not to me. Not to anyone here. But to someone unused to talking about herself and her life, it must’ve seemed like she was screaming her secrets at us. You know what it’s like. When we know something, and hint, those hints seem so obvious. She must’ve thought we were a bunch of idiots not to pick up on what she was saying.”
“But what was she saying?” Olivier asked. “That Virginie was still alive?”
“She left her final clue under my tree, thinking that she wouldn’t be back,” said Myrna. “Her card said it was the key to her home. It would unlock all the secrets.”
“Her albatross,” said Ruth.
“She gave you an albatross?” asked Nichol. Nothing about this village or these people surprised her anymore.
Myrna laughed. “In a way. She gave me a tuque. We’d thought maybe she’d knitted it, but it was too old. And there was a tag sewn in it. MA, it said.”
“Ma,” said Gabri. “It belonged to her mother.”
“What did you call your mother?”
“Ma,” said Gabri. “Ma. Mama.”
There was silence, while Myrna nodded. “Mama. Not Ma. They were initials, like all the other hats. Madame Ouellet didn’t make that tuque for herself.”
“Well then, whose was it?” Ruth demanded.
“It belonged to Constance’s killer.”
* * *
Villeneuve rang the doorbell and his neighbor answered.
“Gaétan,” she said, “have you come to get the girls? They’re playing in the basement.”
“Non, merci, Celeste. I’m actually wondering if we could use your computer. The police took mine.”
Celeste glanced from Villeneuve to the large unshaven man with the bruise and cut on his cheek. She looked far from certain.
“Please,” said Villeneuve. “It’s important.”
Celeste relented, but watched Gamache closely as they hurried to the back of the house, and the laptop set up on the small desk in the breakfast room. Gamache wasted no time. He shoved the memory stick into the slot. It flashed open.
He clicked on the first file. Then the next. He made note of various words.
Permeable. Substandard. Collapse.
But one word made him stop. And stare.
Pier.
He clicked rapidly back. And back. And then he stopped and stood up so rapidly Celeste and Gaétan both jumped back.
“May I use your phone, please?”
Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed the receiver and began dialing.
“Isabelle, it’s not the tunnel. It’s the bridge. The Champlain Bridge. I think the explosives must be attached to the piers.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you, sir. They won’t close the tunnel. They don’t believe me. Or you. If they won’t close the tunnel, they sure as hell won’t close the bridge.”
“I’m emailing you the report,” he said, retaking his seat and pounding on the keys. “You’ll have the proof. Close that bridge, Isabelle. I don’t care if you have to lie across the lanes yourself. And get the bomb disposal unit out.”
“Yessir. Patron, there’s one other thing.”
By the tone of her voice, he knew. “Jean-Guy?”
“I can’t find him. He’s not in his office, he’s not at home. I’ve tried his cell phone. It’s shut off.”
“Thank you for trying,” he said. “Just get that bridge closed.”
Gamache thanked Celeste and Gaétan Villeneuve and made for the door.
“It’s the bridge?” Villeneuve asked him.
“Your wife found out about it,” said Gamache, outside now and walking rapidly to his car. “She tried to stop it.”
“And they killed her,” said Villeneuve, following Gamache.
Gamache stopped and faced the man. “Oui. She went to the bridge to get the final proof, to see for herself. She planned to take that proof, and this”—he held up the memory stick—“to the Christmas party, and pass it on to someone she thought she could trust.”
“They killed her,” Villeneuve repeated, trying to grasp the meaning behind the words.
“She didn’t fall from the bridge,” said Gamache. “She was killed underneath it when she went to look at the piers.” He got in his car. “Get your girls. Go to a hotel and take your neighbor and her family with you. Don’t use your credit card. Pay cash. Leave your cell phones at home. Stay there until this is over.”
“Why?”
“Because I emailed the files from your neighbor’s home and used her phone. They’ll know I know. And they’ll know you know too. They’ll be here soon. Go. Leave.”
Villeneuve blanched and backed away from the car, then he ran stumbling over the ice and snow, calling for his girls.
* * *
“Sir,” said Tessier, looking down at his messages. “I need to show you this.”
He handed his device over to Chief Superintendent Francoeur.
Gamache had returned to the Villeneuve house. And something had been emailed to Inspector Lacoste, from the neighbor’s computer.
When he saw what it was, Francoeur’s face hardened.
“Pick up Villeneuve and the neighbor,” he said quietly to Tessier. “And pick up Gamache and Lacoste. Clean this up.”
“Yessir.” Tessier knew what “clean this up” meant. He’d cleaned up Audrey Villeneuve.
While Tessier made the arrangements, Francoeur watched as the flat farmland turned into hills, and forest, and mountains.
Gamache was getting closer, Francoeur knew. But so were they.
* * *
Chief Inspector Gamache craned his neck, to see what had stopped all the traffic. They were just inching along the narrow residential street. At a main intersection he spotted a city cop and a barricade. He pulled over.
“Move along,” the cop commanded, not even looking at the driver.
“What’s the holdup?” Gamache asked.
The cop looked at Gamache as though he was nuts.
“Don’t you know? The Santa Claus parade. Get going, you’re holding up traffic.”
* * *
Thérèse Brunel stayed by the window, standing to the side. Staring out.
It wouldn’t be long now, she knew.
But still she listened to Myrna’s story. The tale with the long tail. That went back decades. Almost beyond living memory.
To a saint and a miracle, and a Christmas tuque.
“MA,” said Myrna. “That was the key. Every hat their mother made had a tag with their initials. MC for Marie-Constance, et cetera.”
“So what did MA stand for?” Clara asked. She went back over the girls’ names. Virginie, Hélène, Josephine, Marguerite, Constance. No A.
&
“Why did everyone think there were only five?” she asked Myrna. “Of course they’d have more.”
“More what?” asked Gabri. But Olivier got it.
“More children,” said Olivier. “When the girls were taken from them, the Ouellets made more.”
Myrna was nodding slowly, watching them as the truth dawned. And, as with Constance and her hints, it now seemed so obvious. But it hadn’t been obvious to Myrna, until she’d read it in Armand’s letter.
When Marie-Harriette and Isidore had their beloved daughters taken away, what choice did they have but to make more?
In his letter, Chief Inspector Gamache explained that he’d had the tuque tested for DNA. They’d found his. They’d found Myrna’s. Both of them had recently handled the hat. They’d also found Constance’s DNA, and one other. A close match to Constance.
Gamache admitted he’d assumed it was her father’s or mother’s, but the fact was, the technician had originally said a sibling.
“Another sister,” said Clara. “Marie-A.”
“But why didn’t anyone know about this younger sister?” asked Gabri.
“Christ,” snapped Ruth, looking at Gabri with disdain. “I’d have thought someone who was practically a work of fiction himself would know more about myths.”
“Well, I know a gorgon when I see one.” Gabri glared at Ruth, who looked like she was trying to turn him to stone.
“Look,” Ruth finally said, “the Quints were supposed to be a miracle, right? A huge harvest from barren ground. Frère André’s final gift. Well, how would it look if Mama starting popping out children all over the place? Kinda takes away from the miracle.”
“Dr. Bernard and the government figured she’d laid the golden eggs, now she needed to stop,” said Myrna.
“If I’d said that they’d castrate me,” Gabri muttered to Olivier.
“But would people really care?” asked Olivier. “I mean, the Quints were pretty amazing no matter how many younger brothers and sisters they had.”
“But they were more amazing if seen as an act of a benevolent God,” said Myrna. “That’s what the government and Bernard were peddling. Not a circus act, but an act of God. Through the Depression and war, people flocked to them, not to see five identical girls, but to see hope. Proof that God exists. A generous and kind God, who’d given this gift to a barren woman. But suppose Madame Ouellet wasn’t barren at all? Suppose she had another child?”
“Suppose Christ hadn’t risen?” said Gabri. “Suppose the water wasn’t wine?”
“It was critical to their story that Madame Ouellet be barren. That’s what made the miracle,” said Myrna. “Without that the Quints became an oddity, nothing more.”
“No miracle, no money,” said Clara.
“So the new baby threatened to bring down everything they’d created,” said Ruth.
“And cost them millions of dollars,” said Myrna. “The child had to be hidden. Armand thinks that’s what we were seeing, when Marie-Harriette closed the door on her daughters in the newsreel.”
They remembered the image, frozen in their minds. Young Virginie howling. Trying to get back into the house. But the door had been closed. Shut in her face by her own mother. Not to keep the girls out, but to keep the younger child in. To keep MA away from the newsreels.
“Constance only told us one personal thing,” said Gabri. “That she and her sisters liked to play hockey. But there’re six players on a team, not five.”
“Exactly,” said Myrna. “When Constance told me about the hockey team, it seemed important to her, but I thought it was just some old memory. That she was sort of testing out her newfound freedom to reveal things, and had decided to start with something trivial. It never occurred to me that was it. The key. Six siblings, not five.”
“I didn’t pick up on it either,” said Ruth. “And I coach a team.”
“You bully a team,” said Gabri. “It’s not the same thing.”
“But I can count,” said Ruth. “Six players. Not five.” She thought for a moment, absently stroking Rosa’s head and neck. “Imagine being that child. Excluded, hidden. Watching your sisters grab the spotlight, while you’re kept in the dark. Something shameful.”
They paused and tried to imagine what that would be like. Not having one sister who was a favored child, but five of them. And not simply favored by the parents, but by the world. Given beautiful dresses, toys, candy, a fairy-tale house. And all the attention.
While MA was shoved aside. Shoved inside. Denied.
“So what happened?” asked Ruth. “Are you saying Constance’s sister killed her?”
Myrna held up the envelope with Gamache’s careful writing. “Chief Inspector Gamache believes it goes back to the first death. Virginie.” Myrna turned to Ruth. “Constance saw what happened. So did Hélène. They told the other sisters, but no one else. It was their secret, the one that bound them together.”
“The one they took to the grave,” said Ruth. “And tried to bury. Virginie was murdered.”
“One of them had done it,” said Gabri.
“Constance came here to tell you that,” said Clara.
“After Marguerite died, she felt she was free to finally talk,” said Myrna.
“Matthew 10:36.” Ruth’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household.”
* * *
Jean-Guy Beauvoir drove down the familiar road. It was covered in snow now, but when he’d first seen it, years before, it had been dirt. And the trees overhead hadn’t been bare, but in full autumn color, with the sun shining through. Ambers and reds, warm yellows. Like a stained-glass window.
He hadn’t remarked on the beauty of the place. Been too reserved and cynical to stare in open awe at the pretty, peaceful village below.
But he’d felt it. That awe. And that peace.
Today, though, he felt nothing.
“How far now?” Francoeur asked.
“Almost there,” said Beauvoir. “A few more minutes.”
“Pull over,” said the Chief Superintendent, and Beauvoir did.
“If Chief Inspector Gamache was going to set up a post in the village,” Francoeur asked, “where would it be?”
“Gamache?” asked Beauvoir. He hadn’t realized this was about Gamache. “Is he here?”
“Just answer the question, Inspector,” said Tessier from the backseat.
The van carrying the two agents and equipment idled behind them.
This was the moment of truth, Francoeur knew. Would Beauvoir balk at giving away information about Gamache? Up until now Francoeur hadn’t asked Beauvoir to actively betray his former boss, but to simply do nothing to help him.
But now they needed more from Beauvoir.
“The old railway station,” came the reply, without protest or hesitation.
“Take us there,” said Francoeur.
* * *
Myrna still held the envelope containing the handwritten letter from Armand Gamache. In it he detailed all he knew, and all he suspected, about the murder of Constance Ouellet, and the murder of her sister Virginie over fifty years earlier.
Constance and Hélène had witnessed it. Virginie neither tripped, nor did she throw herself down those stairs. She was pushed. And behind that push was years and years of pain. Of being ignored, hidden, marginalized, denied. Years and years of the Quints getting all the attention. From the world, yes. But worse, from Mama and Papa.
When the girls came home for their rare visits, they were treated like princesses.
It warped a child. It wore a child down, until there was nothing recognizable left. And then it twisted them. The girls might have been spoiled, but their young sibling was ruined.
That little heart filled with hate. And grew into a big heart, filled with big hate.
And when Virginie teetered at the top of those long wooden stairs, the hand shot out. It could have saved her. But it didn’t. It tipped her over the edge.
Constance and Hélène had seen what happened and chose to say nothing. Perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of a near maniacal need for privacy, secrecy. Their lives, and their deaths, were nobody’s business but theirs. Even their murders were private.
All this Gamache explained in his letter to Myrna, and now Myrna explained to those gathered in her home. Hiding in her home.
“The Chief Inspector knew he was looking for two things,” said Myrna. “Someone whose initials were MA and who’d now be in their mid-seventies.”
“Wouldn’t there be birth records?” Jérôme asked.
“Gamache looked,” said Myrna. “There was nothing in the official record or in parish records under Ouellet.”
“The powers that be might not be able to create a person,” said Jérôme. “But they could erase one.”
He listened to the story, but kept his eyes on his wife. Thérèse was silhouetted against the window. Waiting.
“In considering the case, Armand realized he’d met four people who fit the description,” Myrna continued. “The first was Antoine, the parish priest. He’d said he’d started as priest long after the girls had left, and that was true, but he’d failed to admit he’d actually grown up in the area. The Quints’ uncle said he’d played with Antoine as a child. Père Antoine may not have lied, but he hadn’t told the whole truth either. Why?”
“And the priest was in a position to alter the records,” said Clara.
“Exactly Gamache’s thinking,” said Myrna. “But then there was the uncle himself. André Pineault. A few years younger than the girls, he described playing hockey with them, and he moved in with their father and looked after him until Isidore died. All the act of a son. And Monsieur Ouellet left the family farm to him.”
“But MA would be a woman,” said Clara. “Marie someone.”
“Marie-Annette,” said Myrna. “Annette is the name of Constance’s neighbor. The only person the sisters socialized with. The only person allowed onto their porch. It sounds to us a small thing, almost laughable, but to the Quints, so traumatized by public scrutiny, letting anyone close to their home was significant. Could Annette be either Virginie, or the lost sibling?”
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