by Louise Penny
“Yes, you told me this afternoon. A suspect, maybe even a pedophile because I happen to have cared about a nine-year-old boy.”
Mary Fraser had managed to get under his skin and now the sore erupted.
“No,” she said. “I see a hypocrite. You saw the chance to retire and you took it, knowing no one would blame you. I see a man bloated with croissants and fear, desperate to hide out in this little village, beyond harm and beyond reproach while the rest of us keep fighting. And then you pass judgment on me? You’re a disgrace, monsieur.”
“That’s it—” said Beauvoir.
“Non,” said Gamache, breaking eye contact with Fraser to look at Jean-Guy. “Non,” he said, regaining his own composure.
Then he turned back to Mary Fraser.
“I didn’t come up here to discuss my choices,” he said. “But to warn you that someone killed Antoinette Lemaitre then tore her home apart last night. We think he was looking for the plans to Project Babylon.”
“That’s a big leap,” said Mary Fraser.
“Is it? We have every reason to believe Guillaume Couture designed the Supergun. Not Gerald Bull. Dr. Bull was the salesman, and Dr. Couture was the scientist. That’s why the gun was built here, because Dr. Couture knew the area. Knew the people. And knew no one would come looking for Project Babylon in a Québec forest. It was perfect. Until someone killed Gerald Bull.”
“These are all guesses,” she said.
“You seem resistant to the possibility,” said Gamache. “Why is that? We have a direct line connecting Dr. Couture to Gerald Bull—”
“—you have a grainy old photograph.”
“We have more than that,” he said, but Beauvoir noticed he stopped short of implicating Professor Rosenblatt.
The CSIS agent seemed perfectly composed. Her hands rested in her lap, but the fingers were tightly intertwined, turning the tips white.
“None of this is news to you, is it?” Gamache asked, tumbling to the truth. “You knew all along. Was that the file you were reading this afternoon? The name you were trying to hide from me? It was Guillaume Couture.”
She sat up straighter, as though bracing herself.
“You came here knowing the connection with Guillaume Couture, but you didn’t say anything,” said Gamache, his voice rising slightly. “You didn’t warn us, you didn’t warn Antoinette Lemaitre.”
She was silent.
“We could have saved her.”
“You could do nothing,” she snapped. “You’ve discovered more than I would have thought possible, but you have no idea what you’ve gotten hold of. Back off. Step away.”
“Why? So more people can die while you pursue whatever your own goals are?” he demanded. “And what are they exactly?”
“You’re right, we knew about Dr. Couture, of course we did,” said Mary Fraser. “But we all assumed Project Babylon died with Gerald Bull. There were rumors a gun had been built, but rumors are rife in the intelligence community, most put out as misdirection. We kept Couture under surveillance for a few years, but like you, he’d retired down here and grew tomatoes and roses and joined a bridge club, and faded away. The threat faded away.”
“Until the gun was found.”
“Yes. That was a surprise,” she admitted.
“Why didn’t you tell us about Guillaume Couture when you first saw the gun?” Beauvoir demanded. “Why didn’t you tell us about his role in creating Project Babylon, and the fact he lived in the area and had a niece?”
She said nothing.
“You didn’t want us to know,” said Beauvoir. “You want—”
Gamache placed a hand on Beauvoir’s arm, and he stopped talking.
Mary Fraser had not looked at Beauvoir when he spoke, but continued to keep Gamache in her sights.
“That was wise, Monsieur Gamache.”
Beauvoir was staring at Gamache, unclear why he’d stopped him.
“We’re here on official business, Monsieur Gamache. For CSIS. But there is someone you should be asking yourselves about. Michael Rosenblatt. Why is he still here?”
It was, Gamache thought, an evasion on her part. An attempt to redirect his attention. But it was also, he had to admit, a question that was making its way to the top of his list.
“Why do you think Professor Rosenblatt’s still here?” Beauvoir asked.
“I have no idea,” she said. “That’s your concern, not mine. I have one brief, and that’s to make sure no one else ever builds a weapon like the one we found in the woods. That’s all I care about.”
“That’s all?” asked Beauvoir. “And the human cost?”
She looked at the younger man as though he’d said something adorable. A child learning to pronounce words he couldn’t possibly understand.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” Gamache asked her.
“I honestly don’t care,” Mary Fraser said.
“I see someone who’s been tunneling in the dark for so long you’ve gone blind.”
“I thought it would be something like that,” she said, smiling. “But you’re wrong. I’m not blind. My eyes have simply adjusted to the darkness. I see more clearly than most.”
“And yet you can’t see the damage you’re doing,” he said.
“You have no idea the things I see,” she said, her voice hard and clipped. “And have seen. You have no idea what I’m trying to prevent.”
“Tell me,” Gamache said.
And for the briefest instant, Jean-Guy Beauvoir thought she might. But then it was gone.
“You accused me of not understanding your world,” Gamache said. “And you might be right. But you no longer understand mine. A world where it’s possible to care about the life of a nine-year-old boy, and to be enraged by his death. A world where Antoinette Lemaitre’s life and death matter.”
“You’re a coward, monsieur,” she said. “Not willing to accept a few deaths to save millions. You think that’s easy? Well, it’s easy when you run away, as you’ve done. But I stay. I fight on.”
“For the greater good?” asked Gamache.
“Yes.”
He got up, suddenly repulsed, and stood in the middle of the charming room.
“I don’t think what you do is easy,” he said. “At least, not at first. I think it’s soul-destroying. But once that happens, it gets easier. Doesn’t it?”
Mary Fraser stood up then and faced him.
“Go to hell,” she said quietly.
“I will. If necessary. I expect I’ll see you there.”
“Just know this, monsieur,” she said to his back. “A coward not only dies a thousand deaths, he can cause them too.”
As they left, they noticed movement on the B and B stairs, and saw Brian standing there. Halfway up and halfway down. Frozen.
How much did he hear? Beauvoir wondered.
He heard it all, Gamache knew, judging by the look on Brian’s face.
Wordlessly, Brian retreated upstairs. All sorts of funny thoughts running through his head, thought Gamache as he and Beauvoir left the B and B.
“Why did you stop me when we were talking with Mary Fraser?” Jean-Guy asked as they walked back home.
“I was afraid you were about to say something that should not be said. At least, not in that company.”
“That they knew about Couture and the plans and wanted to find them not for CSIS but for themselves,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache nodded.
“Do you think that’s who Antoinette was expecting last night? Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme?”
“It’s possible,” conceded Gamache.
“Who are these people, patron?”
“That, mon vieux, is a very good question.”
CHAPTER 28
Clara poured a coffee from the percolator in Myrna’s New and Used Bookstore and brought it over to her seat in the bay window. Morning was struggling through the cracks in the heavy clouds, shooting columns of light onto the forest.
“I’m hearing rumors that Anto
Myrna crumpled the paper onto her lap.
“Really?” She took off her glasses. “But how could that be? Antoinette’s death was during a robbery probably, or maybe something to do with the play—”
Clara shook her head. “The police don’t think so anymore.”
“Who’d you hear this from?”
“Gabri. He was talking to Brian, who overheard Armand and Jean-Guy talking to that CSIS woman last night. Fighting with her, apparently.”
“Fighting?”
“Well, arguing. Gabri told me this in confidence. Shhhh.”
“Shhhh?” asked Myrna. “Is that the sound of secrets escaping from you?”
The two women stared at each other, but hanging between them, like a hologram, was the gun. The big, goddamned gun. In the woods. Neither had seen it, but both women imagined what such a thing might look like. And wondered how it could kill so many people just by being.
“How could Antoinette have been involved with the gun?” Myrna asked.
“I don’t know and Gabri couldn’t tell me,” said Clara. “It’s strange that no one remembers it being built. You’d think some of the older residents might remember. Ruth, for instance.”
“Ruth? You expect Ruth to remember anything?”
“She is a bit of a loose cannon herself,” Clara admitted.
“Maybe she was left behind by the builders,” said Myrna. “A failed first attempt.”
Clara gave a short laugh, then sighed. “I wish we knew more. It’s so easy to start imagining the worst.”
“It doesn’t take much imagination,” said Myrna, her eyes drifting past Clara and out the window.
“What do you see?” Clara asked, turning to look.
She saw the village green, the three tall pine trees, the homes. She saw storm clouds and shafts of light and a gaggle of hungry birds and an elderly man sitting on the bench feeding them.
“I see answers,” said Myrna.
* * *
“I’ll get it,” called Reine-Marie. She was in the study doing some research when she heard a tentative knock on the door.
It was so tentative she thought she must’ve misheard. But then she heard it again. A more confident rap. When she opened the door, Brian Fitzpatrick was standing there.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Is it too early?”
“No, of course not. Come in. You must be cold.”
The clouds that had moved in overnight threatening rain had brought with them a cold front with winds and a chill that burrowed under the skin and into the bones.
“When Gabri came to pick me up last night, I tossed a few things into a suitcase, but I wasn’t thinking straight,” said Brian, hugging himself. “I have three pairs of shoes, but only one pair of socks. And no sweater or jacket.”
“Well, we have plenty of clothes we can lend you.” She kissed him on both cold cheeks.
“May I see your husband?”
“Of course.”
She led him into the kitchen where the woodstove was lit and a pot of coffee was perking. “Armand.”
Armand looked up from his notepad, and Henri looked up from the stuffed moose he was chewing. Both got up immediately.
“Brian,” said Armand, shaking the man’s hand. “Sit down. I was just writing down some thoughts and then I was going to go over to the B and B to see you.”
He ushered Brian to a comfortable chair by the fire while Reine-Marie poured a coffee.
“Did you have breakfast?” she asked. “I can make some bacon and eggs.”
“Merci. Gabri made me some toast. I’m not actually all that hungry.”
“I’m so sorry about Antoinette,” said Reine-Marie, bringing over the coffee and some orange juice. “How are you?”
She couldn’t not ask, but the answer was obvious in his hollowed-out look. He just shook his head and lifted one hand, then dropped it to the arm of the chair.
It was also obvious that Brian wanted to speak to Armand alone.
Reine-Marie went upstairs and brought down sweaters and socks and warm flannel pajamas of Armand’s for Brian. She put them on the table by the door along with a warm jacket, then called to Henri and, clipping the leash onto the shepherd, they went for a walk.
“You heard us last night,” said Armand after Reine-Marie had left.
Brian nodded. “I couldn’t sleep. I heard you knock on the CSIS woman’s door and followed you downstairs. I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Antoinette’s uncle was one of the architects of that gun we found in the woods,” said Gamache. No use hiding it since Brian had heard it all the night before anyway.
“Uncle Guillaume?” asked Brian. “But he was an engineer. He built overpasses.”
“Antoinette talked about him then?”
“Not much, and to be honest, I didn’t really ask. She seemed to like him, and he obviously liked her. You think she was killed because of him?”
“It’s possible. We think he might have kept the designs for that gun and someone went there to find them, maybe thinking she wasn’t home.”
“They’re worth a lot of money. I heard you say that last night.”
Gamache nodded. “That’s right. Do you have any idea at all whether those papers were in the house?”
Brian shook his head. “I feel useless. I think I should be able to hand them over to you, but all of this is news to me. I have no idea what’s happening. Did Antoinette know what her uncle really did?”
“We don’t know that either. We do know that there’s no evidence of him in your home. Can you remember anything? Even a photograph?”
Brian pursed his lips, thinking, then shook his head. “There might’ve been and I just didn’t notice. I don’t think I’m all that observant. I wish I’d been home. I should’ve been home.”
“Whoever did this would’ve just waited until you were gone the next time,” said Armand. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
Gamache didn’t say it, but he believed Antoinette’s life was over as soon as Laurent found the gun and started telling everyone, and when the CSIS agents decided not to tell anyone about her uncle.
“Did anyone ever come asking about Guillaume Couture?” Armand asked.
“Not that I know of. He died before I met her.” Brian looked down at his coffee mug, as though he’d never seen one before. “I don’t know what to do.”
Armand nodded. He understood that with loss came the overwhelming feeling of being lost. Directionless.
“I can’t go home,” said Brian. “Not yet.”
Gamache knew he meant emotionally, but he also wouldn’t be allowed home.
Not surprisingly, Lacoste had called first thing with the news that Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme had an injunction to search Antoinette’s home themselves. Alone. Though Gamache had the feeling the injunction was just for show. He was pretty sure they’d already been there. Already searched. Without benefit or need of legal approval.
“I might go to the theater today,” said Brian. “I think I’d feel close to her there. Better than sitting around the B and B all day. And I don’t really want to talk to anyone, you know?”
“Let me drive you,” said Armand, getting up. “I’m heading in that direction myself.”
At the door they found the clothing.
“Here,” said Armand. “Put on one of the sweaters while I make a phone call.”
He went into the study, closed the door firmly, then called a private number in Ottawa. It was eight thirty. After a brief exchange he hung up.
By noon they should know more about Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme.
Brian was waiting for him at the front door, wearing Armand’s favorite blue cashmere sweater.
“A bit big for you, I’m afraid,” said Gamache, rolling up the sleeves for him.
“Are you going to Knowlton too?” Brian asked.
“No, a few kilometers beyond. I can drop you at the theater then pick you up in a couple of hours, if that’s all right.”
He didn’t say he was going to Highwater. The fewer people who knew, the better.
As they drove away, Gamache saw Professor Rosenblatt sitting on the bench, bundled against the brisk wind and tossing bread to the birds. Autumn leaves, blown off the trees, swirled in a whirlwind about him, mixing with the excited birds and airborne bread so that it looked like nature had gone mad around the elderly physicist.
And once again, Armand was left to wonder why Professor Rosenblatt was still there instead of at home in front of his fireplace, safe and warm.
* * *
Clara and Myrna approached the bench and sat, one on either side of the professor.
“Good morning,” said Clara. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the howling wind. “How did you sleep?”
“I’m afraid I had a little too much to drink last night,” he said. “I came out here for fresh air.”
“Well, there’s lots of that,” said Myrna, trying to keep her scarf off her face. On the other side of the professor, Clara was fighting with her hair.
Rosenblatt offered them some of his stale bread to toss to the chickadees and blue jays and robins.
“Ravenous,” he said. “Now I understand where that expression comes from.”
The bread they threw was caught by the wind and tumbled across the green, chased by the leaves and the birds.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” said Rosenblatt, watching the commotion caused by the bread.
“It’s awful,” said Clara. “But what makes it worse is that no one is telling us anything. We wondered if you could answer some questions.”
“I’ll try.”
“We heard that Antoinette’s death might be linked to Laurent’s,” said Myrna. “Is that true?”
“I think the police suspect that might be true,” he said.
“But how?” Clara asked. “The gun is somehow involved, right?”
“Yes. But I really can’t tell you more. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?” asked Clara.
“You’re friends with Monsieur Gamache, why don’t you ask him?”
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