How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

by Louise Penny

  Chief Inspector Gamache had heard about the meditation and wanted to meet the young agent who’d become the laughingstock of the Sûreté. When she was finally called in to her boss’s office, letter of resignation in hand, she’d expected it to be just the two of them. Instead, another man rose from the large chair. She’d recognized him immediately. She’d seen Chief Inspector Gamache at the academy. Seen him on television and read about him in the newspaper. She’d once ridden with him in an elevator, and been so close she could smell his cologne. So attractive had been that aroma, and so powerful had been the pull of the man, she’d almost followed him from the elevator.

  Chief Inspector Gamache had risen from his seat when she’d entered her boss’s office, and bowed slightly. To her. There was something old-worldly about him. Something otherworldly about him.

  He extended his hand. “Armand Gamache,” he’d said.

  She’d taken it, feeling light-headed. Not at all sure what was happening.

  She hadn’t left his side since.

  Not literally, of course. But professionally, emotionally. She would follow wherever he went.

  And now he was telling her he was resigning.

  She couldn’t say this was a complete surprise. She’d, in fact, been expecting it for some time. Since the department had begun to be dismantled and the agents spread among the other departments. Since the atmosphere at Sûreté headquarters had grown dank and sour with the smell of rot.

  “Thank you for all you’ve done for me,” he said. He got up and smiled. “I’ll email you a copy of my resignation letter. Perhaps you can circulate it.”

  “Yessir.”

  “As soon as you get it, please.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  She walked with him to the door to his office. He offered her his hand, as he had in their first meeting.

  “Not a day goes by when I’m not proud of you, Inspector Lacoste.”

  She felt his hand, strong. None of the weariness he’d shown the other agents. No defeat, or resignation. He was resolute. He held her hand and looked at her with complete focus.

  “Trust your instincts. You understand?”

  She nodded.

  He opened the door and left without a backward glance. Walking slowly but without hesitation from the department he’d created and this day destroyed.

  THIRTY

  “I think you’ll want to see this, sir.”

  Tessier caught up with Chief Superintendent Francoeur, and ordered everyone else out of the elevator. The doors closed and Tessier handed him a sheet of paper.

  Francoeur quickly scanned it.

  “When was this recorded?”

  “An hour ago.”

  “And he sent everyone home?” Francoeur began to hand the paper back to Tessier, but changed his mind. Instead, he folded it and put it in his pocket.

  “Inspector Lacoste is still there. They seem focused on the Ouellet case, but everyone else has gone.”

  Francoeur looked straight ahead and saw his imperfect reflection in the scuffed and pocked metal door of the elevator.

  “He’s had it,” said Tessier.

  “Don’t be a fool,” snapped Francoeur. “According to the files you picked off the therapist’s computer, Gamache still thinks we have him under surveillance.”

  “But no one believes him.”

  “He believes it, and he’s right. Don’t you think this might be for our benefit?” Francoeur tapped his breast pocket, where the transcription now sat. “He wants us to know he’s resigning.”

  Tessier thought about that. “Why?”

  Francoeur stared ahead. At the door. He remembered when it had been new. When the stainless steel gleamed, and the reflection was perfect. He took a deep breath and tipped his head back, closing his eyes.

  What was Gamache about? What was he doing?

  Francoeur should have been pleased, but alarms were sounding. They were so close. And now this.

  What’re you up to, Armand?

  *

  The parish priest met him with keys to the old stone church.

  Long gone were the days when churches were unlocked. Those days disappeared along with the chalices and crucifixes and anything else that could be stolen or defaced. Now the churches were cold and empty. Though not all of that could be laid at the feet of the vandals.

  Gamache brushed the snow from his coat, took off his hat, and followed the priest. Father Antoine’s Roman collar was hidden beneath a worn scarf and heavy coat. He hurried, not happy to be taken from his lunch and his hearth on this snowy day.

  He was elderly, stooped. Closing in on eighty, Gamache guessed. His face was soft, the veins in his nose and cheeks purple and protruding. His eyes were tired. Exhausted from looking for miracles in this hardscrabble land. Though it had produced one miracle within living memory. The Ouellet Quints. But perhaps, thought Gamache, one was worse than none. God had visited once. And then not returned.

  Father Antoine knew what was possible, and what was passing him by.

  “Which one do you want?” Father Antoine asked when they were in his office at the back of the church.

  “The 1930s forward, please,” said the Chief. He’d called ahead and spoken to Father Antoine, but still the priest seemed put out.

  He looked around the room, as did Gamache. Books and files were everywhere. Gamache could see that it had once been a comfortable, even inviting, room. There were two easy chairs, a hearth, bookcases. But now it felt neglected. Filled, but empty.

  “It’ll be over there.” The priest pointed to a bookcase by the window, dropped the keys on the desk, and left.

  “Merci, mon père,” the Chief called after him, then closed the door, turned on the lamp on the desk, took off his coat, and got to work.

  *

  Chief Superintendent Francoeur handed the paper to his lunch companion and watched as he read, folded it back up, and placed it on the table beside the bone china plate with the warm whole-grain roll. A curl of shaved butter sat beside a sterling silver knife.

  “What do you think it means?” his companion asked. His voice, as always, was warm, friendly, steady. Never flustered, rarely angry.

  Francoeur didn’t smile, but he felt like it. Unlike Tessier, this man wasn’t fooled by Gamache’s plodding attempt to throw them off.

  “He suspects we’ve bugged his office,” said Francoeur. He was hungry, but he didn’t dare appear distracted in front of this man. “That”—he nodded toward the paper on the linen tablecloth—“was meant for us.”

  “I agree. But what does it mean? Is he resigning or not? What message is he sending us? Is this”—he tapped the paper—“a surrender, or a trick?”

  “To be honest, sir, I don’t think it matters.”

  Now Francoeur’s companion looked interested. Curious.

  “Go on.”

  “We’re so close. Having to deal with that woman at first seemed a problem—”

  “By ‘deal with,’ you mean throwing Audrey Villeneuve off the Champlain Bridge,” the man said. “A problem you and Tessier created.”

  Francoeur gave him a thin smile and composed himself. “No, sir. She created it by exceeding her mandate.”

  He didn’t say that she should never have been able to find the information. But she had. Knowledge might be power, but it was also an explosive.

  “We contained it,” said Francoeur. “Before she could say anything.”

  “But she did say something,” his companion pointed out. “It was only good luck that she went to her supervisor, who then came to us. It was very nearly a catastrophe.”

  The use of that word struck Francoeur as interesting, and ironic, considering what was about to happen.

  “And we’re sure she didn’t tell anyone else?”

  “It would’ve come out by now,” said Francoeur.

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “She didn’t really know what she’d found,” said Francoeur.

  “No, Sylvai
n. She knew, but she couldn’t quite believe it.”

  Instead of anger in his companion’s face, Francoeur saw satisfaction. And felt a frisson of that himself.

  They’d counted on two things. Their ability to conceal what was happening and, if found, that it would be dismissed as inconceivable. Unbelievable.

  “Audrey Villeneuve’s files were immediately overwritten, her car cleaned out, her home searched,” said Francoeur. “Anything even remotely incriminating has disappeared.”

  “Except her. She was found. Tessier and his people missed the water. Hard to do, wouldn’t you say, given it’s such a large target? Makes me wonder how good their aim must be.”

  Francoeur looked around. They were alone in the dining room, except for a cluster of bodyguards by the door. No one could see them. No one could record them. No one could overhear them. But still, Francoeur lowered his voice. Not to a whisper. That felt too much like plotting. But he dropped his voice to a discreet level.

  “That turned out to be the best possible outcome,” said Francoeur. “It’s still listed as a suicide, but the fact that her body was found under the bridge allowed Tessier and his people to get under there too. Without questions being asked. It was a godsend.”

  Francoeur’s companion raised his brows and smiled.

  It was an attractive, almost boyish expression. His face held just enough character, just enough flaws, to appear genuine. His voice held a hint of roughness, so that his words never came across as glib. His suits, while tailored, were just that little bit off, so that he looked like both an executive and a man of the people.

  One of us, to everyone.

  There were few people Sylvain Francoeur admired. Few men he met he didn’t immediately want to piss on. But this man was one. More than thirty years they’d known each other. They’d met as young men and each had risen in his respective profession.

  Francoeur’s lunch companion ripped the warm bun in half and buttered it.

  He’d come up the hard way, Francoeur knew. But he’d come up. From a worker on the James Bay hydro dams to one of the most powerful men in Québec.

  It was all about power. Creating it. Using it. Taking it from others.

  “Are you saying God is on our side?” his companion asked, clearly amused.

  “And luck,” said Francoeur. “Hard work, patience, a plan. And luck.”

  “And was it luck that tipped Gamache to what we were doing? Was it luck that he stopped the dam collapse last year?”

  The conversation had taken a turn. The voice, so warm, had solidified.

  “Years we worked on that, Sylvain. Decades. Only to have you bungle it.”

  Francoeur knew the next few moments were critical. He couldn’t look weak, but neither could he confront. So he smiled, picked up his own roll, and tore it in half.

  “You’re right, of course. But I think that’ll prove a godsend too. The dam was always problematic. We didn’t know for sure it would actually come down. And it would’ve caused so much damage to the power grid it would’ve taken years to recover. This is much better.”

  He looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows, through the falling snow.

  “I’m convinced it’s even better than the original plan. It has the very great advantage of being visible. Not happening in the middle of nowhere, but right here, in the center of one of the biggest cities in North America. Think of the visuals.”

  Both men paused. Imagining it.

  It wasn’t an act of destruction they were contemplating, but creation. They would manufacture rage, an outrage so great it would become a crucible. A cauldron. And that would produce a cry for action. And that would need a leader.

  “And Gamache?”

  “He’s no longer a factor,” said Francoeur.

  “Don’t lie to me, Sylvain.”

  “He’s isolated. His division’s a shambles. He all but destroyed it himself today. He has no more allies, and his friends have turned away.”

  “Gamache is alive.” Francoeur’s companion leaned forward and lowered his voice. Not to conceal what he was about to say. But to drive home a point. “You’ve killed so many, Sylvain. Why hesitate with Gamache?”

  “I’m not hesitating. Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to get rid of him. But even people no longer loyal to him would ask questions if he suddenly turned up in the St. Lawrence or was a hit-and-run. We don’t need that now. We’ve killed his career, his department. We’ve killed his credibility and broken his spirit. No need to kill the man, just yet. Not unless he gets too close. But he won’t. I have him distracted.”

  “How?”

  “By dangling someone he cares about over the edge. Gamache is desperate to save this man—”

  “Jean-Guy Beauvoir?”

  Francoeur paused a moment, surprised his companion knew that. But then another thought occurred to him. While he was spying on Gamache, was this man spying on him?

  It doesn’t matter, thought Francoeur. I’ve nothing to hide.

  But still, he felt a sentry rise inside him. A guard went up. He knew what he himself was capable of. He took pride in it even. Thought of himself as a wartime commander, not shrinking from difficult decisions. From sending men to their deaths. Or ordering the deaths of others. It was unpleasant but necessary.

  Like Churchill, allowing the bombing of Coventry. Sacrificing a few for the many. Francoeur slept at night knowing he was far from the first commander to walk this road. For the greater good.

  The man across the table took a sip of red wine and watched him over the rim. Francoeur knew what he himself was capable of. And he knew what his companion was capable of, and had already done.

  Sylvain Francoeur doubled his guard.

  *

  Armand Gamache found the parish registers, in thick leather-bound volumes, exactly where the priest thought they’d be. He pulled a couple from the dusty stacks, taking the one from the 1930s with him to the desk.

  He put his coat back on. It was cold and damp in the office. And he was hungry. Ignoring the grumbling in his stomach, he put on his reading glasses and bent over the old book listing births and deaths.

  *

  Francoeur cut through the puff pastry of his salmon en croute and saw the flaky pink fish, with watercress on top. Lemon and tarragon butter dripped out of the pastry.

  He took a forkful as his companion ate his braised lamb shank with garlic and rosemary. Silver salvers of baby green beans and spinach sat between them on the table.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Sylvain.”

  “Which one?”

  “Is the Chief Inspector really resigning? Is he signaling his surrender, or trying to lead us astray?”

  Francoeur’s eyes went again to the paper, neatly folded on the table. The transcription of the conversation in Gamache’s office earlier that day.

  “I began to say that, in my opinion, it doesn’t matter.”

  His companion put down his fork and touched the linen napkin to his lips. He managed to make an effete mannerism look quite masculine.

  “But you didn’t explain what you meant by that.”

  “I mean, he’s too late. It’s all in place from our end. All we need is for you to say the word.”

  Francoeur’s fork hovered just above his plate, as he looked across the table.

  If the word was given now, they were just minutes from finishing what began decades ago. What started as two idealistic young men, and a whispered conversation, would end here. Thirty years later. With gray in their hair, and liver spots on their hands, and lines on their faces. With crisp linen and polished silver, red wine and fine food. Not with a whisper, but a bang.

  “Soon, Sylvain. We’re within hours, perhaps a day. We stick to the plan.”

  Like his companion, Chief Superintendent Francoeur knew patience was power. He’d need just a little more of one to achieve the other.

  *

  They were all there.

  Marie-Virginie.

  Marie-H
élène.

  Marie-Josephine.

  Marie-Marguerite.

  And Marie-Constance.

  He’d found the register of their birth. A long list of names, under Ouellet. And he’d found their deaths. Isidore, Marie-Harriette, and their children. Constance’s, of course, hadn’t yet been entered, but soon would be. Then the register would be complete. Birth, then death. And the book could be closed.

  Gamache sat back in the chair. Despite the disorder, this room was calming. He knew it was almost certainly the quiet and the scent of old books.

  He replaced the long, heavy books and left the church. As he walked across to the rectory, he passed the graveyard. The field of old gray stones was partly buried under snow, giving it a tranquil feel. More snow was falling, as it had all day. Not heavily, but steadily. Straight down, in large, soft flakes.

  “Oh, what the hell,” he said out loud to himself, and stepped off the path. He immediately sank to mid-shin and felt snow tumble down his boots. He trudged forward, occasionally sinking up to his knees as he moved from stone to stone. Until he found them.

  Isidore and Marie-Harriette. Side by side, their names written in stone for eternity. Marie-Harriette had died so young, at least by today’s standards. Shy of forty. Isidore had died so old. Just shy of ninety. Fifteen years ago.

  The Chief tried to clear the snow from the front of the tombstone, to read the other names and dates, but there was too much of it. He looked around, then retraced his steps.

  He saw the priest approaching and greeted him.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Father Antoine.

  He sounded friendlier now. Perhaps, Gamache thought, he suffered more from low blood sugar than ill temper or chronic disappointment in a God who had dropped him here, then forgotten about him.

  “Sort of,” said Gamache. “I tried to look at the graves but there’s too much snow.”

  “I’ll get a shovel.”

  Father Antoine returned a few minutes later and Gamache cleared a path to the monument, then dug out the stone itself.

  Marie-Virginie.

  Marie-Hélène.

  Marie-Josephine.

  Marie-Marguerite.

  And Marie-Constance. Her birthdate was there, just not yet her death. There was a presumption that she’d be buried with her siblings. In death as in life.