How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

by Louise Penny

A few seconds later he heard Inspector Lacoste’s voice. “Oui?”

  “Isabelle, I can’t talk long. The target’s the Ville-Marie Tunnel.”

  “Oh my God,” came the hushed response.

  “We need to close it down, now.”

  “Got it.”

  “And Isabelle. I’ve handed in my resignation.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll tell the others. They’ll want to know.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “And you? Where’re you going?”

  “Back to Three Pines. I left something there.” He paused before he spoke again. “Can you find Jean-Guy, Isabelle? Make sure he’s all right today?”

  “I’ll make sure he’s far away from what’s about to happen.”

  “Merci.”

  He hung up, called Annie to warn her to stay away from downtown, then got back in his car.

  *

  Sylvain Francoeur sat in the backseat of the black SUV. Tessier sat beside him, and in the rearview mirror Francoeur could see the unmarked van, carrying two more agents and the equipment they’d need.

  Francoeur had been happy to get out of the city, given what was about to happen. Far from the trouble and far from any possible blame. None of it would stick to him, as long as he got to the village in time.

  It was coming down to the wire.

  “Gamache didn’t go to headquarters,” Tessier whispered, checking his device. “He was tracked to east-end Montréal. The Villeneuve place. Should we pick him up?”

  “Why bother?” Francoeur had a smile on his face. This was perfect. “We searched it. He won’t find anything there. He’s wasting what little time’s left. He thinks we’ll follow him. Let him think that.”

  Tessier hadn’t been able to find Three Pines on any map, but it didn’t matter. They knew approximately where it was, from where Gamache’s signal always disappeared. But “approximately” wasn’t good enough for the careful Francoeur. He needed no delays, no unknowns. So he’d found a certainty. Someone who did know where the village could be found.

  Francoeur looked over at the haggard man behind the wheel.

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir held tight to the steering wheel, his face blank, as he drove them straight to Three Pines.

  *

  Olivier looked out the window. From Myrna’s loft they had a panoramic view over the village, past the three huge pine trees and up the main road out of Three Pines.

  “Nothing,” he said, and returned to sit beside Gabri, who put his large hand on Olivier’s slender knee.

  “I canceled choir practice,” said Gabri. “Probably shouldn’t have. Best to keep everything normal.” He looked at Olivier. “I might’ve blown it.”

  “It?” asked Nichol.

  After a surprised and strained pause, Gabri laughed.

  “Atta girl,” said Ruth.

  And then the quiet descended again. The weight of waiting.

  “Let me tell you a story,” said Myrna, pulling her chair closer to the woodstove.

  “We’re not four-year-olds,” said Ruth, but she put Rosa on her lap and turned to Myrna.

  Olivier and Gabri, Clara, Gilles and Agent Nichol, all moved their chairs closer, forming a circle in front of the warm fire. Jérôme Brunel wandered over, but Thérèse stayed by the window, looking out. Henri lay beside Ruth and gazed up at Rosa.

  “Is it a ghost story?” asked Gabri.

  “Of sorts,” said Myrna. She picked up a thick envelope from the coffee table. Written in a careful hand were the words: For Myrna.

  An identical envelope lay on the table. It said, For Inspector Isabelle Lacoste. Please Deliver by Hand.

  Myrna had found them dropped through her mailbox early that morning. Over coffee, she’d read the one addressed to her. But the envelope for Isabelle Lacoste remained sealed, though she suspected it said almost exactly the same thing.

  “Once upon a time, a poor farmer and his wife prayed for children,” said Myrna. “Their land was barren, and so, apparently was she. So desperate was the farmer’s wife for children that she traveled all the way to Montréal, to the Oratory, to visit Brother André. She crawled up the long, stone stairs, on her knees. Reciting the Hail Mary as she went—”

  “Barbaric,” muttered Ruth.

  Myrna paused to look over at the old poet. “Now, pay attention. This is important later.”

  Ruth, or Rosa, muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” But they listened.

  “And a miracle occurred,” Myrna resumed. “Eight months later, on the day after Brother André died, five babies were born in a tiny farmhouse, in the middle of Québec, delivered by a midwife and the farmer himself. At first it was a terrible shock, but then the farmer picked up his daughters and held them and he discovered a love like none he’d ever experienced. As did his wife. It was the happiest day of their lives. And it was the last happy day.”

  “You’re talking about the Ouellet Quints,” said Clara.

  “You think?” said Gabri.

  “The doctor had been called,” said Myrna, her voice melodic and calm. “But he didn’t bother to go out in the blizzard to some dirt-poor farm where he’d be paid in turnips, if at all. So he went back to sleep and left it up to the midwife. But next morning, when he heard that it was quintuplets and all were alive and healthy, he got himself over there. Photos were taken with him and the girls.”

  Myrna paused and looked around the gathering, holding their eyes. Her voice was low, as though inviting them into a conspiracy.

  “More than quintuplets were born that day. A myth was also born. And with it, something else came to life. Something with a long, dark tail.” Her voice was hushed and they all leaned forward. “A murder was born.”

  *

  Armand Gamache sped through the Ville-Marie Tunnel. He’d considered not taking it. Going around it. But this was the fastest way to the Champlain Bridge, and out of Montréal to Three Pines.

  As he drove through the long, dark tunnel, he noticed the cracks. The missing tiles and exposed rebar. How could he have driven this route so often and never noticed?

  His foot lifted from the accelerator and his car slowed, until other motorists were honking at him. Gesturing to him as they passed. But he barely noticed. His mind was going back over the interview with Monsieur Villeneuve.

  He took the next exit and found a phone in a coffee shop.

  “Bonjour,” came the soft, weary voice.

  “Monsieur Villeneuve, it’s Armand Gamache.”

  There was a pause on the other end.

  “Of the Sûreté. I just left your place.”

  “Yes, of course. I’d forgotten your name.”

  “Did the police return your wife’s car to you?”

  “No. But they gave me back what was in it.”

  “Any papers? A briefcase?”

  “She had a briefcase, but they didn’t return it.”

  Gamache rubbed his face, and was surprised by the stubble. No wonder Villeneuve hadn’t been all that anxious to invite him in. He must look like a vagrant, between the gray stubble and the bruise.

  He focused his thoughts. Audrey Villeneuve had planned to go to the Christmas party. Had been excited, happy, perhaps even relieved. Finally she could pass on what she’d found to someone who could do something about it.

  She must have felt a huge weight lift.

  But she’d also realize that the Premier of Québec wouldn’t just take her word for it, no matter how attractive she was in her new dress.

  She’d have to give him proof. Proof she’d have carried with her to the party.

  “Allô?” said Villeneuve. “You still there?”

  “Just a moment, please,” said Gamache. He was almost there. Almost at the answer.

  Audrey might have carried a clutch with her to the party, but not a briefcase, or a file folder, or loose papers. So how did she plan to pass the proof to the Premier?

  Audrey Villeneuve was killed because of what she’d found out, and what she’d failed to find. That o
ne last step that would have taken her to the man behind it all. The very man she’d be approaching. Premier Georges Renard.

  “May I come back?” Gamache asked. “I need to see what she had in the car.”

  “It’s not much,” said Villeneuve.

  “I need to see anyway.” He hung up, turned his car around, went back through the Ville-Marie Tunnel, holding his breath like a child passing a graveyard, and was back at the Villeneuve home a few minutes later.

  *

  Jérôme Brunel sat on the arm of Myrna’s chair. Everyone leaned forward, to catch the story. Of miracles, and myth, and murder.

  Everyone except Thérèse Brunel. She stood at the window, listening to the words, but looking out. Scanning the roads into the village.

  The sun was bright and the skies clear. A beautiful winter day. And behind her, a dark story was being told.

  “The girls were taken from their mother and father when they were still infants,” said Myrna. “It was at a time when the government didn’t need a reason, but they provided one anyway, by having the good doctor intimate that, though good people, the Ouellets were a little slow. Perhaps even congenitally so. Fit to raise cows and pigs, but not five little angels. They were a gift from God, Frère André’s last earthly miracle, and as such they belonged to all of Québec, and not some subsistence farmer. Dr. Bernard also hinted that the Ouellets were well paid for the girls. And people believed it.”

  Clara looked at Gabri, who looked at Olivier, who looked at Ruth. They’d all believed that the Quints had been sold by their greedy parents. It was an essential part of the fairy tale. Not just that the Quints were born, but that they were saved.

  “The Quints were sensations,” said Myrna. “All over the world people crushed by the Depression clamored for news of the miracle babies. They seemed proof of good in a very bad time.”

  Myrna held the envelope containing the pages Armand Gamache had painstakingly written the night before. Twice. Once for his colleague. Once for Myrna. He knew Myrna had loved Constance, and deserved to know what had happened to her. He had no Christmas gift to give her, but he gave her this instead.

  “To Bernard and the government it was clear that a fortune could be made from the girls. From films, to merchandise, to tours. Books, magazine articles. All chronicling their gilded life.”

  Myrna suspected Armand would not be thrilled to know she was telling everyone what he’d written. In fact, he’d printed Confidential across the first page. And now she was blabbing it freely. But when she’d seen the anxiety in their faces, felt the gravity of the situation pressing down on them, she knew she had to take their minds off their fears.

  And what better way than a tale of greed, of love, both warped and real. Of secrets and rage, of hurt beyond repair. And finally, of murder. Murders.

  She thought the Chief Inspector might forgive her. She hoped she’d get a chance to ask for it.

  “And it was a gilded life for the five girls,” she continued, looking around the circle at the wide, attentive eyes. “The government built them a perfect little cottage, like something out of a storybook. With a garden, a white picket fence. To keep the gawkers out. And the girls in. They had beautiful clothes, private tutoring, music lessons. They had toys and cream cakes. They had everything. Except privacy and freedom. And that’s the problem with a gilded life. Nothing inside can thrive. Eventually what was once beautiful rots.”

  “Rots?” Gabri asked. “Did they turn on each other?”

  Myrna looked at him. “One sibling turned on the others, yes.”

  “Who?” asked Clara quietly. “What happened?”

  *

  Gamache pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, almost slipping on the icy pavement underfoot. The door was opened before he could ring, and he stepped inside.

  “The girls are at a neighbor’s,” said Villeneuve. He’d obviously realized the importance of this visit. He led the way back to the kitchen, and there on the table were two purses, one for everyday use and the other a clutch.

  Without a word, Gamache opened the clutch. It was empty. He felt around the lining, then tipped it toward the light. The lining had been recently sewn back in place. By Audrey or the cops who’d searched it?

  “Do you mind if I take out the lining?” he asked.

  “Do whatever you have to.”

  Gamache ripped and felt around inside but came up empty. If there’d been anything there, it was gone. He turned to the other purse and quickly searched it but found nothing.

  “Is that all there was in your wife’s car?”

  Villeneuve nodded.

  “Did they give you back her clothes?”

  “The ones she was wearing? They offered to, but I told them to throw them away. I didn’t want to see.”

  While disappointed, Gamache wasn’t surprised. He’d have felt the same way. And he also suspected whatever Audrey had hidden wasn’t in her office clothes. Or, if it was, it had been found.

  “The dress?” he asked.

  “I didn’t want it either, but it showed up with the other things.”

  Gamache looked around. “Where is it?”

  “The garbage. I probably should’ve given it to some charity sale, but I just couldn’t deal with it.”

  “Do you still have the garbage?”

  Villeneuve led him to the bin beside the house, and Gamache rummaged through until he found an emerald green dress. With a Chanel tag inside.

  “This can’t be it,” he showed Villeneuve. “It says Chanel. I thought you said Audrey made her dress.”

  Villeneuve smiled.

  “She did. Audrey didn’t want anyone to know she made some of her own clothes or dresses for the kids, so she’d sew designer labels in.”

  Villeneuve took the dress and looked at the label, shaking his head, his hands slowly tightening over the material, until he was clutching it and tears were streaming down his face.

  After a couple of minutes, Gamache put his hand on Villeneuve’s, and loosened his grip. Then he took the dress inside.

  He felt along the hem. Nothing. He felt the sleeves. Nothing. He felt the neckline. Nothing. Until. Until he came to the short line at the bottom of the semi-plunging neckline. Where it squared off.

  He took the scissors Villeneuve offered and carefully unpicked the seam. This was not machine-stitched like the rest of the dress, but done by hand with great care.

  He folded back the material and found a memory stick.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir turned off the highway onto the secondary road. In the backseat Chief Superintendent Francoeur and Inspector Tessier were conferring. Beauvoir hadn’t asked why they wanted to go to Three Pines, or why the unmarked Sûreté van was following them.

  He didn’t care.

  He was just a chauffeur. He’d do as he was told. No more debate. He’d learned that when he cared, he got hurt, and he couldn’t take any more pain. Even the pills couldn’t dull it anymore.

  So Jean-Guy Beauvoir did the only thing left. He gave up.

  *

  “But Constance was the last Quint,” said Ruth. “How could she have been killed by one of her sisters?”

  “What do we really know about their deaths?” Myrna asked Ruth. “You yourself suspected the first one to die—”

  “Virginie,” said Ruth.

  “—hadn’t fallen down those stairs by accident. You suspected suicide.”

  “But it was just a guess,” said the old poet. “I was young and thought despair was romantic.” She paused, stroking Rosa’s head. “I might’ve confused Virginie with myself.”

  “Who hurt you once / so far beyond repair,” Clara quoted.

  Ruth opened her mouth and for a moment the friends thought she might actually answer that question. But then her thin lips clamped shut.

  “Suppose you were wrong about Virginie?” Myrna asked.

  “How can it matter now?” Ruth asked.

  Gabri jumped in. “It woul
d matter if Virginie didn’t really fall down the stairs. Was that their secret?” he asked Myrna. “She wasn’t dead?”

  Thérèse Brunel turned back to the window. She’d allowed herself to glance into the room, toward the tight circle and the ghost story. But a sound drew her eyes back outside. A car was approaching.

  Everyone heard it. Olivier was the first to move, walking swiftly across the wooden floor. He stood at Thérèse’s shoulder and looked out.

  “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.”