by Louise Penny
Myrna took another step back. Clara leaned in for a closer look.
Ruth had sent Amelia off to get Clara, Myrna, and Reine-Marie as soon as she’d seen what the boy soldier had in his satchel.
“The map,” whispered Reine-Marie, who’d replaced Clara at the window.
And now they sat together, studying the copy of the map Nathaniel had pulled from his bag.
“Why would the soldier have it?” asked Reine-Marie, her words forming a mist on the glass boy. “A map of France, of Belgium, maybe. Of Vimy or Flanders. A battlefield map, I could see. But Three Pines isn’t a battlefield.”
“You obviously haven’t been paying attention,” said Clara.
She stood up and once again stepped closer to the stained glass. “I’ve always admired this, but never really looked at it close up.”
“Who were they?” Huifen asked. “There’re a bunch of names underneath. Are they there?”
She nodded toward the writing under the window.
They Were Our Children.
And then the list. No ranks. Just names. In death they were equal.
Etienne Adair. Teddy Adams. Marc Beaulieu.
Ruth’s rickety voice filled the tiny chapel. But when they looked over, they saw the old poet wasn’t reading the names. She was staring straight ahead, toward the altar. Reciting them.
Fred Dagenais. Stuart Davis.
“You memorized them?” asked Myrna.
“I guess so,” said Ruth.
She turned to look at the window, at the writing, at the boys she knew by heart.
“I’d assumed the window was a representation,” said Myrna. “A composite of all those lost in the war, and not specific boys from the village. But now I wonder.”
“Who they are,” said Reine-Marie.
“Who he is,” said Clara, pointing to the young man who was clearly the center of the work.
“He has a revolver, but the other boys only have rifles. Why is that?” asked Reine-Marie.
“I think officers had revolvers,” said Myrna.
“But he can’t be an officer,” said Huifen. “He’s a kid. He’s our age. Maybe even younger. That’s like saying he’s”—she waved at Nathaniel—“a chief inspector. It’s ridiculous.”
“One day, maybe,” said Nathaniel, though no one heard him.
“Not so ridiculous if everyone else is dead,” said Myrna. “A battlefield promotion.”
“But isn’t the real question, why does he have that?” asked Clara, pointing to the map sticking out of his satchel.
They looked down at the map the cadets had brought. Even though theirs was a photocopy, they could still see all the tears and smears. They’d assumed it was dirty from being stuck in the walls for so long.
But maybe it wasn’t just dirt.
* * *
“But that’s incredible,” said Armand into his cell phone, catching the eyes of the others in the conference room at the academy and making an expression of apology.
They’d had sandwiches and drinks brought in to the conference room. The sandwiches were on POM Bakery white bread and were curling up at the edges.
Only Jean-Guy was eating them. He would eat the utensils, Gamache knew, if no one was watching.
“You’re sure it’s the same map?” He listened for a moment. “The snowman. Yes.”
All Beauvoir, Lacoste, and Gélinas could hear was Gamache’s end of the conversation. His phone had rung as they were interviewing the last of the faculty.
Professor Charpentier sat with his hands in his lap. Completely contained. Except for the sweat pouring out of him. He was drenched. His face was so slick it glistened, and Jean-Guy was worried he’d pass out from dehydration.
“Water?”
He poured a glass from the pitcher and shoved it toward the professor, who shook his head.
Up to and including that moment, the professor had been monosyllabic. Not, it was felt, because he was trying to hide anything. In fact, the few damp syllables they’d squeezed out of him showed his acute willingness to help.
Had he seen anything?
A brisk shake of his head.
Had he heard anything?
Another shake.
Did he know Serge Leduc well?
A shake.
“What does he teach?” Deputy Commissioner Gélinas whispered to Beauvoir while Gamache was on the phone. “His file is empty.”
He motioned toward the dossier, open in front of him.
“He’s a tactician,” said Beauvoir. “Commander Gamache hired him. He has the title of professor, but he only teaches one class. Advanced tactics to the graduating cadets.”
“He could teach water sports.”
Professor Charpentier sat absolutely still, like some wild animal startled. The only thing that moved was a large drip that was making its way to the end of his nose, and then hung there.
Lacoste, Beauvoir, and Gélinas stared at it, transfixed.
“Why’s he here if he doesn’t really teach?” Gélinas asked, once the drip dropped. In the background, they could hear Gamache still on the phone with his wife.
“He designs tactical exercises for the cadets,” whispered Beauvoir. “A series of ‘what ifs.’ For the freshmen, it starts as written examples and tests, but then they progress to the role-playing and mock-ups. We’ve built scale models for the exercises, but it goes beyond that, to questions of how to handle different situations. It’s new.”
“Commander Gamache brought that in?”
“Oui. And the man with it. The idea is to teach the cadets other ways of handling situations besides force. But if they have to use force, they need to know the most effective way to do it.”
Deputy Commissioner Gélinas nodded approval.
“Had the Commander ever met this Charpentier before hiring him?”
“Oh, yes, Hugo Charpentier was one of Monsieur Gamache’s own recruits into the Sûreté, years ago.”
“He’s a Sûreté officer?” asked Gélinas.
“Was.”
“One of Monsieur Gamache’s protégés?”
“At first, but then someone else took him under his wing,” said Beauvoir. “When Charpentier showed a knack for tactics.”
“Really? Who?”
“Superintendent Brébeuf.”
Gélinas nodded, tucking that information away. He looked at Charpentier’s wheelchair. “Wounded?”
“No. He’s got a condition like Parkinson’s, I believe,” said Beauvoir. “Some days he can walk with canes, but most of the time he gets around in the chair. Easier and faster.”
“Did you work with him at the Sûreté?”
“Non, he didn’t stay long. He left and set up his own company. Works as a consultant. He must be very good,” said Beauvoir, “or Monsieur Gamache wouldn’t have brought him here.”
“He looks terrified.”
“Yes, he always does.”
“But how can a man who is permanently afraid teach attack techniques and strategies?”
“Who knows airplanes better than someone afraid to fly?” asked Beauvoir, and had the pleasure of seeing the Deputy Commissioner’s brow rise.
“I’d like to see it for myself,” said Gamache. “I’ll be home later tonight and will bring the original map.”
Gamache hung up and returned to the table.
“My apologies.”
“Everything all right at home?” Lacoste asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“They found a map?”
All eyes turned to Professor Charpentier. Sweat was now pooling at his collar, and as he spoke it overflowed down the sodden shirt.
The words seemed wrung out of him.
At that moment, Gélinas sat forward as though someone had punched the back of his chair.
“Wait a minute. You’re H. E. Charpentier?”
Professor Charpentier ignored him and continued to look at Gamache, who nodded.
“Actually, the map was found a few months ago in the wa
“Really?” said Lacoste, who was familiar with the church and the memorial window. “That’s strange. The same map we found—”
“In the wall, yes,” said Gamache, cutting her off.
Another plump drip was making its way down Charpentier’s cheek. And into the crevice of his smile.
“That Charpentier?” Gélinas whispered to Beauvoir, who nodded. “But he’s a recluse. Good God, I’ve hired him as a consultant in tactics, but he won’t even talk on the phone. Only by email. I thought he was older. And bigger.”
Charpentier rolled his chair a millimeter closer to the conference table. Either not hearing what Gélinas said, or not caring.
“That’s interesting. Important maps are sometimes found in attics or the back of an old desk, but you say this one was in a wall?”
“I don’t think it has any historic value, or even monetary,” said Gamache. “It’s just a curiosity.”
“It is that,” agreed Charpentier, glancing from Gamache to Lacoste.
“Oui. Now,” Gamache turned to the others, “can we get back to the matter at hand?”
“Where is it now?” asked Charpentier.
“What?”
“The map.”
“I have the original,” said Gamache, clearly trying to be patient while redirecting the conversation. “I can show it to you later, if you like.”
“You say ‘original.’ That means there’re copies?”
“I’m sorry, professor,” said Gamache, “but how can any of this possibly matter?”
“That’s what I’m wondering.” He was studying Gamache in a disconcerting manner. Talk of maps had opened the verbal floodgates. “You seem to think it is, or you wouldn’t have spent such a long time on the phone discussing it.”
“Perhaps we can talk about this later,” said Gamache.
“I’d like that.”
Charpentier pushed away from the table.
“But we’re not finished,” said Gélinas. “We have more questions.”
“No you don’t,” said the young man. “All the pertinent ones have been asked. And I have nothing to add to this investigation. If I did, I’d tell you. Anything beyond this is a waste of time.”
Beauvoir, who’d had respect for this strange man, now found himself developing a slight affection for him.
Charpentier sat there, drenched in his own fluids. Skinny. Sallow. Out of his depth among these highly functioning officers. And completely unaware of it.
As far as Charpentier was concerned, he was the normal one.
Beauvoir admired that, though he did not agree with it.
“There is one last question,” said Gamache. “And then I’ll show you the original map.”
There was now a very slight smile on the tactician’s face, as though he approved of Gamache’s use of the age-old quid pro quo.
“What did you think of Serge Leduc?”
“I thought he was a stupid man. I thought he was better suited to be a shoe salesman.”
Deputy Commissioner Gélinas laughed and then stopped when Charpentier looked at him.
“You don’t agree?”
“Non, non, it’s not that. What you said was funny.”
“Really? Professor Leduc would have been good at selling footwear. High end. Convincing people to buy something that would eventually hurt them. And to pay good money to do it. He was a sadist.”
“Could he have run a corruption ring?” Gélinas asked.
“Never. He’d have been caught immediately. He didn’t think two or three steps ahead. A shoe salesman doesn’t need to.”
“Ironic really,” said Lacoste, though only Gamache caught what she meant and smiled.
“But the head of the Sûreté Academy should,” said Charpentier, looking at Gamache.
“Where would you look for his killer?” asked Isabelle Lacoste.
“Matthew 10:36,” said Charpentier, after thinking for a moment. “Yes. That’s where I’d start. Now, can we go?”
“I’ll meet you in my rooms in fifteen minutes,” said Gamache.
“Strange man,” said Lacoste as the door closed.
“A genius,” said the RCMP officer. “And yes, a strange man.” He thought for a moment. “A person like that could do a lot of damage, non?”
“You think he was involved in Leduc’s death?” asked Chief Inspector Lacoste.
“Or the corruption. Or both. Don’t you?” He’d looked at Gamache as he spoke. “Isn’t that why you brought him here? A professor who doesn’t really teach? A brilliant tactician? So you could observe him? You brought all the suspects together. Leduc, Brébeuf, Charpentier. And then watched what would happen. But you made a mistake. One I’ve heard assigned to you in the past. You thought you were smarter than them. Than him. You thought you could control the situation. But you couldn’t. It’s spun out of control, Commander. And he knows it. That wasn’t an observation, about needing to think a few steps ahead, it was a joke. He was mocking you.”
Gamache got up.
“You might be right,” he said as he made for the door. “Time will tell.”
“Time has spoken. Did you not hear it? And in case you missed it, it dropped a body into your great experiment, Monsieur Gamache. And if you don’t get control soon, there will be more.”
When the Commander had left, Paul Gélinas turned to the others.
“Was that a biblical reference Charpentier made?”
“Matthew 10:36,” said Lacoste. “When he was head of homicide, it was one of the first lessons Gamache taught his agents.”
“And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household,” said Beauvoir.
Gélinas nodded. “And H. E. Charpentier would start in this household, to find the killer.”
“I’d have thought that was obvious,” said Lacoste, getting up to go.
“A household isn’t just a house,” said Gélinas. “There’s an intimacy implied in that quote. It speaks of someone close. Very close.”
CHAPTER 22
“Huh,” said Charpentier as he looked at the framed map.
Gamache had taken it off the wall and handed it to the professor.
“Huh?” said Armand. “Could you be more specific? Is it an important map?”
“Not in the least.” Though Charpentier continued to study it.
“I’m afraid I have to leave.” Gamache looked at his watch. It was almost seven in the evening. “But I’ll be back in the morning. Chief Inspector Lacoste and some of her team will stay, as will Inspector Beauvoir. They’ll have the forensics report by morning.”
Gamache reached over to take the map from the professor, but Charpentier seemed reluctant to give it up.
“I’m coming with you,” he said.
“Why?” asked Gamache. “Not to be rude, but I’m not sure why you’d want to.”
“I collect maps. This one is curious. The image was also found in a stained-glass window in your village, you said?”
“Oui.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“But you said it’s not an important map.”
“It’s not. And yet it’s important to you,” said Charpentier. “As a map, or as something else?”
Gamache weighed his options while looking at the drenched young man, then finally said, “Pack an overnight case and meet me at the main doors in fifteen minutes.”
When Charpentier left, Gamache picked up the map. The glass was slick with perspiration. He turned it over, and carefully, carefully, removed it from the frame.
* * *
They arrived in Three Pines just after eight thirty, going directly to St. Thomas’s Church, which was still bright with lights.
Eight people turned their heads as they entered. Four villagers and the four cadets. A crowd any minister would envy.
If people were mostly water, then this young man was more human than most.
“This is Hugo Charpentier,” said Gamache. “He’s on the faculty.”
“You’re one of our professors,” said Jacques. “You teach advanced tactics.”
“And you need to pay closer attention in class, Cadet Laurin,” said Charpentier. “As I remember, you’ve been shot dead in the last two tactical exercises, and taken hostage in a third. The factory test. You failed.”
Huifen tried to suppress a smile, while Amelia and Nathaniel looked at Jacques with interest. The golden boy not just tarnished, but dead.
Hugo Charpentier turned to the Commander.
Gamache held his gaze, knowing exactly what the tactician was thinking.
Four cadets. Not in the academy, but in this small chapel, miles away. It would not be an exaggeration to say they were hidden away, though they themselves might not realize it.
“Professor Charpentier collects maps,” Armand explained. “I thought he could help. Well, he thought he could help.”
So far, on the drive down, Hugo Charpentier had said nothing about the map, or anything else. They’d driven in silence, which was fine with Armand. He had things to think about.
“It’s over here,” said Reine-Marie, walking to the stained-glass window. “How could we not have seen it before?”
“You weren’t meant to,” said Charpentier. “Look at his face.”
Two of the soldiers were in profile, heading forward. But the one young man was staring straight out. At them.
“That’s what you’re meant to see.” Charpentier waved one of his sticks at the boy. “His expression is so striking, it wipes everything else off, well, the map.”
“You think the map was hidden on purpose?” asked Myrna.
“Misdirection,” said Huifen, who’d been reading about just that in her tactics textbook. By one H. E. Charpentier.
“There was a purpose,” said Charpentier. “But was it to hide the map? I don’t see why anyone would put it there, then direct everyone’s attention away from it.”
“Why not just leave it out, you mean?” asked Reine-Marie.
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