Isabelle Lacoste’s eyes shifted over to the gun. “A strange choice of weapon. I can see now that it wouldn’t be from the armory. You wouldn’t have a handgun like this there, would you?”
Gamache shook his head. “Not even for history class. We only have weapons the cadets need to train on. Ones they’ll use in their jobs. No S?reté agent would have used a gun like that in decades.”
Lacoste bent down and took a closer look. “I’ve never seen one close up. A revolver. Used to be called a six-shooter, didn’t it?”
“Oui,” said Beauvoir, joining her.
She bent closer. “Still five bullets in the chambers.”
Lacoste looked across the room, where some of her team were following the spray of blood. Trying to find the sixth.
“On the way down, I was trying to work out why no one heard the shot. Now I know.” She used a pencil to point. “It has a silencer.”
Lacoste stood back up, but Beauvoir remained on his haunches.
“I didn’t think revolvers could have silencers,” he said.
“Silencers can be fitted onto anything but they’re not usually effective on revolvers,” said Gamache.
“The cadet who found the body,” said Lacoste. “Where is he?”
“In my rooms,” said Gamache. “With one of the professors. He’s a freshman. Nathaniel Smythe. Would you like to speak to him?”
“I would.” She turned to Jean-Guy Beauvoir, who was still looking at the gun. Then he stood and turned to her.
“Trying to decide whether to invite me along?” he asked. “Am I a suspect?”
“Oui. As is Commander Gamache. For now.”
Gamache seemed completely unfazed by her statement. He’d come to that conclusion early on.
He was still in his dressing gown and slippers, his hair mussed from sleep, stubble on his face, waiting to be shaved off.
Lacoste wondered if he realized he was in that state. But it didn’t seem to matter.
“I’d like you with me, Inspector,” she said, then turned to Gamache. “Can you take us to him, please?”
“Of course, Chief Inspector,” said Gamache, ushering her out of the room, followed by Beauvoir. Once in the hall, their manner became less formal.
As they walked down the corridor, Isabelle Lacoste had the odd sensation they were not actually making any progress. Each corner they turned led them to a hallway that looked exactly like the one they’d just left.
The old academy, where she’d trained, had been a confusion of narrow corridors, with portraits and pennants and sporting trophies going back generations, with dark wooden staircases and worn carpets muffling the shouts and laughter and conversation of the cadets. The rumor among the students was that the building had once been an asylum. She could believe it. It either housed the insane or drove them there.
It had taken almost the entire three years for her to confidently make her way to the women’s toilet, and she privately suspected they moved the women’s bathroom every now and then, in protest at even having to have one.
But the new academy was just as confusing, in its own way, because of its utter lack of character and landmarks.
“Did Professor Leduc have any family?” she asked Gamache.
“Not that I know of, but I’ll look at his personnel file. If there is family, will you contact them, or shall I?”
They’d arrived at the Commander’s rooms, though the door looked like any of the other twenty or so they’d already passed. It struck her as interesting that Gamache’s suite was about as far from Professor Leduc’s as possible.
And she wondered whose decision that had been.
“Do you have a preference?” she asked.
“I’ll do it, if you don’t mind,” said Gamache. “He was in my employ and was my responsibility.”
She nodded.
“You have no idea who might’ve killed him?” Lacoste pressed, looking from one man to the other.
“Non,” they both said, but when Gamache reached for the door handle, she stopped him.
“But there is something,” she said, studying him.
How well she knew that face, those mannerisms. His ability to hide his thoughts and feelings behind a wall of calm. Even now. It wasn’t what was written on his face that had given her pause, but rather his earlier actions.
“Why did you stay in the room?” she asked. “Why not leave and lock the door, once the doctor had confirmed death?”
Jean-Guy had been wondering the same thing and was waiting until they were alone to question Gamache. But Isabelle had gotten there first. He felt a wave of both pride and annoyance.
He’d helped train her. And now he wondered if he’d done too good a job.
“I didn’t want him to be alone. Serge Leduc might not have been a good man, and he certainly was no friend. But he does deserve some common decency.”
Lacoste studied him for a moment. It was, she had to admit, the sort of thing Armand Gamache would do. And yet …
“And you felt he would, if he could speak, prefer that you stare at him in that condition, rather than simply lock the room and leave him in peace?”
She was pushing it, she knew. But if Gamache had been any other man, she’d have asked these same questions. And not let his answer go.
“I did,” he said simply. “And I wasn’t staring at his body.”
“Then what were you doing?” she asked.
Gamache cocked his head slightly and regarded her.
“I was noticing the details of the room.” He smiled. “Training and experience.”
Then his smile disappeared and he looked stern.
“You’re the head of homicide and I respect that. But I’m the commander here, and everyone and everything under this roof is my responsibility. A person not only died, he was murdered. And yes, I chose to use my expertise. Do you have a problem with that?”
“You know I do, sir. It wouldn’t be tolerated in anyone else. And you, above all, know the importance of keeping a crime scene as clean as possible.”
“I do. Which is why I touched nothing. I looked and I breathed.”
His voice was curt. Not exactly chastising her, but pushing back.
“I’m sorry if what I did upset you, Chief Inspector. It was only meant to help.” Then his voice softened. “Do you really think I killed Serge Leduc?”
Isabelle Lacoste visibly relaxed. “No, I don’t.”
“Good,” he said, smiling. “Because I sure wouldn’t want you on my tail.”
“And I hope you know that I do respect your position here, Commander. But I’m in charge.”
“I do know that, Isabelle. I’m not trying to take over. But I do need to be a part of this investigation. I should tell you that I’ll be calling the mayor of Saint-Alphonse to report what’s happened. As well as their chief of police.”
“Sounds reasonable,” she said.
Beauvoir was watching and listening, following closely what was being said, and not said. Mostly he watched Gamache.
While he’d deflected the question, Armand Gamache had not, in fact, properly answered it. And it was the same question he himself had.
Why had Gamache stayed in the room with the body? Lacoste was right. The appropriate action, by an experienced investigator, would have been to leave, lock the door, and await the forensics team.
But Gamache had not done that.
“Right now,” said Lacoste, “I need to speak to the cadet who found the body.”
“D’accord,” said Commander Gamache, and opened the door to his rooms.
*
Nathaniel sat on the edge of the sofa, nervously answering their questions. He seemed to grow more and more agitated as they went on, no matter how benign the question or how gently they were put to him. Though, it must be admitted, the interview had not started well.
“Your name?”
“Nathaniel Smythe.”
He’d given it a French pronunciation, though it was obviously an English name and he himself was English. It came out as Nataniel Smite.
“Nathaniel Smythe?” asked Isabelle Lacoste, giving it the proper English pronunciation.
Nathaniel colored. His red hair and fair complexion made the blush immediate and vivid.