Here was a young man desperate to fit in, to pass as Québécois, thought Lacoste. Though his name and coloring would give him away immediately. And while he had not actually lied right out of the gate, he had misled. Tried to pass himself off as something he was not.
It was a small, but telling, detail. And Chief Inspector Lacoste knew murders were built on tiny, almost imperceptible things. They were almost never provoked by a single massive event, but rather by an accumulation of small insults, slights, lies. Bruises. Until the final flesh wound proved fatal.
She looked at young Cadet Smythe. Who’d just tried to pretend he wasn’t Anglo. And now she was getting another sense from him.
He’s gay, she thought with dismay.
Gay was fine. Anglo was fine. Anglo and gay was fine. Anglo, gay, and in the S?reté Academy was something else. No wonder this young man’s instinct was to hide.
She looked over at Gamache, still in his dressing gown and pajamas, sitting at ease on one of the Eames chairs. She wondered if he had also picked up on it, and she thought he probably had.
“Cadet Smythe is in my class,” said the Commander. “And you sometimes come to the gatherings in these rooms.”
“Oui.”
“Tell us what happened,” said Lacoste. Her voice matter-of-fact.
“I was taking Professor Leduc his morning coffee and toast. I knocked on the door, and when there was no answer I tried the handle. It was unlocked, so I opened it.”
This raised a number of questions, but Lacoste held off until he’d finished.
“I saw him right away, of course.”
He blushed again with the effort of holding it together. Keeping down the emotions, and the vomit.
“And what did you do?” she asked.
“I backed away and yelled for help.” He looked at the Commander. “I dropped the tray.”
“Naturally,” said the Commander. “I would have too.”
“Did you go into the room?” Chief Inspector Lacoste asked.
“No.”
“Even a little bit? A few steps?” she pressed, her voice suggesting it would be understandable if he had, but the cadet shook his head.
It was the last thing this young man had been tempted to do.
“Why were you taking coffee to Professor Leduc?” Beauvoir asked.
“We do it every morning. Amelia Choquet and I take shifts. A week at a time.”
There was a slight movement from Gamache, and an inhale.
He’s surprised, thought Lacoste.
“Do you know the practice of freshmen serving meals to professors was stopped when Commander Gamache took over?” Beauvoir asked.
“Professor Leduc told us that, but said it was tradition. That it helped establish respect and order and a chain of command. He said S?reté Academy traditions were there for a reason and important to uphold.”
He said it apparently without understanding the insult to Commander Gamache. It was another small, but telling, detail. It spoke about this student. But mostly it spoke of Serge Leduc and his disdain for the new commander.
And Leduc’s willingness to pass his opinions on to the cadets.
Beauvoir didn’t look over at Gamache, but watched him in his peripheral vision. His face was again one of calm attentiveness. But his posture had changed. It was more tense.
“Not all traditions are good,” said Beauvoir. “That one belittles freshmen. You’re agents in training, not servants. I hated it when I was a freshman. I’m interested to see that you don’t seem to mind.”
“Professor Leduc explained that Amelia and I were specially chosen.”
“And did he explain what was special about you?” asked Lacoste.
“We were the most promising.”
“I see,” she said.
Lacoste turned to Gamache, but he shook his head to say he had no questions, though he was listening intently and watching the young man closely.
“The door to Professor Leduc’s rooms was unlocked,” Lacoste said. At that moment her iPhone vibrated, but she ignored it. “Was that unusual?”
“No. He often unlocked it first thing in the morning, so we could get in.”
“And what did you do, once in his rooms?” asked Lacoste.
“Put down the tray and left.”
“And the times he was there?” asked Gamache, finally speaking.
“He’d thank me, and I’d leave.”
Chief Inspector Lacoste, after quickly checking a text, got up. “Merci, Cadet Smythe.” She turned to Gamache and Beauvoir. “Dr. Harris is here. Would you like to come?”
“I think now would be a good time to shower and change,” said Gamache. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
He turned to Nathaniel.
“Wait here, please. Pour yourself a coffee, if you’d like.”
Gamache pointed to a coffee maker with a full carafe on the sideboard. “I’ll be out soon.”
Lacoste and Beauvoir left Nathaniel pouring coffee, while Commander Gamache went into the bedroom, closing the door.
He emerged a short time later, shaved, showered, and in a fresh suit and tie. On seeing the Commander, Nathaniel got to his feet.
Gamache waved him to sit back down and, pouring himself a coffee, he joined the cadet.
The sun was up, illuminating a bleak March landscape. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, they could see patches of snow and patches of gray scrub. A month earlier it had been a wonderland of fresh, clean snow, cut across by trails left by cross-country skis and snowshoes. In another month, it would be alive with spring wildflowers and trees in fresh green bud.
But for now it was a sort of zombie landscape. A living dead.
“So, Cadet Smythe, what did you find out about the map?”
He’d asked the question in flawless English, with just a hint of a British accent, and gestured toward the framed painting on the wall.
Nathaniel hadn’t been expecting that question, or the language, and he blushed again.
“Pardon?” he asked, in French.
Gamache smiled. “It’s okay to be English, you know. If you’re not true to yourself, how can you ever recognize the truth in others? I was asking about the map. You and three other cadets were looking into it.”
“We stopped,” said Nathaniel, still in French. “We got sorta bogged down in coursework.”
They were in the odd position, as sometimes happened in Québec, where the Francophone was speaking English and the Anglo was speaking French.
“And what did you do with your copy of it?” he asked.
“The map? I don’t know. It’s around somewhere, I suppose.”
Commander Gamache leaned forward slightly. Enough to be just inside Cadet Smythe’s personal space.
“I’m not asking to make conversation, young man. Everything I ask has a purpose, and never more so than now. This is a murder investigation, not a get-together for coffee.”
“Yessir.”
Nathaniel had switched to English, and his eyes had widened.
“Good. Now, let’s try again. What did you do with your copy of the map?”
“I don’t know.”
On seeing the Commander’s face, he blushed again.
“Really, I don’t remember. I don’t think I threw it away. It’s probably in my desk in the dorm.”
“Go and find it, please,” said Gamache, getting up. “But I do have one more question.”
“Yes?”
“Were you ever in Professor Leduc’s bedroom?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, cadet. There’s no fault to you. No law broken, moral or legal. At least on your side. But I need to know.”
“No, sir. I was never in his bedroom.”
Gamache studied the young man, who now looked as though his head was on fire.
“What was your relationship with Professor Leduc?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you’re afraid. And you have reason to keep your private life private, especially here. This has not been, in the past, the most tolerant of institutions. I think you’re very brave to come here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gamache smiled. And nodded. “Just remember, this is now a murder investigation. Your secrets will come out. I’m giving you a chance to tell me quietly.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Gamache lowered his voice, even though they were alone in the room.
“I will understand,” he said. “Trust me. Please.”
Nathaniel Smythe looked into those eyes, and caught the slight scent of sandalwood and rosewater, though he could never have named the actual aromas. He knew he liked it. It was calming. As were the eyes.