Over by the fireplace, Myrna and Clara exchanged glances.
There was unmistakable, and rare, anger in Armand’s voice. But below that they recognized something else. Gamache was afraid that these students weren’t taking this seriously enough. And in that error lay not just a failing grade, but a grave. Someone had killed, and they’d kill again.
“You don’t have the luxury of choosing when you’ll work, where you’ll work, and who you’ll work with. I’m your commander and I’ve assigned you to work together on the map. There is no debate, no argument. A murderer thrives on chaos, on creating divisions and diversions. Infighting is all those things. It divides the focus and saps the energy. You have to learn to get along. With everyone. Everyone.” He looked from one to the other to the other. “Everyone. Your lives will depend on it. Do you think those boys in those trenches fought each other?”
“A house divided cannot stand,” said Charpentier. “You don’t need to be a brilliant tactician to figure that one out.”
“No, just a master of clichés,” mumbled Jacques.
“And you wonder why I’m a recluse,” said Charpentier to Gamache.
“Oh, there are days I don’t wonder at all,” said Gamache.
“The house fell anyway, didn’t it?” said Jacques. “They all died, those soldiers. Together, maybe. But they all died. That’s not mud on the goddamned map. It’s blood.”
A copy was sitting on the table, and he shoved it at the Commander with such force a glass fell over. Water flooded the table, making its way toward the Commander.
But while the others moved away from it, Gamache stayed where he was, staring at the boy.
Jacques was so upset he was almost in tears. He stared at the Commander’s face. Taking in the deep scar by his temple. And meeting his eyes. Holding them.
“They died,” he whispered.
“Yes, many did,” said Gamache, studying the cadet. And then he reached out and slowly pushed the map back across the table. Away from the water. To safety, and the young man.
Gabri arrived at that moment with their breakfasts and wiped up the water, giving Gamache a quizzical look before he left.
Gamache turned to Charpentier. “Tell them what you told me.”
“I believe that,” the professor pointed to the paper, “is an early orienteering map.”
“A what?” asked Amelia.
“Orienteering,” said Nathaniel. “It’s a sport.”
“Like curling’s a sport?” asked Amelia.
“Curling’s a great sport,” said Huifen. “Have you ever tried it?”
“I don’t have to—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Gamache. “Just listen to the professor.”
“Orienteering’s a training tool, disguised as a sport,” said Charpentier.
“Training for what?” asked Huifen.
“War. It was used in the Boer War and the First World War to teach officers how to find their way around a battlefield. That’s why it shows things other maps never would. A rock, a fence, an odd-shaped tree, an abandoned house. But it also has contours, like a topographical map.”
He tapped the map on the table.
“Whoever made this knew how to make maps and was also an orienteer, when it was in its infancy.”
“And they must’ve lived around here,” said Nathaniel.
“Do you think the soldier made it himself?” asked Amelia.
“It’s possible,” said Charpentier.
“But?” asked Huifen, picking up on the hesitation.
“But this was done by an experienced mapmaker. The soldier was just a boy. He wouldn’t have had time to learn. Not to this degree.”
“It was done by his father,” said Jacques, who’d been staring at the map while they talked. “To take with him.”
“To remind him of home,” said Nathaniel.
“To bring him home,” said Jacques.
Charpentier looked at Gamache, who nodded. “We think so.”
“Where should we start?” asked Huifen.
“We can figure it out,” said Jacques. “We don’t need their help.”
“But—”
“You’ll ask for help, cadet,” said Gamache. “And you’ll take it.”
“Why?” asked Jacques. “I’ve seen what happens when people follow your orders.”
Armand Gamache put down his knife and fork slowly, with studied care, and stared at the cadet with such intensity, Jacques started to tremble. Even the others at the table, including Charpentier, leaned away.
“The town hall in Saint-Rémy will have records of sales and purchases,” said Gamache quietly, coldly. “Going back a hundred years or more. They’ll know who owned the bistro, when it was a private home. That’s the place to start.”
Nathaniel wrote that down, but Jacques continued to stare into the crosshairs.
Commander Gamache got up, as did they, rising quickly to their feet. Jacques got up too, but slowly.
“I’ll be back by seven tonight. I want your reports then.”
“Yes, sir,” said three cadets.
Gamache turned to Jacques, who said, “Yes, sir.”
“Bon,” said the Commander, and walked over to Myrna. “May I have a word?”
Myrna, feeling called to the principal’s office, followed him into the living room.
“Yes, he found the video,” she admitted before Armand could say anything. But still he was quiet, and she nodded. “I might have suggested he google you.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because he so clearly believed what that Leduc man was saying about you. He needed to know the truth if he was ever going to learn. There’s a murderer. The boy has to start paying attention.”
“No one needs to see that video.”
“Look, Armand, I know you hate that it’s out there, but the fact is, it is. It might as well have a purpose. If it teaches that young man the reality of the situation, then maybe some little good will come of it.”
“Does he look like he’s changed his mind?” asked Armand, and Myrna glanced in the direction of the dining room. And shook her head.
“I think there’s something else at work here,” she said. “I saw his face as he watched the video of that raid. He was shocked. But not in the usual way. He seemed to have walked right into the screen. To experience it, as it was happening. It’s a rare ability, to empathize that intensely. It’s almost as though he was there.”
On seeing Gamache’s face, she repeated, “Almost.”
Gamache looked toward the dining room, then back at Myrna.
“He saw all of them,” said Armand. “Réal and Etienne and Sarah.”
He recited the names of the dead, as Ruth had done the day before.
Myrna nodded. “And Jean-Guy. And you. I think for the first time he realized what being a S?reté agent would mean. The Duke, that’s what they called him?”
Gamache nodded.
“The Duke probably filled them with stories of power and glory, and any violence was heroic and cartoonish, like the old war movies or westerns. Death was clean, and mostly us doing it to them. And they loved him for it. But the video shows how horrific it really is. I think it’s terrified him. And he hates you for it.”
Gamache realized he’d been wrong. He’d been afraid Cadet Laurin wasn’t taking this seriously enough, when in fact he was near paralyzed with fear.
Jacques was asking himself the question they all did, eventually. When faced with it, would he move forward or would he run away?
“It’s time he learned what might be expected of him,” said Gamache. “It’s time they all learned.”
Then he smiled. Quickly, briefly. Sincerely.
“That’s a nice thought, Myrna. That good might come out of what happened. Their deaths might save lives. Might save his life, especially if it convinces him to quit.”
“Do you think he will?”
“I think perhaps he should.”
“But will he die at the appointed hour anyway?” she asked. “In his bed, in his car, or in a gun battle?”
“Fate? Don’t start on that again,” said Gamache. It was a conversation they often had, but not that day.
The two men left, as did Myrna and Clara, but the cadets stayed behind.