“We’ve been thinking about them, of course,” said Madame. “Remembering them.”
“And what do you remember?”
“They were perfect neighbors,” she said. “Quiet. Private. Like us.”
Like us, thought Gamache, watching her. She was indeed about the right age and right body type. He didn’t ask if she had the right temperament to kill. It wasn’t about that. Most murderers were themselves surprised by the crime. Surprised by the sudden passion, the sudden blow. The sudden shift that took them from good, kindly people to killers.
Had she planned it, or was it a surprise to both her and Constance? Had she gone over there, only to discover Constance’s intention to return to the village, to tell Myrna everything, not out of spite, not to hurt her sister, but to finally free herself.
Virginie had been freed by a crime, Constance would be freed by the truth.
“You were friends?” Gamache asked.
“Well, friendly. Cordial,” said Madame Michaud.
“But they invited you over for drinks, I understand.”
“A lemonade, once. That hardly makes a friendship.” Her eyes, while still warm, were also sharp. As was her brain.
Gamache leaned forward and concentrated fully on Madame Michaud.
“Did you know that they were the Ouellet Quints?”
Both Michauds sat back. Monsieur Michaud’s brows shot up, surprised. But Madame Michaud’s brows descended. He was feeling, she was thinking.
“The Ouellet Quints?” she repeated. “The Ouellet Quints?” This time with the emphasis on “the.”
Gamache nodded.
“But that’s not possible,” said Albert.
“Why not?” asked Gamache.
Michaud sputtered, his brain tripping over his words. He turned to his wife. “Did you know this?”
“Of course not. I’d have told you.”
Gamache sat back and watched them try to absorb this information. They seemed genuinely shocked, but were they shocked at the news, or the news that he knew?
“You never suspected?” he asked.
They shook their heads, still apparently unable to speak. For this generation it really would have been akin to hearing their neighbors were Martians. Something both familiar and alien.
“I saw them once,” said Monsieur Michaud. “My mother took us to their home. They came out every hour on the hour and walked around the fence, waving to the crowds. It was thrilling. Show him what you’ve got, Annette.”
Madame Michaud got to her feet, and both men rose as well. She returned a minute later.
“Here. My parents bought this for me in a souvenir shop.”
She held out a paperweight, with a photo of the pretty little cottage and the five sisters in front.
“My parents took me to see them too, right after the war. I think my father had seen some terrible things and he wanted to see something hopeful.”
Gamache looked at the paperweight, then handed it back.
“They really did live next door?” asked Monsieur Michaud, finally grasping what Gamache had said. “We knew the Quints?”
He turned to his wife. She didn’t seem pleased. Unlike her husband, she seemed to remember why Gamache was there.
“Her death couldn’t have been because she was a Quint, could it?” she asked.
“We don’t know.”
“But it was so long ago,” she said, holding his eyes.
“What was?” Gamache asked. “They might have grown up, might have changed their name, but they would always be the Quints. Nothing could change that.”
They stared at each other while Monsieur Michaud muttered, “I can’t believe it. The Quints.”
Armand Gamache left the warmth of their home. The aroma of pot roast was embedded in his coat and followed him out the door and into his car.
He drove back across the Champlain Bridge, the traffic now thinned as the worst of the rush hour ended. He wasn’t sure he’d gotten any closer to the answer. Was he creating his own myth? The missing Quint? The one who rose from the dead? Another miracle.
*
“Where is he now?” Francoeur asked.
“He’s over the Champlain Bridge,” said Tessier. “And heading south. I think he’s heading back down to that village.”
Francoeur leaned back in his chair and regarded Tessier, but the Inspector knew that look. He wasn’t really seeing him; the Chief Superintendent was mulling something over.
“Why does Gamache keep going back to that village? What’s in that place?”
“According to his case file, the Quint, the one who was killed, had friends there.”
Francoeur nodded, but in an abstract way. Thinking.
“Are we sure it’s Gamache?” Francoeur asked.