“They basically sold their kids to the government, then got huffy when the money ran out. Figured they were owed more.”
Chief Inspector Gamache had himself found the details of the accounting. It showed a large payment, or certainly large for the time, to Isidore Ouellet, disguised as an expropriation of his farm for a hundred times what it was really worth.
The dirt-poor farmer had won the lottery, in the form of five fantastical daughters. And all he’d had to do was sell them to the state.
Gamache had also come across letters. Lots of them. Written over a period of years in laborious longhand, demanding their daughters back, saying they were tricked. Threatening to go public. The Ouellets would tell everyone how the government had stolen their children. Isidore even invoked Frère André, who was dead by then, but an increasingly potent symbol in Québec.
In reading the letters it struck Gamache that what Isidore Ouellet really wanted was not the girls, but more money.
Then there were the letters in response from a newly formed branch of the government called Service de protection de l’enfance. They were addressed to the Ouellets, and while the language was extremely civil, Gamache could see the counter-threat.
If the Ouellets opened their mouths, so would the government.
And they had a great deal to say. They too invoked Brother André. It seemed the saint played for both teams. Or so they hoped.
Eventually the letters from the Ouellets petered out, but not before the tone became more pathetic, more demeaning. Begging. Explaining they had rights and needs.
And then the letters stopped.
“Did Constance tell you about her parents?” Gamache asked. It was their second time around the village green. He looked down at Henri, who was staying close to Gamache’s legs, eyes fixed on Rosa. A spectacularly stupid expression on his face.
Could it be? Gamache wondered. No. Surely not.
He stole another look at Henri, who was all but slobbering as he watched Rosa. It was difficult to tell, but the shepherd either wanted to eat the duck, or had fallen in love with her.
Gamache decided not to explore either thought further. It was far too star-crossed.
“Honestly, you can’t be that stupid,” said Ruth. “I told you yesterday that I knew who Constance was but we didn’t talk about it. You really aren’t listening, are you?”
“To your sparkling conversation? Who wouldn’t? No, I was paying attention, I just wondered if Constance had said something to you, but, alas, she didn’t.”
Ruth shot him a look, her blue eyes bleary but sharp. Like a knife in a cold, shallow stream.
They stopped in front of Emilie Longpré’s home.
“I remember visiting Madame Longpré here,” said Gamache. “She was a remarkable woman.”
“Yes,” said Ruth, and he waited for some snide qualifier, but none came.
“It’s nice to see lights on, and smoke coming from the chimney again,” she said. “It’s been empty far too long. This home was meant for people.” She turned to him. “It wants company. Even company as banal as yours.”
“Merci,” said the Chief, with a small bow. “Might I come over later and pick up the book?”
“What book?”
It was all Gamache could do to not roll his eyes. “The book by Dr. Bernard on the Ouellet Quintuplets.”
“You still want that? You’d better pay that librarian woman for it then, now that she’s changed her place from a library to a bookstore. Is that legal?”
“à bient?t, coach,” said Gamache, and watched Ruth and Rosa limp and waddle next door.
Henri embarrassed himself by crying a little.
Gamache tugged on the leash and the shepherd reluctantly followed.
“And I thought you were in love with the arm of our sofa,” said the Chief, as they entered the warm house. “Fickle brute.”
Thérèse was in the living room in front of the fireplace, reading an old paper.
“From five years ago,” she said, putting it down beside her. “But if I hadn’t looked at the date I’d swear it was today’s.”
“Plus ?a change…” said Gamache, joining her.
“The more it changes, the more it stays the same,” Thérèse finished the quote, then thought about it. “Do you believe it?”
“No,” he said.
“You’re an optimist, monsieur.” She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “Neither do I.”
“Café?” he asked, and went to the kitchen to pour them both a coffee. Thérèse followed him and leaned against the marble counter.
“I feel out of sorts without my phone and emails and laptop,” she admitted, her arms around her body, like an addict in withdrawal.
“Me too,” he said, passing her a mug of coffee.
“When you’ve come here for murder investigations, how did you connect?”
“Not much we could do except tap into the telephone lines and boost them.”
“But that’s still dial-up,” said Thérèse. “Better than nothing, though. I know you also use hubs and mobile satellite dishes when you’re in remote areas. Do they work here?”