“The classics,” said Gabri. “Though this year we’re practicing a new one.”
“Not ‘O Holy Night,’ I hope,” said Constance. “Not sure I’m ready for that one.”
Gabri laughed. “No. ‘The Huron Carol.’ Do you know it?” He sang a few bars of the old Québécois carol.
“I love that one,” she said. “But no one does it anymore.”
Though it shouldn’t have surprised her that in this little village she’d find something else that had been all but lost to the outside world.
Constance said her good-byes, and to calls of “à bient?t!,” she and Myrna walked to her car.
Constance started it to warm up. It was getting too dark to play hockey and the kids were just leaving the rink, wobbling through the snow on their skates, using their hockey sticks for balance.
It was now or never, Constance knew.
“We used to do that,” she said, and Myrna followed her gaze.
“Play hockey?”
Constance nodded. “We had our own team. Our father would coach us. Mama would cheer. It was Frère André’s favorite sport.”
She met Myrna’s eyes. There, she thought. Done. The dirty secret was finally out in the open. When she returned, Myrna would have lots of questions. And finally, finally, Constance knew she would answer them.
Myrna watched her friend leave, and thought no more of that conversation.
THREE
“Think carefully,” said Armand Gamache. His voice was almost neutral. Almost. But there was no mistaking the look in his deep brown eyes.
They were hard, and cold. And unyielding.
He stared at the agent over his half-moon reading glasses and waited.
The conference room grew quiet. The shuffling of papers, the slight and insolent whispering, died out. Even the amused glances stopped.
And all focused on Chief Inspector Gamache.
Beside him, Inspector Isabelle Lacoste shifted her glance from the Chief to the assembled agents and inspectors. It was the weekly briefing for the homicide department of the S?reté du Québec. A gathering meant to exchange ideas and information on cases under investigation. Where once it had been collaborative, now it was an hour she’d come to dread.
And if she felt like that, how did the Chief Inspector feel?
It was hard to tell anymore, what the Chief really felt and thought.
Isabelle Lacoste knew him better than anyone else in the room. Had served with him longest, she realized with surprise. The rest of the old guard had been transferred out, either by request or on the orders of Chief Superintendent Francoeur.
And this rabble had been transferred in.
The most successful homicide department in the nation had been gutted, replaced with lazy, insolent, incompetent thugs. Or were they incompetent? Certainly as homicide investigators they were, but was that really their job?
Of course not. She, and she suspected Gamache, knew why these men and women were really there. And it wasn’t to solve murders.
Despite this, Chief Inspector Gamache still managed to command them. To control them. Just barely. The balance was tipping, Lacoste could feel it. Every day more new agents were brought in. She could see them exchanging knowing smiles.
Lacoste felt her bile rise.
The madness of crowds. Madness had invaded their department. And every day Chief Inspector Gamache reined it in and took control. But even that was slipping. How much longer could he hold out before losing his grip completely?
Inspector Lacoste had many fears, most to do with her young son and daughter. Of something happening to them. She knew those fears were for the most part irrational.
But the fear of what would happen if the Chief Inspector lost control was not irrational.
She caught the eye of one of the older agents as he slumped in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. Apparently bored. Inspector Lacoste gave him a censorious look. He lowered his eyes and turned red.
Ashamed of himself. As well he should be.
As she glared, he sat upright and uncrossed his arms.
She nodded. A victory, though small and doubtless temporary. But even those, these days, counted.
Inspector Lacoste turned back to Gamache. His large hands were folded neatly on the table. Resting on the weekly report. A pen, unused, lay beside it. His right hand trembled slightly, and she hoped no one else noticed.
He was clean-shaven and looked every inch what he was. A man on the far side of fifty. Not necessarily handsome, but distinguished. More like a professor than a cop. More like an explorer than a hunter. He smelled of sandalwood with a hint of rose and wore a jacket and tie in to work every day.
His dark hair was graying and groomed and curled a little at the temples and around his ears. His face was lined, from age and care and laughter. Though those lines weren’t getting much of a workout lately. And there was, and always would be, that scar at his left temple. A reminder of events neither of them could ever forget.