“Like here,” said Reine-Marie.
The Old World cobrador had crossed into the New World. Into their world. And they could almost smell the decay. The rot. Though Gamache was beginning to wonder if the smell wasn’t from the cobrador at all. But someone else. Nearby. Whoever the creature had come for.
“So all this started back in the 1800s,” said Reine-Marie, looking again at the daguerreotype. “I wonder why.”
“Non,” said Beauvoir. “Non, non, non. Not the 1800s but the 1300s.”
“Seven hundred years ago?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Yes. You must have an atlas.”
Armand went to one of the shelves in the living room and brought back a large book.
“There’s an island off the coast of Spain, between Spain and Morocco,” said Beauvoir, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “It was called Cobrador.”
Gamache leaned in. “But it doesn’t say Cobrador.”
“No, the name’s been changed. But that was the name back then. It’s where plague victims were sent. And not just plague, but lepers, the insane, babies who were born with deformities. Those suspected of being witches were taken there by the Inquisition. Being put on La Isla del Cobrador was considered worse than being burned at the stake. At least that only lasted a few minutes. These people were damned by the Church for eternity. And this”—Jean-Guy tapped the island in the atlas—“was hell.”
Gamache’s brows drew together. “Except—”
Jean-Guy nodded. “Except not everyone read the fine print. Inconveniently, they didn’t all die. The Church and the authorities assumed either the plague would kill them or they’d kill each other. There was some of that, of course. But then something happened. It started with the women. Some of them began caring for the babies. Nursing them to health. Raising them.”
“The witches performed a mitzvah,” said Armand.
“That would drive the Inquisition crazy,” said Reine-Marie.
“The infighting stopped and they began helping each other,” said Jean-Guy. “They built homes, planted crops. Away from the shit-hole cities, many of the plague victims recovered.”
“Remarkable,” said Gamache. “Beautiful, really. In its own way. But what does that have to do with the cobrador?”
He gestured outside.
It had been there for almost forty-eight hours, and the villagers, far from growing used to it, were growing more and more stressed. Nerves had begun to fray. Arguments were breaking out. Quarrels between long-standing friends could be heard in the bistro. Over trivial matters.
The short tempers could have been blamed on the fact that they hadn’t seen the sun in days. Felt like weeks. Felt like forever. The November skies remained cloudy. Occasionally dropping rain, sleet. That seemed to seep right through clothing, skin, and pool in the bones.
But the core of the problem stood on the dying grass of the village green.
A long, long way from an island in fourteenth-century Spain. A long way from home.
The bell jar had expanded again, the cobrador’s world was swelling, his dominion growing, while theirs seemed to be collapsing into itself.
Armand was wondering how much longer they had before something terrible happened.
“Some of those who were strong enough returned to the mainland,” said Jean-Guy. “But they were disfigured by disease, so they wore masks and gloves. And long cloaks with hoods.”
“Why return?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Revenge,” said Gamache. It was, he knew, a powerful force. Often overwhelming good sense.
“That’s what I thought too,” said Jean-Guy, turning to him. “But no. They went looking for the people who banished them. Damned them. Mostly priests, senior church officials. Magistrates. Even princes. But incredibly, when they found them, they did nothing. Just followed them. Which, of course, turned out to be quite something.”
“What happened?” Gamache asked.
“I think you know. I think they knew,” said Beauvoir. He didn’t need to consult his research. He doubted he’d ever forget what he’d read. “The first ones were beaten to death by mobs, who believed they were the embodiment of the Black Death. But as one died, another appeared. Little by little, the mobs noticed that the guys in the black robes and masks weren’t doing harm. There was even, it seems, a sort of dignity about them. Even when they knew they were going to die, they just stood still. They didn’t try to defend themselves. They didn’t fight back. They just kept staring at the person they were following until they were beaten to the ground.”
Gamache shifted in his seat and glanced over his shoulder, toward the village green.
Such devotion to a cause was admirable. But it was also, perhaps, insane.
“The priests and authorities couldn’t allow this to continue,” said Beauvoir. “They figured out who these people were, and where they came from. Soldiers were sent to La Isla del Cobrador, and every man, woman and child was slaughtered.”
Gamache inhaled sharply. Even from a distance, over time and territory, he could feel the outrage, the pain.
“When the population heard about that, there was a shit storm,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache glanced down at the printouts, fairly certain “shit storm” was not how it was described there.
“The robed figures became part of the mythology,” said Jean-Guy. “They were called cobradors, after the island. But it was a sideshow to all the other crap happening in Europe at the time. The cobradors were quickly forgotten.”
“But they didn’t disappear completely,” said Reine-Marie.
“Non. It seems not everyone from La Isla del Cobrador was killed. Some escaped. The theory was that they were helped by soldiers who couldn’t bring themselves to follow orders. Every now and then one would be spotted, mostly in the mountain villages.”
“And they continued to follow people who had done something terrible?” asked Gamache. “Something for which they had not been held accountable?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“And that’s how cobrador became debt collector.”
“No, that’s just it. That’s a modern interpretation. Cobrador translates, literally, into ‘collector.’ And there is that about them. The debt. But in the villages, they became known as something else. A conscience.”
*
The courtroom clock ticked past five.
All other cases had been adjourned for the day. They could hear footsteps in the hallway and voices murmuring and occasionally calling. Barristers who’d been pounding away at each other minutes before in court now invited each other for drinks on the terrasse of the nearby brasserie.
Inside Judge Corriveau’s courtroom, the atmosphere was close. The heat stifling. Everyone yearned to get out into the fresh air and sunshine. Get away from both the atmosphere and the increasingly claustrophobic story.