Gamache stared at his blinking cursor. What do they do?
You do nothing, appeared on the screen.
Who is this? typed Gamache quickly.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur, came the equally quick response. Gamache looked up and saw the Chief Superintendent in the Incident Room at a computer also staring at him through the window. You, Chief Inspector, will continue to talk to your agent. That’s your one and only job. Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste will continue to follow my orders. There can only be one leader of this investigation, you know that. We’ll get your agent back, but you need to focus and follow a clear chain of command. Do not splinter off. That only helps the criminals.
I agree, wrote Gamache. But we need to consider other possibilities, sir. Including that this is all part of a well-organized plan.
A plan? To alert every cop in North America? An agent’s been killed, another kidnapped. Pretty crappy plan, wouldn’t you say?
Gamache stared at the screen then typed. This farmer isn’t who he appears to be. We’d have found him by now. We’d have found Agent Morin. Something is going on.
Your panicking isn’t going to help, Chief Inspector. Follow orders.
He isn’t panicking, wrote Beauvoir. What he says makes sense.
Enough. Chief Inspector Gamache, stay focused. We’ll get Agent Morin back.
Chief Inspector Gamache watched the flashing cursor then looked over his screen. Francoeur was staring at him. Not angrily. Indeed, there seemed compassion in his stare, as though he had some idea how Gamache must be feeling.
And he might have. Gamache only wished the Chief Superintendent knew what he was thinking.
This was wrong. There were eighteen hours left to find Agent Morin and they were no closer. No ordinary farmer could bring all the resources and technology of the S?reté to a halt. Therefore, this was no ordinary farmer.
Gamache nodded to the Chief Superintendent, who gave the Chief Inspector a grateful smile. This was not the time for the two leaders to clash and while Chief Superintendent Francoeur outranked Gamache, the Chief Inspector was the more respected.
No, a rift right now would be a disaster.
But so was ignoring what seemed to Gamache obvious. They were being led away from the truth. And with each passing minute they were getting further from it. From Agent Morin. From whatever larger plan was at work.
Gamache smiled back and paused. Should he do it? If he did, there was no going back. Careers and lives might be ruined. He stared through the window.
“You have a dog, don’t you sir?”
“Yes. Henri. Also a foundling, like Bois.”
“Funny how they get under your skin. I think there’s something special about the ones we rescue.”
“Yes,” said Gamache decisively. He sat forward, jotted a note longhand and made eye contact with Inspector Beauvoir who got up, filled a pitcher with fresh water and wandered into the Chief’s office, under the gaze of Chief Superintendent Francoeur.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir picked up the note and closed his hand over it.
Gamache’s feet were growing numb with cold as he stared at the Literary and Historical Society. Beside him Henri was lifting first one paw then another. The snow and ice were so cold it actually, and ironically, burned.
Why was he still investigating the Renaud case? Was this his private misdirection? Was he trying to take his mind off something he might otherwise have to see? And hear? And feel? Was his whole career like that? Replacing one ghost with a fresher one? Racing one step ahead of his memory?
He yanked open the heavy wooden door and entered the Literary and Historical Society, where the Anglos kept and filed and numbered all their ghosts.
In the library Mr. Blake was just pouring himself a cup of tea and taking a cookie from the blue and white china plate on the long wooden table. He looked at Gamache and indicated the pot. Gamache nodded and by the time he’d taken off his coat and rubbed Henri’s feet warm and dry there was a cup of tea and a cookie on the table for him.
Mr. Blake had gone back to reading and Gamache decided he might as well too. For the next hour he collected books, sipped the tea, nibbled his cookie and read, sometimes making notes.
“What’re you reading?” Mr. Blake lowered his book, a slim volume on grasses in the Outer Hebrides. “Is it about the Renaud case?”
Armand Gamache marked his page with a slip of paper and looked across the sitting area to the elderly man, perfectly attired in gray flannels, a shirt, tie, sweater and jacket.
“No, I thought I’d give that a rest for an hour or so. This,” he held up the book, “is just a curiosity of mine. It’s about Bougainville.”
Mr. Blake leaned forward. “As in bougainvillea? The flowering plant?”
“That’s right.”
They both imagined the exuberant, colorful plant, so common in the tropics.
“You’re interested in botany too?” asked Mr. Blake.
“No, I’m interested in the Plains of Abraham.”
“Not much bougainvillea there.”
Gamache laughed. “Too true. But Bougainville was.”
“Was what?”
“There,” said Gamache. “At the Battle of the Plains of Abraham.”
“Are we talking about the same man?” Mr. Blake asked. “The navigator? The one who brought bougainvillea back on one of his voyages?”
“The same. Most people don’t realize he was one of Général Montcalm’s aides-de-camp.”
“Wait a minute,” Mr. Blake said. “One of the greatest cartographers and navigators of his time fought at the Plains of Abraham?”
“Well, fought is debatable. That’s what I’m looking into.” More ghosts, thought Gamache. My life is filled with them. Mr. Blake was looking at him, astounded. He had reason to be. This was a little known and curiously little acknowledged historical fact.
“There’s more.” Now Gamache leaned forward. “The French under Montcalm lost the Battle of the Plains of Abraham. Do you know why?”
“Because the English under General Wolfe scaled the cliffs. It’s now considered a brilliant tactic.” The elderly gentleman lowered his voice so that the ghosts and the wooden statue above them wouldn’t hear. “Between us? I think Wolfe was doped up on medicine and didn’t know what in the world he was doing.”
Gamache laughed, surprised. General Wolfe, the Anglo hero of the battle, had indeed been ill in the days leading up to that day.
“You don’t think it was a dazzling strategy?”
“I think he was demented and just got lucky.”