Armand and Henri left the library and did their rounds of the shops, picking up a selection of raw milk cheeses, paté and lamb from J.A. Moisan, fruit and vegetables from the grocery store across the way, and a fresh, warm baguette from the Paillard bakery on rue St-Jean. Arriving home before émile he put another log on the fire to warm up the chilly home. It had been built in 1752 and while the stone walls were three feet thick and would easily repel a cannonball, it was defenseless against the winter wind.
As Armand cooked the home warmed up and by the time émile arrived the place was toasty warm and smelled of rosemary and garlic and lamb.
“Salut,” émile called from the front door, then a moment later arrived in the kitchen carrying a bottle of red wine and reaching for the corkscrew. “Smells terrific.”
Gamache carried the evening tray of baguette, cheeses and paté into the living room, placing it on the table before the fire while émile brought in their wine.
“Santé.”
The two men sat facing the fireplace and toasted. When they each had something to eat they discussed their days, émile describing lunching with friends at the bar in the Chateau Frontenac and research he was doing for the Société Champlain. Gamache described his quiet hours in the library.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” émile took a bite of wild boar paté.
Gamache shook his head. “It’s in there somewhere. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense. We know the French troops were not more than half a mile from here in 1759, waiting for the English.”
It was the battle every Québec school child learned about, dreamed about, fought again with wooden muskets and imaginary horses. The dreadful battle that would decide the fate of the city, the territory, the country and the continent. The Battle of Québec that in 1759 would effectively end the Seven Years’ War. Ironic that after so many years of fighting between the French and the English over New France, the final battle should be so short. But brutal.
As Gamache spoke the two men imagined the scene. A chilly September day, the forces under Général Montcalm a mix of elite French troops and the Québécois, more used to guerrilla tactics than formal warfare. The French were desperate to lift the siege of Québec, a vicious and cruel starvation. More than fifteen thousand cannonballs had bombarded the tiny community and now, with winter almost upon them, it had to end or they’d all die. Men, women, children. Nurses, nuns, carpenters, teachers. All would perish.
Général Montcalm and his army would engage the mighty English force in one magnificent battle. Winner take all.
Montcalm, a brave, experienced soldier, a frontline commander who led by example. A hero to his men.
And against him? An equally brilliant and brave soldier, General Wolfe.
Québec was built on a cliff where the river narrowed. It was a huge strategic advantage. No enemy could ever attack it directly, they’d have to scale the cliff and that was impossible.
But they could attack just upriver, and that’s where Montcalm waited. There was, however, another possibility, an area just slightly further away. Being a cunning commander, Montcalm sent one of his best men there, his own aide-de-camp, Colonel Bougainville.
And so, in mid-September 1759 he waited.
But Montcalm had made a mistake. A terrible mistake. Indeed, he’d made several, as Armand Gamache, a student of Québec history, was determined to prove.
“It’s a fascinating theory, Armand,” said émile. “And you really think this little library holds the key? An English library?”
“Where else would it be?”
émile Comeau nodded. It was a relief to see his friend so interested. When Armand and Reine-Marie had arrived a week before it took émile a day to adjust to the changes in Gamache. And not just the beard, and the scars, but he seemed weighed down, leaden and laden by the recent past. Now, Gamache was still thinking of the past, but at least it was someone else’s, not his own. “Did you get to the letters?”
“I did, and have some to send back,” Gamache retrieved the parcel of correspondence. Hesitating for a moment, he made up his mind and took one out. “I’d like you to read this.”
émile sipped his wine and read, then began laughing. He handed the letter back to Gamache.
“That Ruth clearly has a crush on you.”
“If I had pigtails she’d be pulling them,” smiled Gamache. “But I think you might know her.
“Who hurt you, once,
so far beyond repair
that you would meet each overture
with curling lip?”
Gamache quoted.
“That Ruth?” asked émile. “Ruth Zardo? The poet?” And then he finished the astonishing poem, the work now taught in schools across Québec.
“While we, who knew you well,
your friends, (the focus of your scorn)
could see your courage in the face of fear,
your wit, and thoughtfulness,
and will remember you
with something close to love.”
The two men were quiet for a moment, staring into the mumbling fire, lost in their own thoughts of love and loss, of damage done beyond repair.
“I thought she was dead,” said émile at last, spreading paté on the chewy bread.
Gamache laughed. “Gabri introduced her to Reine-Marie as something they found when they dug up the basement.”
émile reached for the letter again. “Who’s this Gabri? A friend?”
Gamache hesitated. “Yes. He lives in that little village I told you about. Three Pines.”
“You’ve been there a few times, I remember. Investigating some murders. I tried to find the village on a map once. Just south of Montreal you said, by the border with Vermont?”
“That’s right.”
“Well,” émile continued. “I must have been blind, because I couldn’t see it.”
Gamache nodded. “Somehow the mapmakers missed Three Pines.”
“Then how do people find it?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it suddenly appears.”
“I was blind but now I see?” quoted émile. “Only visible to a wretch like you?”
Gamache laughed. “The best café au lait and croissants in Québec. I’m a happy wretch.” He got up again and put a stack of letters on the coffee table. “I also wanted to show you these.”
émile read through them while Gamache sipped his wine and ate cheese and baguette, relaxing in the room as familiar and comfortable as his own.
“All from that Gabri man,” said émile at last, patting the small pile of letters beside him. “How often does he write?”
“Every day.”
“Every day? Is he obsessed with you? A threat?” émile leaned forward, his eyes suddenly keen, all humor gone.
“No, not at all. He’s a friend.”
“Why would Olivier move the body?” émile read from one of the letters. “It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t do it, you know. He says the same thing in each letter.” émile picked up a few and scanned them. “What does he mean?”
“It was a case I investigated last autumn, over the Labor Day weekend. A body was found in Olivier’s bistro in Three Pines. The victim had been hit once on the back of the head, killed.”
“Once?”