Agent Robert Lemieux was deep in the bowels of S?reté headquarters in Montreal, a building he’d seen in recruitment posters, but never actually visited. In recruitment posters he’d also seen a whole lot of happy Québecois gathered respectfully round a S?reté officer in uniform. That was something else he’d never seen in real life.
He’d found the door, closed, and the name Chief Inspector Gamache had given him stenciled onto the frosted glass.
He knocked and adjusted the leather of his satchel over his shoulder.
‘Venez,’ the voice barked. A thin, balding man looked up from his slanting desk. A pool of light from a small lamp shining on it was the only light in the room. Lemieux had no idea whether the room was tiny or cavernous, though he could guess. He felt claustrophobic.
‘You Lemieux?’
‘Yes sir. Chief Inspector Gamache sent me.’ He took a step further into the room with its formaldehyde smell and intense occupant.
‘I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t be seeing you. I’m busy. Give me what you’ve got.’
Lemieux dug into his satchel and pulled out the photograph of Elle’s dirty hand.
‘So?’
‘Well, here, you see?’ Lemieux waved an index finger over the middle of the hand.
‘You mean these bloodstains?’
Lemieux nodded, trying to look authoritative and praying to God this curt man didn’t ask him why.
‘I see what he means. Extraordinary. Right, tell the Chief Inspector he’ll get it when he gets it. Now go away.’
Agent Lemieux did.
‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Beauvoir as the two men walked through the gathering snow back to the Incident Room.
‘What struck you as interesting?’ Gamache asked, his hands behind his back as he walked.
‘Mother. She’s hiding something.’
‘Perhaps. But could she be the murderer? She was curling the whole time.’
‘But she might have wired up the chair before the curling began.’
‘True. And she might have spilled windshield washer fluid. But how did she get CC to touch the chair before anyone else? There were children running around. Any of them might have grabbed the chair. Kaye might have.’
‘Those two fought the whole time we were there. Maybe Madame Thompson was supposed to get electrocuted. Maybe Mother killed the wrong person.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Gamache. ‘But I don’t think Madame Mayer would risk other lives.’
‘So the curlers are out?’ Beauvoir asked, disappointed.
‘I think so, but when we meet Madame Longpré tomorrow at the lake we’ll have a better idea.’
Beauvoir sighed.
He was frankly astonished the entire community hadn’t died of boredom. Just talking about curling was sucking the will to live right out of him. It was like some Anglo joke, an excuse to wear plaid and yell. Most Anglos, he’d noticed, didn’t like to raise their voices. Francophones were constantly gesturing and shouting and hugging. Beauvoir wasn’t sure why Anglos even had arms, except perhaps to carry all their money. Curling at least gave them an excuse to vent. He’d watched the Briar once on CBC television, for a moment. All he remembered was a bunch of men holding brooms and staring at a rock while one of them screamed.
‘How could someone have electrocuted CC de Poitiers and no one notice?’ Beauvoir asked as they entered the warm Incident Room, stomping their boots to get the worst of the snow off.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Gamache, walking right past Agent Nichol, who was trying to catch his eye. She’d been sitting at an empty desk when he’d left and she was still there.
Shaking his coat off Gamache hung it up. Beside him Beauvoir was fastidiously brushing the small drift from the shoulders of his own coat.
‘Glad I don’t have to shovel this.’
‘Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable,’ said Gamache. Seeing Beauvoir’s puzzled expression he added, ‘Emerson.’
‘Lake and Palmer?’
‘Ralph and Waldo.’
Gamache walked back to his desk, knowing his mind should be on the case, but finding it lingering on Nichol, wondering whether they were both in too deep.
Emerson, Ralph and Waldo? What was that? thought Beauvoir. Some obscure hippy group from the ’60s probably. The lyrics didn’t even make sense.
While Beauvoir hummed ‘Lucky Man,’ Gamache downloaded his messages, read for half an hour, listened to reports, then put his coat, tuque and gloves back on and took himself off.
Round and round the village green he walked, through the falling snow. He passed people on snowshoes and others gliding along on cross-country skis. He waved at villagers shoveling their paths and driveways. Billy Williams came by, driving a snowplow, throwing cascades of snow off the road and onto people’s lawns. No one seemed to mind. What’s another foot?
But mostly Gamache thought.