Was he falling? Was he being lulled into believing he was in control, that everything was going to plan?
The Arnot case isn’t over, his friend Michel Brébeuf had warned. Is a killing frost on the way? Gamache clapped his arms round himself a few times for warmth and reassurance. He snorted in amusement and shook his head. It was quite humbling. One moment he was the distinguished Chief Inspector Gamache, head of homicide for the S?reté du Québec, investigating a murder, the next he was chasing his imagination all over the countryside.
Now he paused and again took in the venerable village, with its ring of old, well-loved homes, inhabited by well-loved people.
Even Ruth Zardo. It was a tribute to this quiet, calm place that its people found space in their hearts for someone as wounded as Ruth.
And CC de Poitiers? Would they have been able to find a place for her? Or her husband and child?
He reluctantly raised his eyes from the glowing circle of light that was Three Pines up to the darkness and the old Hadley house, sitting like the error that proved the point. It stood outside the circle, on the verge of the village. Beyond the pale.
Was the murderer in there, in that foreboding and forbidding place that seemed to breed and radiate resentment?
Gamache stood in the freezing cold and wondered why CC had wanted to breed resentment. Why had she created it at every turn? He had yet to find a soul saddened by her death. Her departure diminished no one, from what he could see. Not even her family. Perhaps especially not her family. He tilted his head slightly to one side as though that might help his thinking. It didn’t. Whatever small idea he’d had was lost. Something about breeding resentment.
Now he turned and walked toward the old railway station, lit and almost as welcoming as the bistro.
‘Chief,’ Lacoste called as soon as he entered, cold air clinging to him. ‘Am I glad to see you. Where’s the Inspector?’
‘Sick. He thinks Beatrice Mayer put a curse on him.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first woman.’
‘True.’ Gamache laughed. ‘Where’s Agent Nichol?’
‘Gone. Made a few calls then disappeared a couple of hours ago.’ She watched to see if his face reflected how she felt. Nichol had buggered up again. It was as though she had a compulsion to screw up her career and their cases. But Gamache didn’t react.
‘What’ve you got?’
‘A mountain of messages. The coroner called. She says she’ll meet you in Olivier’s Bistro at five thirty. She lives around here, doesn’t she?’
‘In a village called Cleghorn Halt, down the railway line. This is on her way home. Does she have something?’
‘The completed autopsy report. Wants to talk to you about it. Also you have a call from Agent Lemieux in Montreal. He says he sent something to you over the internet. It’s from headquarters. But he also wants a callback. But, before you do…’ She walked back to her desk, Gamache following. ‘I found Eleanor de Poitiers.’
Lacoste sat and clicked her computer. A picture appeared. It was a black and white drawing of a medieval woman on horseback carrying a flag.
‘Go on,’ said Gamache.
‘That’s it. That’s her. Eleanor de Poitiers was Eleanor of Aquitaine. Her.’ She pointed to the screen. Gamache pulled up a chair and sat beside Lacoste, his brows drawn together and his whole body leaning forward, drawn to the screen. He stared, trying to make sense of it.
‘Tell me what you know.’
‘What I know or what I think? Either way, it’s not much. CC de Poitiers listed her mother and father as Eleanor and Henri de Poitiers, of France. In her book,’ Lacoste pointed to the copy on her desk, ‘she describes her childhood of privilege in France. Then there was some sort of financial catastrophe and she was sent away to Canada, to live with distant, unnamed relatives, right?’
Gamache nodded.
‘Well, Eleanor is her.’ Once more Lacoste nodded to the medieval equestrienne, then she clicked again and the screen changed. ‘And that’s her father.’ A picture came up of a stern, strong, blond man wearing a crown. ‘Henry Plantagenet. King Henry the Second of England.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The only Henry and Eleanor de Poitiers in France are them.’ Again Lacoste pointed to the screen, now split and showing both old drawings.
‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ said Gamache, struggling with the information.
‘You’ve never been a teenage girl.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This is the sort of thing that appeals to romantic girls. A strong and tragic queen, a noble king. The Crusades. Eleanor de Poitiers actually went on crusade with her first husband. She created an army of three hundred women and rode bare-breasted part of the way. At least, that’s the story. She eventually divorced Louis of France and married Henry.’
‘And lived happily ever after?’
‘Not exactly. He put her in prison, but not before she’d had four sons. Richard the Lionheart was one. She was amazing.’ Lacoste gazed at the woman on horseback and imagined being part of her army. Riding bare-breasted through Palestine in the wake of this remarkable woman. It wasn’t just teenagers who were drawn to Eleanor of Aquitaine.
‘Richard the Lionheart?’ Gamache asked. ‘But no daughter named CC?’
‘Who was a designer living in Three Pines? No. King Henry died in 1189. Eleanor in 1204. So either CC de Poitiers was long overdue for death herself or, just maybe, she was lying. No wonder the entire S?reté in Paris was laughing at me. Thank God I told them I was Agent Nichol.’
Gamache shook his head. ‘So she made them up. She reached back almost a millennium to create parents. Why? Why would she do it? And why them?’
The two sat in silence for a moment, thinking.
‘So who were her real parents?’ Lacoste finally asked.
‘I think that might be an important question.’
Gamache went to his desk. It was twenty past five. Just time to speak to Lemieux before meeting Dr Harris. He downloaded his messages and dialed the number left by Lemieux.
‘Agent Lemieux,’ came the shouted answer.
‘It’s Gamache,’ he shouted back down the line, not sure why he was shouting.
‘Chief, I’m glad you called. Did you get the drawing from the S?reté artist? He said he’d email it to you.’
‘I’m just opening my messages now. What did he say and why are we yelling?’
‘I’m at the bus station. A bus just arrived. The S?reté artist said it looked as though Elle had been holding something in her hand as she died, and it had cut into it.’
‘And that explains the pattern of cuts in her palm?’
‘Exactly.’ The bus must have left or shut off because the background noise settled down. Lemieux spoke normally. ‘I gave him the autopsy picture and he drew a sketch as you asked. It’s not very precise, as you’ll see.’
As Lemieux spoke Gamache was going through his messages, looking for the one from the eccentric artist in the bowels of S?reté headquarters. He clicked on it and waited while the excruciatingly slow dial-up connection downloaded the image.
Little by little a picture emerged.
‘I’ve talked to other vagrants here about Elle,’ Lemieux continued. ‘They’re not a very talkative lot but most remember her. There was a scuffle over her spot when she left. Apparently she had the equivalent of a penthouse suite. Right over one of the heating grates. Strange that she’d leave it.’
‘Strange indeed,’ Gamache mumbled as he watched the image haltingly appear on his screen. It was only half there. ‘You’ve done well, Lemieux. Come home.’
‘Yes sir.’
Gamache smiled. He could almost see the grin on Lemieux’s face.
For the next five minutes Gamache stared at the screen, watching the image download. A centimeter at a time. And when it was finished Gamache sat back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, and stared.
He suddenly remembered himself and looked at the clock. Five thirty-five. Time to meet the coroner.