*
Gamache sat at a desk in the archive room, reading and making notes. Captivated by what he’d found so far. Diaries, personal letters, photographs. But now he took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the books and documents still to be read. There was no way he’d get through them that afternoon.
Madame Dufour had shown him the buzzer, and now he pressed it. Three minutes later he heard footsteps on the sealed concrete floor.
“I’d like to take it with me.” He nodded to the stacks on the desk.
She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. And considered.
“Constance Ouellet really was murdered?” she asked.
“She was.”
“And you think something in there”—she looked at the documents on the desk—“might help you?”
“I think it might.”
“I retire next August, you know. Mandatory retirement.”
“I’m sorry,” he said as she looked around her.
“Shelved,” she said with a smile. “I suspect neither I, nor that file, will be missed. Feel free to take it, monsieur. But please bring it back. Quite a steep fine, you know, if you lose it, or your dog eats it.”
“Merci,” he said, and wondered if Madame Dufour had met Henri. “There’s something else I need from you.”
“A kidney?”
“A code.”
A few minutes later they stood by the rear door. Gamache had his coat on, and held the heavy box in both hands.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Chief Inspector. Give my best to Reine-Marie when you see her. Joyeux No?l.”
But before the door closed and locked, she called him back.
“Be careful,” she said. “Light and moisture can do permanent damage.” She regarded him for a moment. “And I think, monsieur, you know something about permanent damage.”
“Oui,” he said. “Joyeux No?l.”
*
It was dark by the time Armand Gamache reached Three Pines. He parked not far from the B and B and barely had time to open the door before Olivier and Gabri appeared from the bistro. It seemed to Gamache that they must have been watching for his arrival.
“How was the drive?” Gabri asked.
“Not bad,” said Gamache, picking up his satchel and the heavy cardboard box. “Except for the Champlain Bridge, of course.”
“Always hellish,” agreed Olivier.
“Everything’s ready for you,” said Gabri, leading the way up the steps and along the verandah to the front door. He opened it, and Chief Inspector Gamache, instead of stepping inside, stepped aside to let his two companions in first.
“Welcome,” said Olivier.
Thérèse and Jér?me Brunel walked into Emilie Longpré’s home. The home Henri had found for them.
THIRTEEN
Olivier and Gabri brought the luggage in and took it to the bedrooms, then left.
“Merci, patron.” Gamache stepped onto the cold verandah with them.
“You’re welcome,” said Olivier. “You played your role well on the phone. I almost believed you were annoyed.”
“And you were very convincing,” said Gamache. “Worthy of the Olivier award.”
“Well, as luck would have it,” said Gabri, “I planned to reward him tonight.”
Gamache watched them cross to the bistro, then he closed the door and faced the room. And smiled.
He could finally relax.
Thérèse and Jér?me were safe.
And Jean-Guy was safe. He’d monitored the S?reté frequency the entire drive down and heard no calls for ambulances. Indeed, what chatter he picked up led him to believe the bunker had been abandoned. The Rock Machine was no longer there.
The informant had lied. Or, more likely, there was no informant.
Gamache was both relieved and grim as he absorbed that news.
Jean-Guy was safe. For now.
Gamache looked at Emilie Longpré’s home.
Two sofas faced each other on either side of the stone fireplace. They were slip-covered in faded floral fabric. A pine blanket box sat in the space between them. On it was a game of cribbage and some playing cards.
A couple of armchairs were tucked in a corner, a table between them and a hassock in front, to be shared by weary feet. A standing lamp with tasseled shade was on and held the chairs in soft light.
The walls were painted a soothing light blue, and one had floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
It felt quiet and calm.
Olivier had spent the morning finding out who now owned Emilie’s home, and whether he could rent it. Seemed a distant niece in Regina owned the home and hadn’t yet figured out what to do with it. She readily agreed to rent it over Christmas.
Olivier then called Gamache and gave him the agreed-upon phrase—Gabri asked me to call to make sure you still want your room for tonight—that would tell Gamache he could have Emilie’s home.
Then Olivier had rounded up others in the village to help. The result was this.
Sheets had been pulled off the furniture, beds were made and clean towels put out, the home was vacuumed and dusted and polished. A fire was laid in the grate, and judging by the aroma, dinner was warming in the oven.
It was as though he and the Brunels had just stepped out for a few hours and were returning home.
Two of Sarah’s fresh-baked baguettes sat in a basket on the marble kitchen counter, and Monsieur Béliveau had stocked the pantry and fridge with milk and cheese and butter. With homemade jams. Fruit sat in a wooden bowl on the harvest table There was even a Christmas tree, decorated and lit.
Gamache loosened his tie, knelt down and struck a match to the wood and paper in the hearth, watching mesmerized as it caught and flared.
He exhaled. It felt as though a cloak, like the ghostly sheets over the furniture, had been lifted from him.
“Thérèse,” he called. “Jér?me.”
“Oui?” came the distant response.
“I’m going out.”
He put on his boots and coat and walked quickly through the crisp evening, toward the little cottage with the open gate and winding path.