‘Even Agent Nichol?’ Francoeur had lowered his voice and now the rest had to strain to hear the words, but not Gamache. They were loud and clear.
‘Even Agent Nichol,’ he said, staring into the cold, hard eyes.
‘You tossed her back once as I remember,’ said Francoeur, his voice almost a hiss. ‘Fired her and she landed in my division. Narcotics. She took to it.’
‘Then why send her back to me?’ Gamache asked.
‘What is it you like to say, Chief Inspector? There’s a reason for everything. Very deep. There’s a reason for everything, Gamache. Figure it out. Now I have a question for you.’ His voice lowered even further. ‘What was in that envelope you were passing so secretively to your son? Daniel’s his name, I believe. Daughter, Florence. Wife. Did I hear she’s pregnant?’
Now no one else in the room could hear, the words were spoken so softly. Gamache had the strangest impression Francoeur hadn’t even spoken out loud, but had inserted them directly into his head. Sharp, stabbing, intended to wound and warn.
He inhaled sharply and tried to contain himself, to not bring his fist up and smash the leering, smug, wretched face.
‘Do it, Gamache,’ hissed Francoeur. ‘To save your family, do it.’
Was Francoeur inviting him to attack? So that he’d be arrested, imprisoned? Exposed to any ‘accident’ that might happen in the cells? Was that the price Francoeur was proposing for backing off his family?
‘Fucking coward.’ Francoeur smiled and stepped back, shaking his head. ‘I think the least Chief Inspector Gamache can do is explain himself,’ he said in a normal voice. The faces, strained and nervous, relaxed a little now that they could hear again. ‘I think before we can even consider acting on his behalf, or accepting his resignation, we need to know a few things. Like what was in the envelope he was passing to his son. Voyons, Chief Inspector, it’s a reasonable question.’
Around the conference table there were nods of agreement. Gamache looked over at Brébeuf who cocked his brow as though to say it was a strangely benign request. They’d get off easy if this was all the council wanted.
Gamache remained silent for a moment, thinking. Then he shook his head.
‘I’m sorry. It’s private. I can’t tell you.’
It was over, Gamache knew. He bent down and placed his papers in his satchel, then made for the door.
‘You’re a stupid man, Chief Inspector,’ Superintendent Francoeur called after him, smiling broadly. ‘You walk out of here now your life will be in ruins. The media will keep picking at you and your children until even the bones are gone. No careers, no friends, no privacy, no dignity. All because of your pride. What was it one of your favorite poets said? Yeats? Things fall apart. The center cannot hold.’
Gamache stopped, turned and deliberately walked back. With each step he seemed to expand. The officers around the table, wide-eyed, leaned out of his way. He walked to Francoeur, whose smile had disappeared.
‘This center will hold.’ Gamache pronounced each word slowly and clearly, his voice strong and low and more menacing than anything Francoeur had ever heard. He tried to recover himself as Gamache turned and walked through the door, but it was too late. Everyone in the room had seen fear on Francoeur’s face and more than one wondered whether they’d backed the wrong man.
But it was too late.
As Gamache strode down the corridor, men and women on each side smiling hello and nodding to him, his mind settled. Something Francoeur said had jogged something loose. Some piece of information had twisted in that instant and he’d seen it in a different way. But in the stress of the moment Gamache had lost it. Was it to do with Arnot? Or was it the case in Three Pines?
‘Well, that went well. For Francoeur,’ said Brébeuf, catching up with him as they waited for the elevator. Gamache said nothing, but stared at the numbers, trying to recall what had struck him as so significant. The elevator came and the two men stepped in, alone.
‘You could have told him what was in the envelope, you know,’ said Brébeuf. ‘It can’t possibly be that important. What was in it anyway?’
‘I’m sorry, Michel, what did you say?’ Gamache brought himself back to the present.
‘The envelope, Armand. What was in it?’
‘Oh, nothing much.’
‘For God’s sake, man, why not tell him?’
‘He didn’t say please.’ Gamache smiled.
Brébeuf scowled. ‘Do you ever listen to yourself? All the advice you give others, does any of it penetrate your own thick skull? Why keep this secret? It’s our secrets that make us sick. Isn’t that what you always say?’
‘There’s a difference between secrecy and privacy.’
‘Semantics.’
The elevator door opened and Brébeuf stepped out. The meeting had gone better than he’d dared dream. Gamache was almost certainly out of the S?reté, but more than that, he was humiliated, ruined. Or soon would be.
Inside the elevator Armand Gamache stood rooted like one of Gilles Sandon’s trees. And had Sandon been there he might have heard what no one else could, Armand Gamache screaming as though felled.
Behold I show you a mystery.
The haunting words of St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians swirled around Gamache’s head. The words had been prophetic. In the twinkling of an eye his world had changed. He could see clearly something that had been hidden. Something he never wanted to see.
He’d stopped at the high school in Notre-Dame-de-Grace and just caught the secretary as she left for the day. Now he sat in the parking lot staring at the two things she’d given him. An alumni list and another yearbook. She’d wondered why in the world he needed so many, but Gamache had mumbled apologies and she’d relented. He thought she might assign him lines. I will not lose another yearbook.
But it hadn’t been lost. It’d been stolen. By someone who’d been at school with Madeleine and Hazel. Someone who’d chosen to keep their identity secret. Now, looking at the alumni list and the yearbook, Gamache knew exactly who that was.
Behold I show you a mystery. Ruth’s crumbling voice came to him as she’d read the magnificent passage. And hard on that another voice. Michel Brébeuf. Accusing, angry. It’s our secrets that make us sick.
It was true, Gamache knew. Of all the things we keep inside the worst are the secrets. The things we are so ashamed of, so afraid of, we need to hide them even from ourselves. Secrets lead to delusion and delusion leads to lies, and lies create a wall.
Our secrets make us sick because they separate us from other people. Keep us alone. Turn us into fearful, angry, bitter people. Turn us against others, and finally against ourselves.
A murder almost always began with a secret. Murder was a secret spread over time.
Gamache called Reine-Marie, Daniel and Annie, and finally he called Jean Guy Beauvoir.
Then he started his car and turned it toward the country. As he drove the sun went down and by the time he arrived in Three Pines it was dark. In his headlights he saw the dirt road thick with bouncing frogs, trying to get across the road for a reason he knew would remain a mystery to him. He slowed right down and tried not to run over them. Up they jumped into his headlights as though joyfully greeting him. They looked exactly like the frogs on Olivier’s rather silly old plates. For a moment Gamache wondered whether he might buy a couple of them, to remind him of the spring and the dancing frogs. But then he knew he probably wouldn’t. He’d want nothing that would remind him of what happened today.
‘I’ve called everyone,’ said Beauvoir as soon as Gamache walked into the Incident Room. ‘They’ll be there. Are you sure you want to do it this way?’
‘I’m sure. I know who killed Madeleine Favreau, Jean Guy. It seems right that this case that started with a circle should come full circle. We meet at the old Hadley house at nine tonight. And we find a murderer.’