“I know. But it wasn’t just now. I made my mistake years ago when I was investigating Chief Superintendent Arnot. I should’ve waited before arresting him, until I could get all of you.”
Francoeur didn’t bother to deny it. If it was too late for Gamache to stop whatever was happening, it was also way too late for Francoeur to issue denials.
“Was it Arnot?”
“Arnot’s in prison for life, Armand. You know that. You put him there.”
Now the Chief did smile, though it was weary. “And we know that means nothing. A man like Arnot will always get what he wants.”
“Not always,” said Francoeur. “It wasn’t his idea to be arrested, tried and sentenced.”
It was a rare admission by Francoeur that Gamache, for a moment, had actually bested Arnot. But then had stumbled. Hadn’t finished the job. Hadn’t realized there were more to be gotten.
And so the rot had remained, and grown.
Arnot was a powerful figure, Gamache knew. Had powerful friends. And a reach well beyond prison walls. Gamache had had a chance to kill him, but had chosen not to. And sometimes, sometimes, he wondered if that wasn’t also a mistake.
But now another thought struck him. Francoeur wasn’t texting Arnot. The name, while respected by Francoeur, didn’t evoke terror. It was someone else. Someone more powerful than the Superintendent. Someone more powerful even than Arnot.
“Who were you writing to, Sylvain?” Gamache asked for the third time. “It’s not too late. Tell me, and we can wrap this up together.” Gamache’s voice was even, reasonable. He held out his hand. “Give me that. Give me your codes. That’s all I need, and it’s over.”
And Francoeur seemed to hesitate. Moved his hand to his pocket. Then let it fall, empty, to his side.
“You’ve misunderstood again, Armand. There’s no grand conspiracy. It’s all in your head. I was texting my wife. As I suspect you write to your wife.”
“Give it to me, Sylvain.” Gamache ignored the lie. He kept his hand out and his eyes on his superior. “You must be tired. Exhausted. It’ll be over soon.”
The two men’s eyes locked.
“You love your children, Armand?”
It was as though the words had physically shoved him. Gamache felt himself momentarily off balance. Instead of answering he continued to stare.
“Of course you do.” Francoeur’s voice held no rancor now. It was almost as though they were old friends, chatting over a scotch at a brasserie on St-Denis.
“What’re you saying?” Gamache demanded, his voice no longer reasonable. He could feel all reason escaping him, disappearing into the thick, dark forest. “Leave my family out of this.” Gamache spoke in a low growl, and the part of his brain that could still reason realized the wild creature he thought was in the woods, wasn’t. It was in his skin. He’d become feral, at the very thought of his family threatened.
“Did you know that your daughter and your Inspector are having an affair? Maybe you’re not as in control of everything as you seem to think. What else don’t you know, if that could get by you?”
The rage Gamache had been trying to control died out completely with those words. To be replaced by something glacial. Ancient.
Armand Gamache felt himself grow very quiet. And he could sense a change in Francoeur as well. He knew he’d gone too far. Had stepped too far from the reeds.
Gamache knew about Jean-Guy and Annie. Had known for months. From the day he and Reine-Marie had visited Annie and seen the little jug of lilacs on her kitchen table.
They’d known, and been immeasurably happy for Annie, who’d loved Jean-Guy from the moment she’d met him more than a decade earlier. And for Jean-Guy, who so clearly loved their daughter.
And for themselves, who loved both young people.
The Gamaches had let them have their space. They knew Annie and Jean-Guy would tell them, when they were ready. He knew. But how did Francoeur? Someone must have told him. And if it wasn’t Jean-Guy and wasn’t Annie, then—
“The therapist’s notes,” said Gamache. “You read the files from Beauvoir’s therapy.”
They’d all been in therapy, since the raid. All the survivors. And now Gamache knew that Francoeur had violated not only Jean-Guy’s privacy, but his own as well. And all the others’. Everything they’d said in confidence this man knew. Their deepest thoughts, their insecurities. What they loved. And what they feared.
And all their secrets. Including Jean-Guy’s relationship with Annie.
“Don’t you bring my daughter into this,” said Gamache. With all his might he was restraining himself from thrusting out his hand. Not for Francoeur’s BlackBerry, but for his throat. Feeling the artery throb, then weaken. And stop.
He could, he knew. Kill this man. Leave his body for the wolves and bears. Walk back to the monastery and tell Frère Luc that the Superintendent went for a walk. He’d be back soon.
How easy it would be. How good it would feel. How much better the world would be if this man was dragged into the woods by wolves. And devoured.
Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?
The words of a king came back to him, and for the first time in his life he completely understood them. Understood how murder happened.
The malady was upon him. Cold, calculating, complete. It had overwhelmed Gamache, until he no longer cared about the consequences. He just wanted this man gone.
He stepped forward, then stopped himself. All the warnings he’d given to Beauvoir, he’d failed to heed himself. He’d let Francoeur under his skin. So that a man devoted to preventing murder had actually contemplated committing it.
Gamache closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again he spoke, leaning forward and whispering, perfectly calmly, into Francoeur’s face.
“You’ve gone too far, Sylvain. Exposed too much. Said too much. I might’ve had my doubts, but no longer.”
“You had your chance, Armand. Back when you arrested Arnot. But you hesitated. As you hesitated now. You might’ve gotten the BlackBerry out of my hand. You could’ve seen the message. Why do you think I’m here? For you?”
Gamache walked past Francoeur, away from the monastery and into the woods. He followed the path to the edge of the lake and stood facing the water and the suggestion of dawn in the distance. With the dawn would come the boatman, to take Jean-Guy back to Montréal. And then he’d be alone with Francoeur. And they could finally have it out.
Every sea has its shore, Gamache knew. He’d been at sea for a long time, but now he thought he could finally see the shore. The end of the journey.
“Bonjour.”
Gamache, lost in thought, hadn’t heard the man arrive. He turned quickly and saw Frère Sébastien wave.
“I came to apologize for storming out of the Blessed Chapel this morning.” The Dominican picked his way over the large rocks until he reached the Chief Inspector.
“No need to apologize,” said Gamache. “I was rude.”
Both men knew it was both true, and intentional. They stood quietly on the rocky shore for a few moments, hearing the far-off call of a loon, and in the near complete silence a fish jumped. The forest smelled sweet. Of evergreens, and fallen leaves.
Gamache had been thinking about his confrontation with Francoeur. Now he brought his mind back to the monastery and the murder of Frère Mathieu.
“You said you’d been assigned the task of finding the Gilbertines. To finally close that centuries-old dossier, opened by the Inquisition. You said the image on the cover of their Gregorian chants gave them away.”
“That’s true.”
The voice was flat. It would skim and skip forever across this lake. Making barely a mark.
“But I think there’s more you aren’t telling me. Even the Church wouldn’t hold a grudge that long.”
“It wasn’t a grudge, it was an interest.” Frère Sébastien indicated the flat rock Gamache had been standing on, and the two men sat. “The lost children. Brothers driven away during a lamentable time. It was an effort to make amends. To find them and tell them they’re safe.”
“But are they? No man in his right mind would paddle on an unfamiliar lake, in the wilderness, at dusk, in a dense fog. Unless he had to. Unless there was either a lash at his back or a treasure in front of him. Or both. Why are you here? What’re you really looking for?”
Light was filling the sky. A cold gray light, not doing much to penetrate the mist. Would the boatman make it?
“We talked about neumes yesterday, but do you know what they are?” the Dominican asked.
While unexpected, the question didn’t totally surprise Gamache.
“It’s the first musical notation. Before there were notes there were neumes.”
“Oui. We tend to think the five-line staff was always there. Clefs, treble clefs, notes and half notes. Chords and keys. But they didn’t just spring into the world. They evolved. From neumes. They were meant to mimic hand movements. To show the shape of the sound.”
Frère Sébastien lifted his hand and moved it back and forth, up and down. It glided through the chilly autumn air, graceful. As he moved his hand he hummed.
It was a lovely voice. Clear. Pure. With a soulful quality. And despite himself, Gamache felt himself drifting along with it. Entranced by the movement of the hand, and the calming sound.