SEVENTEEN
At a nod from the abbot, Frère Luc put the key in the lock. It turned easily and the door opened, letting in a breeze of pine-scented air, and sunshine, and the sound of a float plane taxiing to the dock.
The monks clustered around the open door. Then the abbot stepped forward.
“I’ll ask them to leave,” he said, his voice determined.
“Perhaps I should come along,” said Gamache.
Dom Philippe studied the Chief, then nodded.
Beauvoir made to join them but was stopped by a subtle wave of Gamache’s hand. “It would be better if you stayed here.”
“What is it?” Beauvoir asked, seeing the look on the Chief’s face.
“I’m not really sure.”
Gamache turned back to the abbot and motioned toward the wharf. “Shall we?”
The plane had almost reached the dock. The pilot cut power, the props slowed, and the plane, on its pontoons, drifted the last few feet to the dock. Gamache and the abbot grabbed the struts and steadied the plane. Then the Chief reached for the ropes dangling in the cold lake.
“I wouldn’t bother,” said the abbot. “They won’t be staying long.”
The Chief turned, the wet line in his hand. “I think they might.”
“You forget who’s in charge here.”
Gamache knelt and made a couple of quick knots, securing the float plane to the dock, then he stood back up.
“I don’t forget. It’s just that I think I know who’s in the plane. It’s not the press, you know.”
“No?”
“I wasn’t completely sure I’d seen it right, when the plane flew over. That’s why I wanted to come with you.”
The Chief pointed to the crest on the door. It showed four fleurs-de-lys. And above them was stenciled MJQ.
“MJQ?” asked the abbot.
The small door opened.
“Ministère de la Justice du Québec,” said Gamache and stepped forward, offering his hand to steady the visitor as he squeezed out of the float plane.
The Chief Inspector’s offer was either not noticed or ignored. A fine black leather shoe appeared, then a second, and a man stood for a moment on the pontoon, then strolled casually onto the dock, as though into an opera house or an art gallery.
He looked around, taking in his surroundings.
Not an explorer, landed in a new world, but a conqueror.
He was in late middle age, sixty perhaps. His hair was gray, his face was clean-shaven, handsome and assured. No weakness there. Neither was it the face of a bully. He appeared to be completely at home, composed and comfortable. While most men would look slightly ridiculous arriving in the wilderness in a fine suit and tie, this man made it seem perfectly natural. Even enviable.
And Gamache suspected, if the visitor stayed long enough, the monks would eventually be in suits and ties themselves. And thanking the visitor.
He had that effect on people. Not adjusting to the world, but having the world adjust to him. Which it did. With few, but notable, exceptions.
The man stood on the dock and looked around, his eyes sweeping over Gamache. Over and through and by him. And came to rest on the abbot.
“Dom Philippe?”
The abbot bowed, but didn’t take his blue eyes off the stranger.
“My name is Sylvain Francoeur.” The man put out his hand. “I’m the Chief Superintendent of the S?reté du Québec.”
The abbot’s eyes shifted, for a moment. To Gamache. Then back again.
Armand Gamache knew his own expression was relaxed, attentive. Respectful.
But had Dom Philippe, so good at neumes, read the tiny lines on the Chief Inspector’s face, and seen how Gamache really felt?