“It seems you’re no closer to solving the murder than when you arrived,” said Francoeur. “Everyone’s still a suspect.”
“It’s a good thing that you’re here, then,” Gamache paused. “To help.”
“It is. For instance, you don’t even have the murder weapon.”
“That’s true.”
“Or even know what it was.”
Gamache opened his mouth to say they suspected a rock from the garden had crushed the prior’s skull, then was tossed over the wall and into the woods. But instinct, and perhaps a slight gleam of satisfaction in Francoeur’s eyes, told him to stop. Instead he looked at the Superintendent, then down at the mostly unread coroner’s report.
He turned the page and scanned. Then looked up, meeting Francoeur’s eyes. The gleam had become a glow, of triumph.
Gamache cupped his right hand in his left. Holding it steady. So that Francoeur wouldn’t see the slight tremble and believe he’d caused it.
“You read the reports?” Gamache asked.
Francoeur nodded. “On the flight. You’ve been looking for a rock, I understand.”
He made it sound ridiculous.
“That’s true. Clearly we were wrong. It wasn’t a rock at all.”
“No,” Francoeur uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “No dirt or residue in the wound. Nothing at all. As you see, the coroner thinks it was a long metal object like a pipe or a poker.”
“You knew this when you arrived and didn’t tell me?” Gamache’s voice was calm, but the censure was clear.
“What? Me presume to tell the great Gamache how to do his job? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Then why are you here, if not to pass on valuable information?”
“Because, Armand,” Francoeur spat the name out as though it was merde in his mouth, “one of us cares for the service and one of us cares about his career. I’m here so that when news of the murder gets out and all hell breaks loose, and the world’s media descends, we don’t look like complete imbeciles. I can at least give the impression the S?reté is competent. That we’re doing all we can to solve the brutal killing of one of the most beloved religieux in the world. You know what the world will want to know when his murder is made public?”
Gamache remained quiet. He knew that while continually interrupting could cause an explosion of information, silence could too. A man like Francoeur, so tightly restraining his rage, needed simply to be given space. And, perhaps, a well-timed shove.
“Why, with only two dozen suspects in a cloistered abbey, the famed S?reté du Québec still couldn’t make an arrest,” Francoeur sneered. “What could possibly be taking so long, they’ll ask.”
“And what will you tell them, Sylvain? That it’s difficult to get at the truth when your own people are withholding information?”
“The truth, Armand? You want me to tell them that an arrogant, smug, incompetent asshole is in charge of the investigation?”
Gamache raised his brows and faintly gestured toward where Francoeur was sitting. Behind the desk.
And Gamache saw Francoeur slip over the edge. The Superintendent stood and the stone floor screamed as the chair scraped against it. Francoeur’s handsome face was livid.
Gamache remained seated, but after a moment he slowly, slowly got to his feet, so that they faced each other across the desk. Gamache’s hands were behind his back, clasping each other. His chest was exposed, as though inviting Francoeur to take his best shot.
There was a soft tapping on the door.
Neither man responded.
Then it came again, and a tentative “Chief?”
The door opened a crack.
“You need to treat your people with more respect, Armand,” snapped Francoeur, his voice loud. Then he turned to the door. “Come.”
Beauvoir stepped in and looked from man to man. It was near impossible to enter the prior’s office, so thick was the atmosphere. But Beauvoir did. He stepped in, and stood shoulder to shoulder with Gamache.
Francoeur dragged his stare from the Chief Inspector over to Beauvoir and took a deep breath. And even managed a coy smile.
“You’ve come at a good time, Inspector. I think your Chief and I have said enough. Perhaps even more than enough.”
He gave a disarming little laugh and put out his hand.
“I didn’t get a chance to say hello when I arrived. My apologies, Inspector Beauvoir.”
Jean-Guy hesitated, then took it.
A bell rang and Beauvoir made a face. “Not again.”
Superintendent Francoeur laughed. “My feelings exactly. But perhaps while the monks go about their business of praying we can go about ours. At least we’ll know where they are.”
He all but winked at Beauvoir, then turned back to Gamache.
“Think about what I said, Chief Inspector.” His voice was warm, almost cordial. “That’s all I ask.”
He made to leave and Gamache called after him.
“I think, Chief Superintendent, you’ll find that bell isn’t for prayers but for lunch.”
“Well,” Francoeur smiled fully, “then my prayers are answered. I hear the food here is excellent. Is it?” he asked Beauvoir.
“Not bad.”
“Bon. Then, I’ll see you at lunch. I’ll be staying a few days, of course. The abbot has been good enough to give me one of the rooms. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just freshen up and meet you there.”
He nodded to both of them, then walked off confidently. A man in complete command of himself, of the situation, of the monastery.
Beauvoir turned to Gamache.
“What was that about?”
“I honestly haven’t a clue.”
“You all right?”
“Just fine, thank you.”
“Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and egotistical? F.I.N.E.?”
“I think that would be the Chief Superintendent’s assessment,” Gamache smiled and they walked down the corridor toward the Blessed Chapel, and the dining hall.
“He came here to tell you that?”
“No, according to him he came to help. He also brought with him the coroner’s report and the findings of the forensics team.”
Gamache told Beauvoir what the reports said. Beauvoir listened as they walked. Then stopped and turned to Gamache in anger.
“He knew that’s what the report said, that the weapon wasn’t a rock at all, and he didn’t tell us right away? What’s he playing at?”
“I don’t know. But we need to focus on the murder, not be distracted by the Superintendent.”
“D’accord,” agreed Beauvoir, begrudgingly. “So where’s the damned murder weapon? We searched outside the wall and didn’t find anything.”
Except, he thought, wild blueberries. And they probably weren’t lethal, until dipped in dark chocolate.
“I know one thing,” said the Chief. “The report tells us something crucial.”
“What?”