TWENTY-NINE
Armand Gamache kissed his wife goodbye just as the first huge drops of rain fell with a splat. No mist or atmospheric drizzle for this Canada Day. It was a day for plump, ripe, juicy rain.
‘You know, don’t you,’ she whispered into his ear as he embraced her.
He pulled back and nodded.
Peter and Clara climbed into the Volvo like two shellshocked veterans returning to the front line. Already Peter’s hair stood on end.
‘Wait,’ Reine-Marie called just as Armand opened the driver’s side door. She took her husband aside for a moment, ignoring the drops plopping all around them. ‘I forgot to tell you. I remembered where I’d seen Chef Veronique before. You have too, I’m sure of it.’
She told him and his eyes widened, surprised. She was right, of course. And so many vaguely troubling things suddenly made sense. The world-class chef hidden away. The army of young English workers. Never older, never French. Why she never greeted the guests. And why she lived, year round, on the shores of an isolated lake.
‘Merci, ma belle.‘ He kissed her again and returned to the car, and the car returned to the road. Back to the Manoir Bellechasse.
As they turned the final corner of the dirt road they saw the old log lodge through the windshield wipers, and they saw a Surete vehicle parked on the winding drive. Then more police vehicles, as they got closer. Some Surete, some municipal police. Even a Royal Canadian Mounted Police truck. The drive was packed with vehicles parked higgledy-piggledy.
The chatting stopped in the car and it grew very silent, except for the clack, clack, clack of the wiper. Gamache’s face grew stern and hard and watchful. The three of them dashed through the rain and into the reception room of the Manoir.
‘Bon Dieu, thank God you’re here,’ said little Madame Dubois. ‘They’re in the Great Room.’
Gamache walked quickly.
At the opening of the door all eyes turned to him. There in the centre stood Jean Guy Beauvoir, surrounded by the Morrows, what looked like the entire staff of the Manoir, and men and women in assorted uniforms. A huge ordnance map was hanging from the fireplace mantel.
‘Bon,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I believe you know this man. Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, the head of homicide for the Surete du Quebec.’
There was a murmur and some nodding. A few of the officers offered salutes. Gamache nodded back.
‘What’s happened?’ Gamache asked.
‘Elliot Byrne is missing,’ said Beauvoir. ‘It was noticed sometime between the breakfast and the luncheon service.’
‘Who reported it?’
‘I did.’ Chef Veronique stepped forward. And as Gamache looked at her he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. Reine-Marie was right. ‘He wasn’t there for the breakfast service,’ the chef was explaining, ‘and that was unusual but not unheard of. He’d worked dinner the night before and sometimes their schedule gives them the next breakfast off. So I didn’t say anything. But he should have been there to set up for lunch.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Gamache.
‘I spoke to Pierre, the maitre d’,’ said Veronique.
Pierre Patenaude stepped forward, looking shaken and worried.
‘Shouldn’t we be looking for him?’ he asked.
‘We are, monsieur,’ said Beauvoir. ‘We have calls out to police and the media, to the bus and train stations.’
‘But he might be out there.’ Pierre waved outside, where rain was now pouring down the windows, making the outside world distorted and grotesque.
‘We’ll form search parties, but first we need information and a plan. Go on.’ Gamache turned to Beauvoir.
‘Monsieur Patenaude managed a quick search of the bunks and the grounds, to make sure Elliot wasn’t sick or hurt or maybe just goofing off,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Nothing was found.’
‘Were his clothes gone?’ asked Gamache.
‘No,’ said Beauvoir, and their eyes locked for an instant. ‘We were just about to form search parties for the surrounding area.’ Beauvoir addressed the room. ‘Everyone who wants to volunteer please stay. The rest, please leave.’
‘Can I help?’ Little Madame Dubois, dwarfed by the sequoia-like RCMP officers, stepped forward.
‘You can help me, madame,’ said Gamache. ‘Carry on.’ He nodded to Beauvoir, and to everyone’s astonishment the Chief Inspector took Madame Dubois’s arm and they left the Great Room.
‘Coward.’ The whispered word in the Morrow voice slid off Gamache’s back and to the floor, where it evaporated.
‘What can I do, monsieur?’ she asked when they arrived in the outer office.
‘You can find me Elliot’s employment application and whatever information you have about him. And you can place these phone calls.’
He jotted down a list.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked, perplexed by the list, but seeing his face she didn’t wait for an answer.
He walked into the library and closed the door. In the hallway he heard the trooping of heavy feet as the searchers prepared to go out into the rain. Not a storm, but the rain and wind would make the ground sodden and slippery. It was going to be miserable.
After making a few more notes he looked up and stared out of the window. Then he quickly walked out of the French doors and through the rain across the lawn, towards a group of searchers just entering the woods. They were wearing bright orange coats, supplied by the local hunt and game society, who were also volunteering. Each team would have a police officer and a local hunter. The last thing they needed was to lose the searchers. It happened. How often had the lost reappeared and the searchers disappeared, only to be found as bones years later. The Canadian wilderness didn’t give up her territory or her dead easily.
The rain was coming down in torrents, hitting them sideways. Everyone was anonymous in the orange covers, slick with rain.
‘Colleen?’ he shouted, knowing with their hoods up all they’d hear was the din of the rain pelting their heads. ‘Colleen!’
He grabbed a promising shoulder. A young man Gamache recognized as a porter turned round. He looked frightened and uncertain. Water dribbled down Gamache’s face, into his eyes and down his cheeks. He smiled reassuringly at the young man.
‘You’ll do fine,’ he shouted. ‘Just stick close to them.’ Gamache pointed to two large orange coats with bold duct tape X’s on their backs. ‘And if you get tired, tell them. You’re not to hurt yourself, d’accord?’
The young man nodded. ‘Are you coming with us, sir?’
‘I can’t. I’m needed somewhere else.’
‘I understand.’
But Gamache saw the disappointment. And he saw fear lick the boy. And he felt horrible. But he was needed elsewhere, though he needed to find the young gardener first. ‘Is Colleen in your group?’
The young man shook his head then ran off to catch up with the others.
‘Sacre,’ whispered Gamache, standing alone now on the soaked lawn, his own clothes unprotected and wet through. ‘Idiot.’
He spent the next few minutes striding into the woods, asking each group he found whether the gardener was with them. He knew the standard search pattern, had co-ordinated enough searches himself not to be worried about losing the searchers. He was worried about something else. About Elliot, missing. About Elliot, whose clothing was still in his modest wooden cupboard in the small bunkroom.
‘Colleen?’ He touched another orange shoulder and saw another little leap as some poor kid’s movie nightmare came momentarily true. As they turned he knew they expected to see Freddy Krueger or Hannibal Lecter or the Blair Witch. Huge, terrified eyes met his.
‘Colleen?’
She nodded, relieved.
‘Come with me.’ He shouted to the team leader he was taking the young gardener from the search, and while the others trudged deeper into the woods Gamache and Colleen emerged onto the lawn and jogged towards the refuge of the lodge.
Once inside with towels to dry off Gamache spoke.
‘I need to know a few things, and I need you to be honest.’
Colleen looked well beyond being able to lie.