“I didn’t want him to be alone. Serge Leduc might not have been a good man, and he certainly was no friend. But he does deserve some common decency.”
Lacoste studied him for a moment. It was, she had to admit, the sort of thing Armand Gamache would do. And yet …
“And you felt he would, if he could speak, prefer that you stare at him in that condition, rather than simply lock the room and leave him in peace?”
She was pushing it, she knew. But if Gamache had been any other man, she’d have asked these same questions. And not let his answer go.
“I did,” he said simply. “And I wasn’t staring at his body.”
“Then what were you doing?” she asked.
Gamache cocked his head slightly and regarded her.
“I was noticing the details of the room.” He smiled. “Training and experience.”
Then his smile disappeared and he looked stern.
“You’re the head of homicide and I respect that. But I’m the commander here, and everyone and everything under this roof is my responsibility. A person not only died, he was murdered. And yes, I chose to use my expertise. Do you have a problem with that?”
“You know I do, sir. It wouldn’t be tolerated in anyone else. And you, above all, know the importance of keeping a crime scene as clean as possible.”
“I do. Which is why I touched nothing. I looked and I breathed.”
His voice was curt. Not exactly chastising her, but pushing back.
“I’m sorry if what I did upset you, Chief Inspector. It was only meant to help.” Then his voice softened. “Do you really think I killed Serge Leduc?”
Isabelle Lacoste visibly relaxed. “No, I don’t.”
“Good,” he said, smiling. “Because I sure wouldn’t want you on my tail.”
“And I hope you know that I do respect your position here, Commander. But I’m in charge.”
“I do know that, Isabelle. I’m not trying to take over. But I do need to be a part of this investigation. I should tell you that I’ll be calling the mayor of Saint-Alphonse to report what’s happened. As well as their chief of police.”
“Sounds reasonable,” she said.
Beauvoir was watching and listening, following closely what was being said, and not said. Mostly he watched Gamache.
While he’d deflected the question, Armand Gamache had not, in fact, properly answered it. And it was the same question he himself had.
Why had Gamache stayed in the room with the body? Lacoste was right. The appropriate action, by an experienced investigator, would have been to leave, lock the door, and await the forensics team.
But Gamache had not done that.
“Right now,” said Lacoste, “I need to speak to the cadet who found the body.”
“D’accord,” said Commander Gamache, and opened the door to his rooms.
Nathaniel sat on the edge of the sofa, nervously answering their questions. He seemed to grow more and more agitated as they went on, no matter how benign the question or how gently they were put to him. Though, it must be admitted, the interview had not started well.
“Your name?”
“Nathaniel Smythe.”
He’d given it a French pronunciation, though it was obviously an English name and he himself was English. It came out as Nataniel Smite.
“Nathaniel Smythe?” asked Isabelle Lacoste, giving it the proper English pronunciation.
Nathaniel colored. His red hair and fair complexion made the blush immediate and vivid.
Here was a young man desperate to fit in, to pass as Québécois, thought Lacoste. Though his name and coloring would give him away immediately. And while he had not actually lied right out of the gate, he had misled. Tried to pass himself off as something he was not.
It was a small, but telling, detail. And Chief Inspector Lacoste knew murders were built on tiny, almost imperceptible things. They were almost never provoked by a single massive event, but rather by an accumulation of small insults, slights, lies. Bruises. Until the final flesh wound proved fatal.
She looked at young Cadet Smythe. Who’d just tried to pretend he wasn’t Anglo. And now she was getting another sense from him.
He’s gay, she thought with dismay.
Gay was fine. Anglo was fine. Anglo and gay was fine. Anglo, gay, and in the Sûreté Academy was something else. No wonder this young man’s instinct was to hide.
She looked over at Gamache, still in his dressing gown and pajamas, sitting at ease on one of the Eames chairs. She wondered if he had also picked up on it, and she thought he probably had.
“Cadet Smythe is in my class,” said the Commander. “And you sometimes come to the gatherings in these rooms.”
“Oui.”
“Tell us what happened,” said Lacoste. Her voice matter-of-fact.
“I was taking Professor Leduc his morning coffee and toast. I knocked on the door, and when there was no answer I tried the handle. It was unlocked, so I opened it.”
This raised a number of questions, but Lacoste held off until he’d finished.
“I saw him right away, of course.”
He blushed again with the effort of holding it together. Keeping down the emotions, and the vomit.
“And what did you do?” she asked.
“I backed away and yelled for help.” He looked at the Commander. “I dropped the tray.”
“Naturally,” said the Commander. “I would have too.”
“Did you go into the room?” Chief Inspector Lacoste asked.
“No.”
“Even a little bit? A few steps?” she pressed, her voice suggesting it would be understandable if he had, but the cadet shook his head.
It was the last thing this young man had been tempted to do.
“Why were you taking coffee to Professor Leduc?” Beauvoir asked.
“We do it every morning. Amelia Choquet and I take shifts. A week at a time.”
There was a slight movement from Gamache, and an inhale.
He’s surprised, thought Lacoste.
“Do you know the practice of freshmen serving meals to professors was stopped when Commander Gamache took over?” Beauvoir asked.
“Professor Leduc told us that, but said it was tradition. That it helped establish respect and order and a chain of command. He said Sûreté Academy traditions were there for a reason and important to uphold.”
He said it apparently without understanding the insult to Commander Gamache. It was another small, but telling, detail. It spoke about this student. But mostly it spoke of Serge Leduc and his disdain for the new commander.
And Leduc’s willingness to pass his opinions on to the cadets.
Beauvoir didn’t look over at Gamache, but watched him in his peripheral vision. His face was again one of calm attentiveness. But his posture had changed. It was more tense.
“Not all traditions are good,” said Beauvoir. “That one belittles freshmen. You’re agents in training, not servants. I hated it when I was a freshman. I’m interested to see that you don’t seem to mind.”
“Professor Leduc explained that Amelia and I were specially chosen.”
“And did he explain what was special about you?” asked Lacoste.
“We were the most promising.”
“I see,” she said.
Lacoste turned to Gamache, but he shook his head to say he had no questions, though he was listening intently and watching the young man closely.
“The door to Professor Leduc’s rooms was unlocked,” Lacoste said. At that moment her iPhone vibrated, but she ignored it. “Was that unusual?”
“No. He often unlocked it first thing in the morning, so we could get in.”
“And what did you do, once in his rooms?” asked Lacoste.
“Put down the tray and left.”
“And the times he was there?” asked Gamache, finally speaking.