It still had the red stain from the strawberry jelly. And a dusting of icing sugar. So that it looked like a drop of blood on snow.
“You’ve done well,” said Lacoste, and meant it. “You found out who made it and confirmed it was probably an early orienteering map.”
“Maybe to train his son, knowing the war was coming,” said Beauvoir, and wondered how a father could do that. How would a father feel, seeing the war on the horizon?
What would I do? Jean-Guy wondered.
And he knew what he’d do. He’d either hide his child, or prepare him.
Jean-Guy looked down at the map and realized it wasn’t a map at all. At least, not of land. It mapped a man’s love of his child.
“But there’s a problem,” said Huifen.
“There always is,” said Commander Gamache.
“There’s no record of him ever owning this place. Or any place.”
“Maybe he rented,” said Beauvoir.
“Maybe,” said Jacques. “But we couldn’t find Antony Turcotte anywhere. In any of the records.”
“There’s a mention in The Canadian Encyclopedia,” said Amelia, her voice eager for the first time since Gamache had known her. She handed the photocopied sheet to Lacoste.
“Merci,” said Lacoste, and examined it before passing it along to the others. “According to this, Monsieur Turcotte eventually moved to a village called Roof Trusses and was buried there.”
“Roof Trusses?” the other officers said together.
“What did they say?” demanded Ruth.
“I must’ve misheard,” said Gabri. “It sounded like Roof Trusses.”
“Oh yes, I know it,” said Ruth. “Just down the road a few kilometers.”
“Of course,” said Gabri. “Not far from Asphalt Shingles.”
“Ignore him,” said Olivier. “He just likes saying asphalt.”
“I’ve never heard of it.” Clara turned to Myrna and Reine-Marie, both of whom shook their heads.
“That’s because only old Anglos still call it Roof Trusses,” said Ruth. “The Commission de toponymie changed its name a long time ago to Notre-Dame-de-Doleur.”
“Our Lady of Pain?” asked Myrna. “Are you kidding? Who calls a village that?”
“Pain,” said Reine-Marie. “Or maybe grief.”
Our Lady of Grief.
It was not much better.
“Jesus,” said Gabri. “Can you imagine the tourist posters?”
“Roof Trusses?” asked Beauvoir. “Who calls a village that?”
“Apparently Antony Turcotte,” said Huifen. “His one big mistake when mapping and naming the area.”
She explained.
“Have you been there?” Gamache asked.
There was silence, none of the cadets wanting to be the one to speak.
“The toponymie man said the village died out,” said Huifen.
“Might still be worth a visit,” said Lacoste. “Just to see.”
“See what?” asked Jacques, and was treated to one of her withering looks.
“We don’t know, do we? Isn’t that the point of an investigation? To investigate.”
Amelia was nodding as though hearing the wisdom of ages.
“If Turcotte made this for his son”—Gamache touched the edges of the map—“that would mean the soldier’s name was also Turcotte.”
“That’s another problem,” admitted Huifen. “None of the names on the memorial list is Turcotte.”
“Maybe he survived,” said Nathaniel. After all this time staring at the young soldier, Nathaniel had grown to care. The boy would be dead now, of course. But maybe of old age, and in his bed.
“Do you think so?” asked Amelia, speaking to Chief Inspector Lacoste.
“Do you?” Lacoste asked her.
Amelia shook her head, slowly. “Whoever he was, he didn’t come home.”
“What makes you say that?”
“His face,” said Amelia. “No one with that expression would have survived.”
“Maybe he never existed. He might be a composite of all the young men who were killed,” said Beauvoir.
“The stained-glass version of the Unknown Soldier,” said Gamache, and considered. “Made to represent all the suffering. Perhaps. But he seems so real. So alive. I think he did exist. Briefly.”
“What’re they saying now?” demanded Ruth.
“The stained-glass soldier,” said Reine-Maire. “They think his name might’ve been Turcotte.”
Ruth shook her head. “Saint-Cyr, Soucy, Turner. No Turcotte on the wall.”
“He’s there somewhere,” said Gamache. “One of the names matches that boy.”
Once again, Huifen pulled out her phone and displayed the photograph they’d taken of the list of names.
They all leaned forward, reading. As though the lost boy might make himself known.
“He’s there somewhere,” said Ruth. “Maybe not Turcotte, but one of them. Etienne Adair, Teddy Adams, Marc Beaulieu…”
They Were Our Children, Jean-Guy thought.
“Bert Marshall, Denis Perron, Giddy Poirier…”
“We’re going to need to speak with each of you,” said Gélinas. “Alone. Beginning, I think, with you.”
He turned to Amelia.
“Joe Valois, Norm Valois, Pierre Valois.”
They listened to Ruth. It was one thing to read the names etched into the wood, and another to hear them out loud. The old poet’s voice like the tolling of a bell. As they searched for the one boy, among the dead.
“There’s a private room just through there,” said Gamache, getting to his feet with the others.
“Merci,” said Gélinas. “But I don’t think we need you, Commander.”
“I’m sorry?” said Gamache.
“We can take it from here.”
“I’m sure you can, but I’d like to be present when you interview the cadets.”
The students, as well as Lacoste and Beauvoir, looked from Gamache to Gélinas as the two men faced each other. Each with a pleasant look hardening to his face.
“I insist,” said Gamache.
“On what grounds?”
“In loco parentis,” said Gamache.
“What did he say?” asked Ruth.
Around them the murmur of conversation continued, interrupted by the occasional burst of laughter.
“I think he said he was crazy,” said Clara. “Loco.”
“In parentheses,” said Gabri.
“Why parentheses?” asked Ruth.
“In loco parentis,” said Reine-Marie. “Standing in place of the parent.”
“You’re standing in for her parents?” asked Gélinas, half amused, half disbelieving. “Standing in for her father?”
“For all their parents,” said Gamache. “The students have been entrusted to my care.”
“I’m not a child,” snapped Amelia.
“I don’t mean to be patronizing—”
“That’s exactly what you mean to be,” said Amelia. “That’s what in loco parentis means.”
“We can contact her father, if you like, Commander,” said Gélinas. “If that would make you happy. We can probably have him here within the hour.”
“No,” said Amelia, and while Gamache didn’t speak he looked startled. For an instant. As though slapped.
Reine-Marie, across the room, noticed and wondered if anyone else had.
“Don’t be angry at Monsieur Gamache,” Gélinas said to Amelia. “He can’t help it. I suspect he has an overdeveloped sense of protection because of his own experience. He doesn’t want anyone to suffer as he did.”