“A satirical poem. By Jonathan Swift,” said Lacoste.
Beauvoir’s eyes rolled to the back of his head.
“On the death of a duke. I understand you like poetry.”
Amelia nodded and repeated, “Come hither, and behold your fate.”
“If ever there was an empty thing, it was Serge Leduc. The Duke,” said Lacoste. “What was his fate?”
“I guess it was to die, at the hands of another.”
“But who?”
“Do you think it was me?” Amelia asked.
“Your fingerprints were on the map in his bedside table. It was your map, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Amelia admitted. “It must have been, I guess. No one else’s is missing. But I didn’t give it to him.”
“What was your relationship with Serge Leduc?” Lacoste repeated.
“He wanted to screw me.”
“And did he?”
“No. I told him I’d cut off his dick and shove it down his throat.”
Now the men’s eyes widened.
“What did he say to that?” asked Lacoste.
“He threatened to expel me.”
“And what would that mean?” Isabelle asked. Her voice steady. No hint of the outrage she felt.
“I would die,” said Amelia.
Isabelle Lacoste forced herself to be quiet. To give no easy comfort. To not dismiss the gravity of those words by saying she was sure it wasn’t true.
Because she knew it was true.
Amelia Choquet would leave the academy and go back to the streets. This time without hope. And she would die.
“Did you kill him, Amelia? To stop him from expelling you? To save yourself?”
The young woman looked at Isabelle Lacoste. Here was the woman she longed to be, hoped to be. Could be. But it wasn’t to be. Amelia knew that now.
She shook her head, and when she spoke her voice was clear, certain.
“I did not.”
“Your fingerprints were also on the case where the murder weapon was kept,” said Lacoste. “And on the gun itself.”
Amelia just stared at her. “If I killed him, I’d have wiped the gun. I’m smart enough to do that.”
“Probably true,” said Lacoste. “But I don’t think we’re looking for an exceptionally stupid person, do you?”
Amelia was quiet now.
“You don’t seem surprised that your prints were on the gun. Are you?”
She just shook her head, but was silent.
“What was your relationship with Commander Gamache?”
So she had noticed, thought Jean-Guy. That look on Monsieur Gamache’s face as they’d led Amelia away.
“I have no relationship with him.”
“Then why is he so protective of you?” asked Lacoste.
Down the table, Paul Gélinas shifted in his chair, preparing to interrupt, and once again Lacoste flicked a warning glance at him.
“He isn’t,” said Amelia. “Not more than any of the others.”
“But he is,” said Gélinas, finally ignoring Chief Inspector Lacoste. “He’s the one who got you into the academy. You’d been turned down, you know. He changed that.”
“He did?” asked Amelia, turning to look at the RCMP officer. Breaking the carefully woven connection with Lacoste. “The Duke told me Commander Gamache had rejected my application, but that he’d reversed it. And he could reverse it again.”
“Well, he was lying,” said Gélinas. “It was Monsieur Gamache. Why would the Commander do it? Especially when, forgive me, you’re so clearly unsuited to the place.”
Isabelle Lacoste stared at Gélinas. Amazed by his casual brutality.
Gélinas had ignored her wishes and destroyed an atmosphere between the two women that was clearly working. Was that his intention? Was he afraid Amelia was about to say something, reveal something?
But for all that, Lacoste had to admit the RCMP officer wasn’t wrong. It was a good question. Why had Commander Gamache reversed his predecessor’s decision and admitted the Goth Girl to the Sûreté Academy?
Isabelle Lacoste was growing more and more concerned about the answer.
CHAPTER 33
“What’re you thinking?” asked Reine-Marie.
They’d left the bistro and gone to St. Thomas’s Church, drawn by the quiet there, and the peace.
She sat next to Armand in the pew. He was staring straight ahead, and though his eyes were open, she had the impression he’d been praying.
Her question, she knew, wasn’t accurate. What she really wanted to know was what he was feeling.
Armand took a deep breath and exhaled, forcefully. As though he’d been holding it in for a long time.
“I was remembering waiting for my mother and father. Kneeling on the sofa with my arms on the back of it. Looking out the window. Batman was on the television. I can still hear the theme song.”
As he softly hummed it—dah-dah, dah-dah, dah-dah, dah-dah—Reine-Marie imagined the little boy. Who always waited when his mother and father left, for their return.
Who roused from sleep when they tiptoed into his bedroom and kissed him good night.
Who always found a treat in the fridge in some elaborate tinfoil sculpture. He’d thought his mother had made them for him. And even when, later, all evidence pointed to some stranger at the restaurant making the swans and baskets and boats that contained the treats, Armand still clung to the certainty that his mother had created them. For him.
As far as Reine-Marie knew, he still believed it.
“Batman,” Armand sang beneath his breath. “I saw the headlights from the car, but I knew it wasn’t them. It was too early. And there was something different about the lights. And then I saw the two men walking up the path. But I wasn’t afraid. I thought they were just visitors.”
Reine-Marie took his hand. She’d heard this before. Once. And only once. Early in their courtship, when he knew he loved her, and he knew she loved him. And he’d wanted her to know.
He talked about his parents quite often, relating anecdotes of vacations and celebrations. But this was only the second time in their lives together that he’d talked to her about their deaths.
Lines appeared at his eyes and mouth.
“I was excited to meet these strangers. The doorbell rang and my grandmother came out of the kitchen and opened the door.”
Now the lines disappeared. And for an instant Reine-Marie saw the smooth face of a nine-year-old boy. In pajamas. Standing by the sofa.
“She turned to me and when I saw her face, I knew. They were gone.”
They sat in silence for a moment, not even the ticking of a clock to mark the passage of time. It could’ve been a few seconds, a minute. An hour. Decades.
“My grandmother tried to comfort me, but she had her own grief. It was Michel who stayed with me. He never left my side. He took me outside after their funeral to play king of the castle.” Armand smiled. “It was our favorite game. He always won. I’m the king of the castle, and you’re a dirty rascal,” Armand sang under his breath. “I could barely walk and talk. For weeks. I just plodded along. And Michel never left me. Never went to find more fun friends. Though he could have. I miss him. And I miss them.”
Reine-Marie squeezed his hand. “Paul Gélinas shouldn’t have brought it up. It was cruel.”
“It was almost fifty years ago.”
“It wasn’t necessary,” she said, and wondered about the real reason Gélinas had told the cadets about the death of Armand’s parents.
“I’ve been sitting here thinking of my mother and father, but not really how much I miss them. I was wondering what it must’ve been like for the parents of those boys. It’s one thing to lose a mother or father, but can you imagine?” He paused to gather himself, to say the unthinkable. “Losing Daniel. Or Annie?”