And what about Three Pines? It was a sort of island.
And now one among them was dead. And one of them had done it.
And the Conscience was nowhere to be found.
Beauvoir took a deep breath, chuckling at his overactive imagination.
But he decided to put reading about Lord of the Flies on hold and, pulling up another search, he typed in the words he’d seen that afternoon on the napkin that had fallen from Gamache’s pocket.
Burn our ships.
“May I join you?” Armand asked, gesturing to the closed toilet seat as though it were an easy chair.
“Please,” said Reine-Marie, and accepted the glass of red wine he passed her, a stalactite of bubbles from the bath she was soaking in hanging from her arm. “Nothing for you?”
“I’m afraid I’m still working,” he said, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable.
“Any closer to finding out what happened?”
“Isabelle’s doing interviews. She’ll join us later for dinner. I’ve asked her and Jean-Guy to stay overnight.”
“I should get things ready.” Reine-Marie put the glass down and made to get out of the tub, but Armand waved her to stop.
“Olivier will bring something over for dinner, and I’ve checked. The beds are already made and towels out.”
“Auberge Gamache is open for business?” she asked, gliding back down, deeper into the suds.
The hint of roses from the bubble bath mixed with the steam, and Armand had the strange impression that the fog from outside had permeated their home. And as he did when he walked through the mist, he had an intense feeling of comfort.
“You okay?” he asked.
“This helps,” she said. It was clear she meant the company more than the bubbles. Or even the wine.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“It was awful, Armand. There was blood everywhere.”
She was trying not to cry, but tears streamed down her face, and he knelt beside the tub and held her hands. As she described, again, what she’d seen.
She needed to talk about it. And he needed to listen. To comfort.
“Who killed her, Armand? Was it the cobrador?”
She knew he wouldn’t have the answer, but she hoped, in the extreme privacy of their own bathroom, he might have an idea he could share with her.
“I think he’s at the center of it, yes. Whether he himself did it, I’m not sure.”
She looked into his eyes. “There was nothing you could do.”
“And that’s exactly what I did do. Nothing. But I’m not here to talk about me. I’m here for you.”
He caressed her skin with his thumb.
“You did do something,” she said, ignoring what he’d just said. “You warned him. You can’t arrest someone for standing on a village green. Thank God.”
“Thank God,” murmured Armand.
He knew she was right. But he could also feel his own conscience stirring. Accusing him of following the law, in lockstep. And marching right past common sense.
Katie Evans was dead. The cobrador was missing. And Reine-Marie was soaking in the bath, the blood long gone but the stain remaining.
“The law is sometimes an ass,” he said, squeezing her warm hand.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do. There are some laws that should never be upheld, enforced.”
“But you can’t be the one who decides,” she said, sitting up straighter and looking at him. “You’re the head of the Sûreté. You have to follow the law, even if it’s uncomfortable.” She held his eyes and spoke slowly, clearly. “You can’t kick someone off the public park in front of your home, Armand, just because you don’t like it.”
She made it sound so clear, so reasonable.
“What I don’t understand is how the killer knew the root cellar was there,” said Reine-Marie. “Hardly anyone ever goes in it.”
“Why did you?”
“I had some of those Chinese lantern flowers. Long stems. I wondered if there might be a vase there, even a chipped one, I could use.” She thought for a moment. “You think that’s where the cobrador went, when he disappeared at night?”
“It’s possible. Probable. The forensics report will tell us more, but it makes sense. It’s a pretty good hiding spot. There’s a bathroom, a kitchen. No windows in that little root cellar.”
“Did you find a weapon?”
He looked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”
Now she looked confused. “Do you know what killed Katie?”
“The bat, of course.”
“Of course?”
In silence he regarded her, then his eyes widened.
“Can you describe again what you saw when you found the body?”
She sat up straighter in the bath, picking up on the shift in tone. She cast her mind back. “When I turned the light on I saw something dark, like a shadow, in the corner. It looked like a pile of black clothes. And then there was the blood.”
He squeezed her hand, and let that sit.
“What else was in the root cellar?” He hated doing this, but had to.
She frowned. “Jars of preserves on the shelves. Some vases, mostly chipped or cracked. Some broken candlestick holders. Things we couldn’t even sell in the rummage sale.”
“Anything else? On the ground?” It was as far as he could go. She had to tell him herself. Or not.
She scanned the room in her mind.
“Non. Why? What should I have seen? Did I miss something?”
“Non, but we almost did. Do you mind?” He got up.
“No, go.”
Armand bent down and he kissed her.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispered.
As he left, he reflected on how many times he’d heard that from others.
It’s not my fault. Though it almost always was.
CHAPTER 20
“What’re you looking up?” asked Gamache, pausing in the doorway to his study.
“Lord of the Rings,” said Beauvoir.
He closed the search, shutting down the page.
“Flies?” asked Gamache.
“Right, right, Lord of the Flies. I just got to the part where Frodo and Ralph find the magic ring in the pig’s head. But I’m not sure why the pope is on the island.”
“Wikipedia,” muttered Gamache, as he walked toward the front door. “I need to take another look at the root cellar.”
“Why?” asked Beauvoir, following.
“Something Reine-Marie just told me.”
“What?”
Jean-Guy listened as Gamache recounted his conversation. “You’re kidding,” he said, though it was clear Gamache was not. “I’ll come with you.”
“Madame Evans’s sister and parents don’t know what happened, and it would be helpful to take a look at the Evanses’ home in Montréal.”
Beauvoir paused, then gave a curt nod. “I’ll go. You need to stay here with Madame Gamache.”
“Merci, Jean-Guy. We’ll probably need a court order for the home. I suspect Monsieur Evans is still asleep.”
“Don’t you mean passed out?” Beauvoir asked as they put on their field coats. “That was more than one tranquilizer. He was right out of it. Gone.”
“Dr. Harris thinks it was at least two. And it might not have been Ativan.”
“An opioid?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did Lea Roux give him more than he could handle on purpose? Or was it a mistake?” asked Beauvoir.
That, Gamache knew, was the real question.
The two men walked down the front path, turning up their collars against the drizzle and sleet.
“Save me some dinner,” said Jean-Guy.
As he drove toward Montréal, Jean-Guy thought about why he’d lied to Gamache just then about what he was looking at on the computer.