It doesn’t matter, thought Francoeur. I’ve nothing to hide.
But still, he felt a sentry rise inside him. A guard went up. He knew what he himself was capable of. He took pride in it even. Thought of himself as a wartime commander, not shrinking from difficult decisions. From sending men to their deaths. Or ordering the deaths of others. It was unpleasant but necessary.
Like Churchill, allowing the bombing of Coventry. Sacrificing a few for the many. Francoeur slept at night knowing he was far from the first commander to walk this road. For the greater good.
The man across the table took a sip of red wine and watched him over the rim. Francoeur knew what he himself was capable of. And he knew what his companion was capable of, and had already done.
Sylvain Francoeur doubled his guard.
* * *
Armand Gamache found the parish registers, in thick leather-bound volumes, exactly where the priest thought they’d be. He pulled a couple from the dusty stacks, taking the one from the 1930s with him to the desk.
He put his coat back on. It was cold and damp in the office. And he was hungry. Ignoring the grumbling in his stomach, he put on his reading glasses and bent over the old book listing births and deaths.
* * *
Francoeur cut through the puff pastry of his salmon en croute and saw the flaky pink fish, with watercress on top. Lemon and tarragon butter dripped out of the pastry.
He took a forkful as his companion ate his braised lamb shank with garlic and rosemary. Silver salvers of baby green beans and spinach sat between them on the table.
“You didn’t answer my question, Sylvain.”
“Which one?”
“Is the Chief Inspector really resigning? Is he signaling his surrender, or trying to lead us astray?”
Francoeur’s eyes went again to the paper, neatly folded on the table. The transcription of the conversation in Gamache’s office earlier that day.
“I began to say that, in my opinion, it doesn’t matter.”
His companion put down his fork and touched the linen napkin to his lips. He managed to make an effete mannerism look quite masculine.
“But you didn’t explain what you meant by that.”“I mean, he’s too late. It’s all in place from our end. All we need is for you to say the word.”
Francoeur’s fork hovered just above his plate, as he looked across the table.
If the word was given now, they were just minutes from finishing what began decades ago. What started as two idealistic young men, and a whispered conversation, would end here. Thirty years later. With gray in their hair, and liver spots on their hands, and lines on their faces. With crisp linen and polished silver, red wine and fine food. Not with a whisper, but a bang.
“Soon, Sylvain. We’re within hours, perhaps a day. We stick to the plan.”
Like his companion, Chief Superintendent Francoeur knew patience was power. He’d need just a little more of one to achieve the other.
* * *
They were all there.
Marie-Virginie.
Marie-Hélène.
Marie-Josephine.
Marie-Marguerite.
And Marie-Constance.
He’d found the register of their birth. A long list of names, under Ouellet. And he’d found their deaths. Isidore, Marie-Harriette, and their children. Constance’s, of course, hadn’t yet been entered, but soon would be. Then the register would be complete. Birth, then death. And the book could be closed.
Gamache sat back in the chair. Despite the disorder, this room was calming. He knew it was almost certainly the quiet and the scent of old books.
He replaced the long, heavy books and left the church. As he walked across to the rectory, he passed the graveyard. The field of old gray stones was partly buried under snow, giving it a tranquil feel. More snow was falling, as it had all day. Not heavily, but steadily. Straight down, in large, soft flakes.
“Oh, what the hell,” he said out loud to himself, and stepped off the path. He immediately sank to mid-shin and felt snow tumble down his boots. He trudged forward, occasionally sinking up to his knees as he moved from stone to stone. Until he found them.
Isidore and Marie-Harriette. Side by side, their names written in stone for eternity. Marie-Harriette had died so young, at least by today’s standards. Shy of forty. Isidore had died so old. Just shy of ninety. Fifteen years ago.
The Chief tried to clear the snow from the front of the tombstone, to read the other names and dates, but there was too much of it. He looked around, then retraced his steps.
He saw the priest approaching and greeted him.