‘Welcome to our home,’ he said in broken French.
‘It’s an honor,’ said Gamache, in Czech. Both men must have spent the morning practicing the other’s language.
The next hour was taken up with a cacophony of relatives shouting at each other in languages Gamache couldn’t even begin to recognize. One old aunt, he was sure, was creating it as she went along.
The food kept coming, the beverages. Then the songs. It was a joyous, even riotous, event. And yet, every time he looked for Nichol he found her standing just outside the living room. Finally he approached her.
‘Why don’t you come in?’
‘I’m fine here, sir.’
He watched her for a moment. ‘What is it? Do you ever go in?’ he asked in amazement, standing next to her on the threshold.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve never been invited.’
‘But it’s your own home.’
‘They’ve taken all the places. There’s no room.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-six,’ came the sullen reply.
‘Time you made your own place. Insist. It’s not their fault you’re standing here, Yvette.’
Still she hesitated. The truth was, it was comfortable there. Cold, lonely sometimes, but comfortable. What the hell did he know? Everything was easy for him. He wasn’t a girl, he wasn’t an immigrant, his mother hadn’t died young, he wasn’t mocked by his own family. He wasn’t a lowly agent. He’d never understand how hard it was for her.
As Gamache left, full of sweet cakes and strong tea, he asked Yvette Nichol to walk him to his car.
‘I want to thank you for what you did. I know how painful it is to deliberately put yourself outside the group.’
‘I’m always outside,’ she said.
‘Time to come in, I think. I believe this is yours.’
He reached into his pocket and pressed something into her hand. Opening it she found a warm stone.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Nichol nodded.
‘Do you know, in the Jewish faith when someone dies, loved ones put stones on top of the grave marker. I gave you a piece of advice a year or so ago, when we first discussed the Arnot case. Do you remember it?’
Nichol pretended to think, but she remembered clearly.
‘You said I should bury my dead.’
Gamache opened his car door.
‘Consider it.’ He nodded to the stone in her hand. ‘But just make sure they’re really dead before you bury them otherwise you’ll never get rid of them.’
As he drove away he thought, maybe, he should take his own advice.
Armand Gamache ascended to the top floor of Sûreté headquarters, walking along the corridor to the impressive wooden door. He knocked, hoping no one was in.
‘Come in.’
Gamache opened the door and stood before Sylvain Francoeur. The Superintendent didn’t move. He stared at Gamache with undisguised loathing. Gamache reached into his pants pocket, instinctively looking for the charm he’d carried most of his life. But his pocket was empty. A week ago he’d placed his father’s dented and damaged crucifix in a simple white envelope with a little note, and given it to his son.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to apologize. I was wrong to accuse you of spreading stories about my family. You didn’t do it. I’m sorry.’
Francoeur’s eyes narrowed, waiting for the ‘but’. None came. ‘I’m prepared to write an apology and send it to all the members of the council who were there.’
‘I’d like you to resign.’
They stared at each other. Then Gamache smiled wearily. ‘Is this going to be it for the rest of our lives? You threaten, I retaliate? I accuse, you demand? Do we really need to do this?’
‘I’ve seen nothing to change my opinion of you, Chief Inspector. Including how you’ve handled this. Superintendent Brébeuf was a far better officer than you’ll ever be. And now, thanks to you, he’s gone too. I know you, Gamache.’ Francoeur stood and leaned over his desk. ‘You’re arrogant and stupid. Weak. You rely on instinct. You never even saw that your best friend was working against you. Where was your instinct then? The brilliant Gamache, the hero of the Arnot case. Blind. You’re blinded by your emotions, by your need to help people, to save them. You’ve brought nothing but disgrace on the force from the moment you got into a leadership position. And now you come sucking up. It’s not over, Gamache. It’ll never be over.’
