“So,” said Beauvoir, slinging his leg over the side of the easy chair and burrowing into the wing. He was hidden from view of the rest of the bistro, only his casual leg visible. No one could see him, but neither could he see anyone. “Take away the treasure but that still leaves us with other clues. The repetition of the word ‘Woo’ whittled into that chunk of red cedar, and woven into the web. It must mean something. And Charlotte, that name kept popping up, remember?”
Gamache did remember. It had sent him rushing across the continent to a mist-covered archipelago in northern British Columbia, on what now appeared to be a fool’s errand.
“There’s something about your list of suspects,” said Gamache after going over each one again in his head.
“They’re all men.”
“Are you afraid the Equal Opportunity Bureau’s going to complain?” laughed Beauvoir.
“I just wonder if we should be considering some of the women,” said Gamache. “Women have patience. Some of the most vicious crimes I’ve seen have been committed by women. It’s more rare than men, but women are more likely to bide their time.”
“That’s funny, Clara was saying the same thing this afternoon.”
“How so?” Gamache leaned forward. Anything Clara Morrow had to say was, in the Chief’s opinion, worth listening to.
“She spent the morning with a bunch of women from the village. Apparently Old’s wife said something odd. She quoted some instruction manual that advised anti-terrorism squads to kill the women first.”
“The Mossad,” said Gamache. “I’ve read it.”
Beauvoir was silent. The Chief Inspector often surprised him. Sometimes it was with incomprehensible bits of Ruth’s poetry but mostly it was with things like this, with what he knew.
“So you know what it refers to,” said Beauvoir. “A woman’s capacity to kill.”
“Yes, but mostly it’s about her dedication. Once committed some women will never give up, they’ll be merciless, unstoppable.” Gamache was silent for a moment, staring out the window but no longer seeing the flow of people bundled against the biting cold. “In what context were they talking about this? Why did The Wife say it?”
“They were talking about the case. Clara had asked Hanna Parra if she could kill.”
“Clara needs to be more careful,” said the Chief. “Did anyone particularly respond to that?”
“Clara said they all did, but after some discussion they reluctantly agreed the Mossad might have had it right.”
Gamache frowned. “What else did the women talk about?”
Beauvoir looked at his notes and told Gamache about the rest of the conversation. About fathers and mothers, about Alzheimer’s, about Charlie Mundin and Dr. Gilbert.
“There was something else. Clara thinks Marc Gilbert is desperately jealous of Old Mundin.”
“Why?”
“Apparently his father’s spending a lot of time at the Mundins’. The Wife admitted Old has developed a sort of bond with Dr. Gilbert. A substitute father.”
“Jealousy’s a powerful emotion. Powerful enough to kill.”
“But the wrong victim. Old Mundin isn’t dead.”
“So how could this play into the death of the Hermit?” the Chief asked and waited while there was a long pause. Finally Beauvoir admitted he didn’t see how it could.
“Both Carole Gilbert and Old Mundin are originally from Quebec City. Could you ask around about them?” When the Chief agreed Beauvoir paused before asking his last question. “How are you?”
He hated to ask, afraid that maybe the Chief would one day tell him the truth.
“I’m at the Café Krieghoff with Émile Comeau, a bowl of nuts and a Scotch. How bad can it be?” Gamache asked, his voice friendly and warm.
But Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew exactly how bad it could be and had been.
Hanging up, an image stole into his mind, uninvited, unexpected, unwanted.
Of the Chief, gun in hand, suddenly being lifted off his feet, twisting, turning. Falling. To lie still on the cold cement floor.
Gamache and Émile hailed a cab and took the diaries home. As Émile prepared a simple supper of warmed-up stew Gamache fed Henri then took him for a walk to the bakery for a fresh baguette.
Once home the men sat in the living room, a basket of crusty bread on the table, bowls of beef stew in front of them and the Chiniquy diaries piled on the sofa between them.
They spent the evening eating and reading, making notes, occasionally reading each other a particularly interesting, moving or unintentionally amusing passage.
By eleven Armand Gamache took off his reading glasses and rubbed his weary eyes. So far while historically fascinating the Chiniquy journals hadn’t revealed anything pertinent. There was no mention of the Irish laborers, Patrick and O’Mara. And while he did talk about James Douglas in the earlier diaries, the later ones mentioned him only in passing. Eventually there was an entry Émile read Gamache about Douglas packing up his three mummies and heading down to Pittsburgh, to live with his son.
