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Québec was built on a cliff where the river narrowed. It was a huge strategic advantage. No enemy could ever attack it directly, they’d have to scale the cliff and that was impossible.Advertisement

But they could attack just upriver, and that’s where Montcalm waited. There was, however, another possibility, an area just slightly further away. Being a cunning commander, Montcalm sent one of his best men there, his own aide-de-camp, Colonel Bougainville.

And so, in mid-September 1759 he waited.

But Montcalm had made a mistake. A terrible mistake. Indeed, he’d made several, as Armand Gamache, a student of Québec history, was determined to prove.

“It’s a fascinating theory, Armand,” said Émile. “And you really think this little library holds the key? An English library?”

“Where else would it be?”

Émile Comeau nodded. It was a relief to see his friend so interested. When Armand and Reine-Marie had arrived a week before it took Émile a day to adjust to the changes in Gamache. And not just the beard, and the scars, but he seemed weighed down, leaden and laden by the recent past. Now, Gamache was still thinking of the past, but at least it was someone else’s, not his own. “Did you get to the letters?”

“I did, and have some to send back,” Gamache retrieved the parcel of correspondence. Hesitating for a moment, he made up his mind and took one out. “I’d like you to read this.”

Émile sipped his wine and read, then began laughing. He handed the letter back to Gamache.

“That Ruth clearly has a crush on you.”

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“If I had pigtails she’d be pulling them,” smiled Gamache. “But I think you might know her.

“Who hurt you, once,

so far beyond repair

that you would meet each overture

with curling lip?”

Gamache quoted.

“That Ruth?” asked Émile. “Ruth Zardo? The poet?” And then he finished the astonishing poem, the work now taught in schools across Québec.

“While we, who knew you well,

your friends, (the focus of your scorn)

could see your courage in the face of fear,

your wit, and thoughtfulness,

and will remember you

with something close to love.”

The two men were quiet for a moment, staring into the mumbling fire, lost in their own thoughts of love and loss, of damage done beyond repair.

“I thought she was dead,” said Émile at last, spreading pâté on the chewy bread.

Gamache laughed. “Gabri introduced her to Reine-Marie as something they found when they dug up the basement.”

Émile reached for the letter again. “Who’s this Gabri? A friend?”

Gamache hesitated. “Yes. He lives in that little village I told you about. Three Pines.”

“You’ve been there a few times, I remember. Investigating some murders. I tried to find the village on a map once. Just south of Montreal you said, by the border with Vermont?”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” Émile continued. “I must have been blind, because I couldn’t see it.”

Gamache nodded. “Somehow the mapmakers missed Three Pines.”

“Then how do people find it?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it suddenly appears.”

“I was blind but now I see?” quoted Émile. “Only visible to a wretch like you?”

Gamache laughed. “The best café au lait and croissants in Québec. I’m a happy wretch.” He got up again and put a stack of letters on the coffee table. “I also wanted to show you these.”

Émile read through them while Gamache sipped his wine and ate cheese and baguette, relaxing in the room as familiar and comfortable as his own.

“All from that Gabri man,” said Émile at last, patting the small pile of letters beside him. “How often does he write?”

“Every day.”

“Every day? Is he obsessed with you? A threat?” Émile leaned forward, his eyes suddenly keen, all humor gone.

“No, not at all. He’s a friend.”

“Why would Olivier move the body?” Émile read from one of the letters. “It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t do it, you know. He says the same thing in each letter.” Émile picked up a few and scanned them. “What does he mean?”

“It was a case I investigated last autumn, over the Labor Day weekend. A body was found in Olivier’s bistro in Three Pines. The victim had been hit once on the back of the head, killed.” pqdm.com