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Chief Inspector Gamache broke eye contact and looked at the floor for a moment, absorbing the blow. This wasn’t just a plan, it was the plan. There was no Plan B.

“Can you think of another way to connect to high-speed Internet?” he asked, and Gilles shook his head.Advertisement

“Why don’t you just go into Cowansville or Saint-Rémi? They have high-speed.”

“We need to stay here,” said Gamache. “Where we can’t be traced.”

Gilles nodded, thinking. Gamache watched him, willing an answer to appear. Finally Gilles shook his head. “People have been trying to get it for years. Legal or bootleg. It just can’t be done. Désolé.”

And that’s how Gamache felt, as he thanked Gilles and walked away.

Desolated.

“Well?” asked Thérèse.

“He says it can’t be done.”

“He just doesn’t want to do it,” said Superintendent Brunel. “We can find someone else.”

Gamache explained about the wind, and saw her slowly accept the truth. Gilles wasn’t being willful, he was being realistic. But Gamache saw something else. While Thérèse Brunel looked disappointed, her husband did not.

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Gamache wandered into the kitchen where Clara and Gabri were preparing dinner.

“Smells good,” he said.

“Hungry?” Gabri asked, handing him a platter with pâté de campagne and crackers.

“I am, as a matter of fact,” said the Chief, as he spread a cracker. He could smell the yeasty scent of baking bread. It mingled with the rosemary chicken and he realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “I have a favor to ask. I’ve transferred some old film onto a disk and I’d like to watch it, but Emilie’s home doesn’t have a DVD player.”

“You want to use mine?”

When he nodded she waved a piece of cutlery like a wand in the direction of the living room. “It’s in the room off the living room.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” she said. “I’ll set you up. Dinner won’t be for at least half an hour.”

Gamache followed her through to a small room with a sofa and armchair. An old box television sat on a table, with a DVD player beside it. He watched while Clara pressed some buttons.

“What’s on the DVD?” asked Gabri. He stood at the door holding the platter of crackers and pâté. “Let me guess. Your audition for Canada’s Got Talent?”

“It would be very short if it was,” said Gamache.

“What’s going on?” Ruth demanded, pushing through, holding Rosa in one arm and a vase of Scotch in the other.

“The Chief Inspector’s auditioning for Canadian Idol,” Gabri explained. “This’s his audition tape.”

“Well, not—” Gamache began, then gave up. Why bother?

“Did someone say you’re auditioning for So You Think You Can Dance?” asked Myrna, squeezing onto the small sofa between the Chief and Ruth.

Gamache looked plaintively over at Clara. Olivier had arrived and was standing next to his partner. The Chief sighed and pressed the play button.

A familiar black and white graphic swirled toward them on the small screen, accompanied by music and an authoritative voice.

“In a small Canadian hamlet a tiny miracle has occurred,” said the grim newsreel announcer. The first grainy images appeared, and everyone in Clara’s small television room leaned forward.

TWENTY-ONE

“Five miracles,” the melodramatic narration continued, as though announcing Armageddon. “Delivered one bitter winter night by this man, Dr. Joseph Bernard.”

There on the screen stood Dr. Bernard, in full surgical smock, a mask over his nose and mouth. He waved a little maniacally, but Gamache knew that was the effect of the old black and white newsreels, where people lurched and movements were either too static or too manic.

In front of the doctor lay the five babies, wrapped up tight.

“Five little girls, born to Isidore and Marie-Harriette Ouellet.”

The sonorous voice struggled with the Québécois names. The first time they’d been pronounced on the newsreels, but would soon be on everyone’s lips. This was the world’s introduction to—

“Five little princesses. The world’s first surviving quintuplets. Virginie, Hélène, Josephine, Marguerite, and Constance.”

And Constance, noted Gamache with interest. She would go through life hanging off the end of that sentence. And Constance. An outlier. pqdm.com