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The voice became suddenly excitable. “Here’s their father.”

The scene switched to Dr. Bernard standing in a modest farmhouse living room, in front of a woodstove. He was handing a large man one of his own daughters. Like a special favor. Not a gift, though. A loan.Advertisement

Isidore, cleaned up for the camera and giving a gap-toothed smile, held his child awkwardly in his arms. Unused to infants but, Gamache could see, he was a natural.

* * *

Thérèse felt a familiar hand on her elbow, and was drawn, reluctantly, away from the television.

Jérôme led her to a corner of Clara’s living room, as far from the gathering as possible, though they could still hear the Voice of Doom in the background. Now the Voice was talking about rustics, and seemed to imply the girls had been born in a barn.

Thérèse looked at her husband inquiringly.

Jérôme positioned himself so that he could see the guests standing around the doorway, focused on the television. He switched his gaze to his wife.

“Tell me about Arnot.”

“Arnot?”

“Pierre Arnot. You knew him.” His voice was low. Urgent. His eyes flickered between the other guests and his wife.

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Thérèse could not have been more surprised had her husband suddenly stripped. She stared at him, barely comprehending.

“Do you mean the Arnot case? But that was years ago.”

“Not just the case. I want to hear about Arnot himself. Everything you can tell me.”

Thérèse stared, dumbfounded. “But that’s absurd. Why in the world would you suddenly want to know about him?”

Jérôme’s eyes shot to the other guests, their backs safely turned, before returning to his wife. He lowered his voice still further.

“Can’t you guess?”

She felt her heart drop. Arnot. Surely not.

In the background the bleak voice implied that the hand of God had assisted in the delivery. But the hand of God felt very far from this little room, with the cheery fire and aroma of fresh baking. And the rancid name hanging foul in the air.

Goddamned Pierre Arnot.

* * *

“Dr. Bernard is typically humble about his accomplishment,” said the newsreel announcer.

On the screen now, Dr. Bernard was out of his hospital whites and in a suit and narrow black tie. His gray hair was groomed, he was clean-shaven and wore glasses with heavy black frames.

He was standing in the Ouellet living room, alone, holding a cigarette.

“Of course, the mother did most of the work.” He spoke English with a soft Québécois accent and his voice was surprisingly high, especially compared to the cavern voice of the narrator. He looked at the camera and smiled at his little joke. The viewers were meant to believe only one thing. That Dr. Bernard was the hero of the moment. A man whose immense skill was only matched by his humility. And, thought Gamache with some admiration, he was perfectly cast for the role. Charming, whimsical even. Fatherly and confident.

“I was called out in the middle of a storm. Babies seem to prefer arriving in storms.” He smiled for the camera, inviting the viewers into his confidence. “This was a big one. A five-baby blizzard.”

Gamache glanced around and saw Gilles and Gabri and even Myrna smiling back. It was involuntary, almost impossible not to like this man.

But Ruth, at the far end of the sofa, was not smiling. Still, that was hardly telling.

“It must have been almost midnight,” Dr. Bernard continued. “I’d never met the family but it was an emergency, so I took my medical bag and got here as fast as I could.”

It was left vague as to how this man, who’d never been to the Ouellet farm, might have found it in the middle of the night, in the middle of a snowstorm, in the middle of nowhere. But perhaps that was part of the miracle.

“No one told me there were five babies.” He corrected himself, and his tense. “There would be five babies. But I set the father to boiling water and sterilizing equipment and finding clean linen. Fortunately Monsieur Ouellet is used to helping his farm animals calve and drop foals. He was remarkably helpful.”

The great man sharing credit, albeit by implying Madame Ouellet was no better than one of their sows. Gamache felt his admiration, if not his respect, grow. Whoever was behind this was brilliant. But, of course, Dr. Bernard was as much a pawn as the babies and the earnest, stunned Isidore Ouellet.

Dr. Bernard looked directly at the newsreel camera, and smiled.

* * *

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