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“But there’s more,” said Thérèse quietly. “What didn’t make the papers.”

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* * *

“May I make you a tea, madame?” Gamache asked Ruth.

Once more they were in her small kitchen. Ruth had put Rosa to bed and taken off her cloth coat, but didn’t offer to take Gamache’s parka.

He’d found a bag of loose Lapsang souchong and held it up. Ruth squinted at it.

“That’s tea? That would explain a few things…”

Gamache put the kettle on. “Do you have a pot?”

“Well, I thought…” Ruth jerked her head toward the baggie.

Gamache stared at her for a moment before decoding that.

“A pot,” he said. “Not ‘pot.’”

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“Oh, in that case, yes. Over there.”

Gamache poured hot water into the teapot and swirled it around before pouring it out. Ruth sprawled in a chair and regarded him as he spooned loose black tea into the chipped and stained pot.

“So, time to drop your albatross,” said Ruth.

“Is that a euphemism?” Gamache asked, and heard Ruth snort.

He poured the just boiling water onto the tea and put the cover on. Then he joined her at the table.

“Where’s Beauvoir?” Ruth asked. “And don’t give me any of that crap about being on another assignment. What happened?”

“I can’t tell you the specifics,” said Gamache. “It’s not my story to tell.”

“Then why did you come here tonight?”

“Because I knew you were worried. And you love him too.”

“Is he all right?”

Gamache shook his head.

“Shall I be mother?” asked Ruth, and Gamache smiled as she poured.

They sat and sipped in silence. Then he told her what he could, about Jean-Guy. And he felt his load was lightened.

* * *

The Brunels walked in silence except for the rhythmic sound of their boots crunching on the snow. What had once seemed annoying, a noise that broke the quietude, now seemed reassuring, comforting even. A human presence in this tale of inhumanity.

“The Sûreté council voted not to arrest Pierre Arnot and the others immediately,” said Thérèse, “but to give them a few days to put their affairs in order.”

Jérôme thought about that for a moment. The use of those particular words.

“Do you mean…?”

Thérèse said nothing, forcing him to say it.

“… kill themselves?”

“Armand was vehemently against it, but the council voted, and even Arnot could see it was the only way out. A quick bullet to the brain. The men would go to a remote hunting camp. Their bodies, and confessions, would be found later.”

“But…” Again Jérôme was at a loss for words, trying to corral his racing thoughts. “But there was a trial. I saw it. That was Arnot, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“So what happened?”

“Armand disobeyed orders. He went to the hunting camp and arrested them. Brought them back to Montréal in handcuffs and filed the papers himself. Multiple charges of first-degree murder.”

Thérèse stopped. Jérôme stopped. The comforting munching of the snow stopped.

“My God,” Jérôme whispered. “No wonder the leadership hate him.”

“But the rank and file adore him,” said Thérèse. “Instead of bringing shame on the service, the trial proved that while corruption exists, so does justice. The corruption within the Sûreté shocked the public. At least, the degree of it did. But what also surprised them was the degree of decency. While the leadership privately rallied around Arnot, the body of the Sûreté sided with the Chief Inspector. And the public certainly did.”

“Service, Integrity, Justice,” Jérôme quoted the motto Thérèse had above her desk at home. She too believed in it.

“Oui. They suddenly became more than words for the rank and file. The only question left unanswered was why Chief Superintendent Arnot did it,” said Thérèse.

“Arnot said nothing?” asked Jérôme, looking down at his feet. Not daring to look at his wife.

“He refused to testify. Proclaimed his innocence throughout the trial. Said it was a putsch, a lynching by a power-hungry and corrupt Chief Inspector.” pqdm.com