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“Oui. Suicide.”

“But maybe even that was wrong.”Advertisement

“You think Hélène or Constance killed her?”

“I think we’re getting closer to the truth.”

It felt to Gamache as though they’d finally broken into the Ouellet home. He and Lacoste were stumbling around in the dark, but soon whatever that wounded family was hiding would be revealed.

“I’ll go back over my notes,” said Lacoste, “and dig deeper into the old files, see if there was even a hint that those deaths were anything but natural.”

“Good. And I’ll check the parish records.”

It was where the priest kept records of births and deaths. The Chief knew he’d find, written in longhand, the record of the five births. He wondered how many deaths he’d find.

* * *

Chief Inspector Gamache drove directly to the Sûreté forensics lab and dropped the tuque off, with instructions to give him a full report by the end of the day.

“Today?” the technician asked, but he was speaking to the Chief Inspector’s back.

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Gamache went up to his offices and arrived in time for the briefing. Inspector Lacoste was leading it, but only a few officers had bothered to show up. She rose as the Chief Inspector entered. The others did not, at first. But on seeing his stern face, they got up.

“Where’re the others?” Gamache asked brusquely.

“On assignment,” replied one of the officers. “Sir.”

“My question was for Inspector Lacoste.” He turned to her.

“They were told of the meeting, but chose not to come.”

“I’ll need their names, please,” said Gamache, and was about to leave when he stopped and looked at the agents, still standing. He considered them for a moment and seemed to sag.

“Go home,” he finally said.

This they hadn’t expected, and they stood there surprised and uncertain. As was Lacoste, though she struggled not to show it.

“Home?” one of them asked.

“Leave,” said the Chief. “Make of it what you will, but just go.”

The agents looked at each other and grinned.

He turned his back on them and made for the door.

“Our cases?”

Gamache stopped and turned back to see the young officer he’d tried to help a few days ago.

“Will your cases really be further along if you stay?”

It was a rhetorical question.

He knew these agents, looking at him so triumphantly, were spreading the word throughout the Sûreté that Chief Inspector Gamache was finished. Had given up.

And now he’d done them the very great favor of confirming it. By in effect closing his department.

“Consider this a Christmas gift.”

They no longer tried to hide their satisfaction. The coup was complete. They’d brought the great Chief Inspector Gamache to his knees.

“Go home,” he said, his voice weary. “I intend to, soon.”

He left the room, his back straight, his head up. But he walked slowly. A wounded lion just trying to survive the day.

“Chief?” said Inspector Lacoste, catching up.

“My office, please.”

They went in and he closed the door, then motioned her to take a seat.

“Anything more on the Ouellet case?” he asked.

“I spoke to the neighbor again, to find out if the sisters ever had any visitors. She told me what she first told the investigators. No one ever went to the house.”

“Except her, as I recall.”

“Once,” said Lacoste, “for lemonade.”

“Did she think it was strange that she was never invited inside?”

“No. She said after a few years you get used to different eccentricities. Some neighbors are nosy, some like parties, some are very quiet. It’s an old, established neighborhood and the sisters had been there for many years. No one seemed to question.”

Gamache nodded and was quiet for a moment, playing with the pen on his desk.

“You need to know that I’ve decided to retire.”

“Retire? Are you sure?”

She tried to read his expression. His tone. Was he saying what she thought he was?

“I’ll write my letter of resignation and deliver it tonight or tomorrow. It’ll be effective immediately.” He sat forward at his desk and examined his hands for a moment, noticing that the tremor was gone. “You’ve been with me for a long time, Inspector.”

“Yes, sir. You found me on the garbage pile, as I remember.” pqdm.com