A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12)(141)

“Not the first wife to excel at the same profession as her husband, but have to hide it,” said Myrna. “The men often took credit for their wives’ work.”

Huifen looked perplexed. It was, to her, inconceivable. And ancient history.

“So you’re saying all those maps—” began Huifen.

“Were done by Marie Valois,” said Gamache. “Oui.”

Amelia was nodding. “Monsieur Toponymie said that no one actually met Antony Turcotte. It was all done by correspondence. No one ever knew.”

“How sad, then,” said Reine-Marie, “that after mapping and naming all those towns and villages, Marie Valois finally had one named after her. But not for her work as a cartographer. But because of the enormity of her grief.”

“Notre-Dame-de-Doleur,” said Armand.

They looked at the photo of the smiling farm woman, between her tall sons.

“But assuming what you say is true,” said Olivier, “why did she take Three Pines off the maps of Québec?”

Reine-Marie brought out the small sepia photo. Older even than the one already on the table.

They leaned toward it and saw three grinning boys, children, covered in dirt, their boots resting on spades, and in front of each was a sapling.

“They planted the trees,” whispered Gabri. He hadn’t meant to whisper, but that was all that came out.

“The others blew down in a terrible storm,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “Two fell and one was badly damaged. Gilles Sandon’s great-grandfather cut it down. Made the floors of the bistro and bookstore with them. The village was devastated by the loss, my grandfather told me. But one morning they woke up and those saplings had been planted. They never knew who did it.”

He and the others looked across the village green to the three pines. Strong and straight. And still growing.

“I think it was just too painful a reminder,” said Reine-Marie. “So close to losing her sons. So Madame Valois took the village off the map before sending it in to the toponymie department. It might even have been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Erasing the village, as though she could erase her sorrow.”

“But as Monsieur Béliveau said, she always meant to come home again,” said Armand. “To return to Three Pines. And return the village to the map.”

“Then why didn’t she?” asked Gabri.

“She died before she could,” said Reine-Marie.

“Of the flu,” said Myrna.

Of grief, thought Reine-Marie. And heard a small moan from the forest, while on the village green the three pines swayed and played, reaching out their branches to touch each other.

“Velut arbor aevo,” said Amelia.

“As a tree with the passage of time,” said Armand.

*

The next morning, Armand and Reine-Marie got up just as a soft blue appeared in the sky. The morning was fresh and mild, and dew was dripping off the lady’s mantle and the roses and the lilies. With Gracie on a leash and Henri running free, they walked across the village green to the three pines.

“Ready?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Not quite,” said Armand, and took a seat on the bench.

Just as the sun rose, so did he.

He walked over to the pines and chose a spot. Then he put his foot on the spade.

“Can I help?” came the familiar voice.

He turned to see Jean-Guy, a little bleary after a night comforting his crying child.

Honoré was in his arms. Sleeping now that Papa was awake.

Armand smiled. “Merci, but no. This is something I need to do myself.”

Not because it was easy, but because it was difficult.

The sun rose higher and the hole got deeper, until finally he stopped and picked up the box that had sat in the basement for too long.

Opening it up, Armand saw again the report. The one with his parents’ names. Honoré and Amelia Gamache. Killed. By a drunk driver.

Armand reached into his pocket and brought out the handkerchief. He traced the embroidered letters with his scarred finger, then he placed it in the box.

Putting the top back, he lowered it carefully into the hole.

The police report had one other name. Of the boy.

Robert Choquet.

The young man, all of sixteen, had been given a suspended sentence. And gone on to live his life. To get married and have a family.

One daughter.

Whom he named Amelia.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I think the main thing I need to acknowledge is that this book has only been written because of the extreme kindness and patience and help of our friends and neighbors.

Michael has dementia. It has progressed, marching through our lives, stomping out his ability to speak, to walk, to remember events and names.

Dementia is a marauder, a thief. But every hole it drills has been filled by our friends. By practical help and emotional support.

It’s not all bad. Far, far from it. There’s clarity, the simplicity of living in the moment and knowing what really matters. Kindness. Company. Gentle care. We laugh a lot, and God knows there’s plenty to laugh about. And there are moments of deep peace and contentment.

I have never met a braver man. When diagnosed he told me he wanted to be open about it. To tell people. Not to hide away, ashamed. Afraid of being judged or shunned or embarrassed.