Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(55)

Gamache’s job was to collect the evidence, but also to collect the emotions. And the only way he knew to do that was to get to know the people. To watch and listen. To pay attention. And the best way to do that was in a deceptively casual manner in a deceptively casual setting.

Like the bistro.

As he walked by he wondered whether the murderer was in there now, enjoying a Scotch or hot cider on this cold night. Warming himself by the open hearth and by the company of friends. Or was the murderer out here, in the cold and dark? An outsider, bitter and brittle and broken?

He walked over the arched stone bridge, enjoying the silence of the village. Snow did that. It laid down a simple, clean duvet that muffled all sound and kept everything beneath alive. Farmers and gardeners in Quebec wished for two things in winter: lots of snow and continuous cold. An early thaw was a disaster. It tricked the young and vulnerable into exposing themselves, only to be nipped in the root. A killing frost.

‘And then he falls, as I do,’ quoted Gamache to himself, surprised by the reference. Wolsey’s farewell. Shakespeare, of course. But why had he suddenly thought of that quote?



The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;



And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely



His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,



And then he falls, as I do.





Was he falling? Was he being lulled into believing he was in control, that everything was going to plan?

The Arnot case isn’t over, his friend Michel Brébeuf had warned. Is a killing frost on the way? Gamache clapped his arms round himself a few times for warmth and reassurance. He snorted in amusement and shook his head. It was quite humbling. One moment he was the distinguished Chief Inspector Gamache, head of homicide for the S?reté du Québec, investigating a murder, the next he was chasing his imagination all over the countryside.

Now he paused and again took in the venerable village, with its ring of old, well-loved homes, inhabited by well-loved people.

Even Ruth Zardo. It was a tribute to this quiet, calm place that its people found space in their hearts for someone as wounded as Ruth.

And CC de Poitiers? Would they have been able to find a place for her? Or her husband and child?

He reluctantly raised his eyes from the glowing circle of light that was Three Pines up to the darkness and the old Hadley house, sitting like the error that proved the point. It stood outside the circle, on the verge of the village. Beyond the pale.

Was the murderer in there, in that foreboding and forbidding place that seemed to breed and radiate resentment?

Gamache stood in the freezing cold and wondered why CC had wanted to breed resentment. Why had she created it at every turn? He had yet to find a soul saddened by her death. Her departure diminished no one, from what he could see. Not even her family. Perhaps especially not her family. He tilted his head slightly to one side as though that might help his thinking. It didn’t. Whatever small idea he’d had was lost. Something about breeding resentment.

Now he turned and walked toward the old railway station, lit and almost as welcoming as the bistro.

‘Chief,’ Lacoste called as soon as he entered, cold air clinging to him. ‘Am I glad to see you. Where’s the Inspector?’

‘Sick. He thinks Beatrice Mayer put a curse on him.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first woman.’

‘True.’ Gamache laughed. ‘Where’s Agent Nichol?’

‘Gone. Made a few calls then disappeared a couple of hours ago.’ She watched to see if his face reflected how she felt. Nichol had buggered up again. It was as though she had a compulsion to screw up her career and their cases. But Gamache didn’t react.

‘What’ve you got?’

‘A mountain of messages. The coroner called. She says she’ll meet you in Olivier’s Bistro at five thirty. She lives around here, doesn’t she?’

‘In a village called Cleghorn Halt, down the railway line. This is on her way home. Does she have something?’

‘The completed autopsy report. Wants to talk to you about it. Also you have a call from Agent Lemieux in Montreal. He says he sent something to you over the internet. It’s from headquarters. But he also wants a callback. But, before you do…’ She walked back to her desk, Gamache following. ‘I found Eleanor de Poitiers.’

Lacoste sat and clicked her computer. A picture appeared. It was a black and white drawing of a medieval woman on horseback carrying a flag.

‘Go on,’ said Gamache.

‘That’s it. That’s her. Eleanor de Poitiers was Eleanor of Aquitaine. Her.’ She pointed to the screen. Gamache pulled up a chair and sat beside Lacoste, his brows drawn together and his whole body leaning forward, drawn to the screen. He stared, trying to make sense of it.

‘Tell me what you know.’

‘What I know or what I think? Either way, it’s not much. CC de Poitiers listed her mother and father as Eleanor and Henri de Poitiers, of France. In her book,’ Lacoste pointed to the copy on her desk, ‘she describes her childhood of privilege in France. Then there was some sort of financial catastrophe and she was sent away to Canada, to live with distant, unnamed relatives, right?’

Gamache nodded.

‘Well, Eleanor is her.’ Once more Lacoste nodded to the medieval equestrienne, then she clicked again and the screen changed. ‘And that’s her father.’ A picture came up of a stern, strong, blond man wearing a crown. ‘Henry Plantagenet. King Henry the Second of England.’