Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(56)

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The only Henry and Eleanor de Poitiers in France are them.’ Again Lacoste pointed to the screen, now split and showing both old drawings.

‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ said Gamache, struggling with the information.

‘You’ve never been a teenage girl.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is the sort of thing that appeals to romantic girls. A strong and tragic queen, a noble king. The Crusades. Eleanor de Poitiers actually went on crusade with her first husband. She created an army of three hundred women and rode bare-breasted part of the way. At least, that’s the story. She eventually divorced Louis of France and married Henry.’

‘And lived happily ever after?’

‘Not exactly. He put her in prison, but not before she’d had four sons. Richard the Lionheart was one. She was amazing.’ Lacoste gazed at the woman on horseback and imagined being part of her army. Riding bare-breasted through Palestine in the wake of this remarkable woman. It wasn’t just teenagers who were drawn to Eleanor of Aquitaine.

‘Richard the Lionheart?’ Gamache asked. ‘But no daughter named CC?’

‘Who was a designer living in Three Pines? No. King Henry died in 1189. Eleanor in 1204. So either CC de Poitiers was long overdue for death herself or, just maybe, she was lying. No wonder the entire S?reté in Paris was laughing at me. Thank God I told them I was Agent Nichol.’

Gamache shook his head. ‘So she made them up. She reached back almost a millennium to create parents. Why? Why would she do it? And why them?’

The two sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

‘So who were her real parents?’ Lacoste finally asked.

‘I think that might be an important question.’

Gamache went to his desk. It was twenty past five. Just time to speak to Lemieux before meeting Dr Harris. He downloaded his messages and dialed the number left by Lemieux.

‘Agent Lemieux,’ came the shouted answer.

‘It’s Gamache,’ he shouted back down the line, not sure why he was shouting.

‘Chief, I’m glad you called. Did you get the drawing from the S?reté artist? He said he’d email it to you.’

‘I’m just opening my messages now. What did he say and why are we yelling?’

‘I’m at the bus station. A bus just arrived. The S?reté artist said it looked as though Elle had been holding something in her hand as she died, and it had cut into it.’

‘And that explains the pattern of cuts in her palm?’

‘Exactly.’ The bus must have left or shut off because the background noise settled down. Lemieux spoke normally. ‘I gave him the autopsy picture and he drew a sketch as you asked. It’s not very precise, as you’ll see.’

As Lemieux spoke Gamache was going through his messages, looking for the one from the eccentric artist in the bowels of S?reté headquarters. He clicked on it and waited while the excruciatingly slow dial-up connection downloaded the image.

Little by little a picture emerged.

‘I’ve talked to other vagrants here about Elle,’ Lemieux continued. ‘They’re not a very talkative lot but most remember her. There was a scuffle over her spot when she left. Apparently she had the equivalent of a penthouse suite. Right over one of the heating grates. Strange that she’d leave it.’

‘Strange indeed,’ Gamache mumbled as he watched the image haltingly appear on his screen. It was only half there. ‘You’ve done well, Lemieux. Come home.’

‘Yes sir.’

Gamache smiled. He could almost see the grin on Lemieux’s face.

For the next five minutes Gamache stared at the screen, watching the image download. A centimeter at a time. And when it was finished Gamache sat back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, and stared.

He suddenly remembered himself and looked at the clock. Five thirty-five. Time to meet the coroner.





TWENTY-ONE




Dr Sharon Harris had just settled into her easy chair and ordered a Dubonnet when Gamache arrived, full of apologies and smiles. He joined her in a Dubonnet and sat down. They had a window seat, looking through the mullions at the frozen pond and Christmas trees. Over her shoulder he could see the fire crackling and playing in the hearth. Dr Harris was absently toying with a discreet white tag hanging from their table. She glanced at it.

‘Two hundred and seventy dollars.’

‘Not the Dubonnet, I hope.’ Gamache stopped his untouched drink partway to his mouth.

‘No.’ She laughed. ‘The table.’

‘Santé.’ He took a sip and smiled. He’d forgotten. Everything in the bistro was an antique, collected by Olivier. And everything was for sale. He could finish his drink and buy the cut crystal glass. It was, actually, a lovely glass. As he held it up and looked through it the crystal picked up and refracted the amber light from the fireplace, splitting it into parts. Like a very warm rainbow. Or the chakras, he thought.

‘Are you still looking to move here?’ he asked, bringing himself back to the table and catching her wistful gaze out the window.

‘If a place comes up I would, though when they do they get bought fast.’

‘The old Hadley home came up about a year ago.’