Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(124)

*

“It’s a shame,” said the Premier Ministre du Québec, when Armand had finished his account, “that Anton Boucher survived.”

The comment, said so dryly, so matter-of-factly, surprised Gamache. Not that the Premier would think it, but that he would say it out loud.

“There are lines,” said Gamache. “That cannot be crossed. And once crossed, there’s no going back.”

“Like murder,” said the Premier. “Which brings me to my next question.”

Judge Corriveau shifted slightly in her chair, knowing it was her turn now. Knowing what he was about to ask.

“Tell me about the killing of Madame Kathleen Evans.”

*

It was much the same conversation Chief Superintendent Gamache had had with Judge Corriveau a few days after the attack.

The trial had, of course, been put on hold.

Maureen Corriveau had gone up to the Gamaches’ apartment, along with Barry Zalmanowitz, to discuss the case and what should happen next.

When they knocked on the door of the second-floor walk-up in the Outremont quartier of Montréal, Gamache himself opened it.

“Bonjour,” he said. “Thank you for coming to me.”

He showed them into the living room, while the two people behind him exchanged glances. They’d heard about the grave injuries to Chief Inspector Lacoste. And had read the preliminary reports, written by the senior officers. Including Chief Superintendent Gamache.

They had heard, through the information and misinformation swirling around government buildings, that Gamache himself had sustained some injuries. But they weren’t prepared for the bruised face, his one eye almost swollen shut. The cuts where the boot had scraped flesh off bone.

When he’d opened the door to them, Judge Corriveau had searched his eyes, worried that they’d been hollowed out by the events in the village. In the woods.

That the warmth would be replaced by bitterness. The kindness by cruelty.

And the decency would be gone completely.

The look of pain she saw now wasn’t new, and wasn’t physical. It had always been there, in Gamache’s eyes, like an astigmatism that meant he saw things slightly differently from the rest of them.

He saw the worst of humanity. But he also saw the best. And she was relieved to see that the decency remained. Stronger, even, than the pain. Stronger than ever.

“Thank you for your flowers,” he said, pointing to the arrangement of cheerful cut flowers on the side table.

“You’re welcome,” said Judge Corriveau.

The card had simply read, “Merci.” And had been signed Maureen Corriveau and Joan Blanchette.

Judge Corriveau had never discussed her personal life, but she felt she needed to give him that much. And besides, Joan had insisted.

She took in the room around her. It was a pied-à-terre, she knew, their real home being in that little village. The one-bedroom apartment was in a classic Outremont walk-up. The ceilings were high, the room bright and airy and welcoming, with books on shelves and on side tables. La Presse, Le Devoir and The Gazette newspapers were scattered around. It was casual but not messy.

The sofa and armchairs were inviting, lived in. Upholstered in fresh, warm colors. It was a room she and Joan could happily occupy.

Another man was in the living room, leaning slightly on a cane.

“You know Inspector Beauvoir, I believe,” said Gamache, and they all shook hands.

“You all right?” asked Barry Zalmanowitz.

“This’s for effect,” said Jean-Guy, waving it in front of himself, as he’d seen Ruth do thousands of times. He wondered, briefly, what would happen if he called the Chief Crown numbnuts.

“How’s Chief Inspector Lacoste?” asked the Crown.

“We’re going to the hospital as soon as we’ve finished here,” said Gamache. “I spoke to her husband this morning, and he said that there’s some activity in her brain.”

The other two nodded. When that was the good news, there was nothing more that could be said.

“I don’t think you’ve met my wife,” said Gamache, as Reine-Marie came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with cold drinks.

He took the tray and introduced her to Judge Corriveau.

“We’ve met, of course,” said Monsieur Zalmanowitz. “I interviewed you as part of the witness process. You found the body of Katie Evans.”

“Oui,” said Reine-Marie. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Of course not,” said Judge Corriveau, while all the time wondering if she should mind, and if she should have brought a court reporter, to take down what was said.

But it was too late, and in the morass of unusual events, this departure from the norm would probably be forgiven if not overlooked.

Judge Corriveau turned to Chief Superintendent Gamache and Chief Crown Zalmanowitz.

“This is a meeting that had been scheduled for two days ago, in my office. But of course, it would be foolish not to realize things have changed. And yet, some things have not. A woman is still on trial for the murder of Madame Evans. I need to know if she really is guilty, in your mind, or if it was all part of what was clearly a long and detailed scheme.”

She looked from one to the other, then settled on Gamache.

The architect. The leader, who had led them all into this.