Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(24)

It showed the robed figure standing in front of a middle-aged man, who was vehemently protesting while others looked on.

“The man was dragged away and hanged as a collaborator,” said Jean-Guy. “He’d informed on friends and neighbors. Offering hiding places to Jews, then turned them in in exchange for favors from the Nazis.”

Looking at the terror in the man’s face, his hollow, unshaven cheeks, pleading eyes, his wild hair and disheveled clothes, it was hard not to feel some sympathy for him. Until they thought of his victims. The men and women, boys and girls, who’d gone to their deaths. Because of him.

The cobrador had found him. And followed him. Hounding him. To his death.

“Did the cobrador hang him?” asked Reine-Marie.

“No. He just pointed the finger,” said Jean-Guy. “The others did the rest.”

A crooked finger, thought Gamache. Maybe Ruth was right.

“There was an uptick in cobrador sightings in Spain after the war,” said Jean-Guy. “And then nothing for a long time.”

“Matheo said when he did his research he couldn’t find anyone who’d actually seen one of the original cobradors,” said Armand. “And he didn’t find these photos.”

“He probably wasn’t looking very hard,” said Reine-Marie. “In my experience in the national archives, freelance journalists have tight schedules and are very focused. His article was on the modern cobrador del frac. Not the old one.”

“That’s probably it,” said Armand.

“But there have been some more recent sightings,” said Beauvoir. “Of the original.”

“Like here,” said Reine-Marie.

The Old World cobrador had crossed into the New World. Into their world. And they could almost smell the decay. The rot. Though Gamache was beginning to wonder if the smell wasn’t from the cobrador at all. But someone else. Nearby. Whoever the creature had come for.

“So all this started back in the 1800s,” said Reine-Marie, looking again at the daguerreotype. “I wonder why.”

“Non,” said Beauvoir. “Non, non, non. Not the 1800s but the 1300s.”

“Seven hundred years ago?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Yes. You must have an atlas.”

Armand went to one of the shelves in the living room and brought back a large book.

“There’s an island off the coast of Spain, between Spain and Morocco,” said Beauvoir, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “It was called Cobrador.”

Gamache leaned in. “But it doesn’t say Cobrador.”

“No, the name’s been changed. But that was the name back then. It’s where plague victims were sent. And not just plague, but lepers, the insane, babies who were born with deformities. Those suspected of being witches were taken there by the Inquisition. Being put on La Isla del Cobrador was considered worse than being burned at the stake. At least that only lasted a few minutes. These people were damned by the Church for eternity. And this”—Jean-Guy tapped the island in the atlas—“was hell.”

Gamache’s brows drew together. “Except—”

Jean-Guy nodded. “Except not everyone read the fine print. Inconveniently, they didn’t all die. The Church and the authorities assumed either the plague would kill them or they’d kill each other. There was some of that, of course. But then something happened. It started with the women. Some of them began caring for the babies. Nursing them to health. Raising them.”

“The witches performed a mitzvah,” said Armand.

“That would drive the Inquisition crazy,” said Reine-Marie.

“The infighting stopped and they began helping each other,” said Jean-Guy. “They built homes, planted crops. Away from the shit-hole cities, many of the plague victims recovered.”

“Remarkable,” said Gamache. “Beautiful, really. In its own way. But what does that have to do with the cobrador?”

He gestured outside.

It had been there for almost forty-eight hours, and the villagers, far from growing used to it, were growing more and more stressed. Nerves had begun to fray. Arguments were breaking out. Quarrels between long-standing friends could be heard in the bistro. Over trivial matters.

The short tempers could have been blamed on the fact that they hadn’t seen the sun in days. Felt like weeks. Felt like forever. The November skies remained cloudy. Occasionally dropping rain, sleet. That seemed to seep right through clothing, skin, and pool in the bones.

But the core of the problem stood on the dying grass of the village green.

A long, long way from an island in fourteenth-century Spain. A long way from home.

The bell jar had expanded again, the cobrador’s world was swelling, his dominion growing, while theirs seemed to be collapsing into itself.

Armand was wondering how much longer they had before something terrible happened.

“Some of those who were strong enough returned to the mainland,” said Jean-Guy. “But they were disfigured by disease, so they wore masks and gloves. And long cloaks with hoods.”

“Why return?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Revenge,” said Gamache. It was, he knew, a powerful force. Often overwhelming good sense.

“That’s what I thought too,” said Jean-Guy, turning to him. “But no. They went looking for the people who banished them. Damned them. Mostly priests, senior church officials. Magistrates. Even princes. But incredibly, when they found them, they did nothing. Just followed them. Which, of course, turned out to be quite something.”