Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(42)

“Non. Madame Gamache touched the body, but she had the presence of mind to do nothing else and to lock up. Then she called me.”

“Without removing the mask to see who it was?”

“That’s right.”

“Wasn’t she curious?”

“I don’t think curiosity was her main emotion.”

“And you told her not to wash the blood from her hands, or shoes.”

“So that we could take samples and be clear about what were her traces and what belonged to someone else.”

“How magnificent,” said the Crown. “To have your wife in such a horrible position, and still you chose your job over her comfort. Not only is she extraordinary, but you appear to be as well.”

Gamache did not respond, though his complexion did, the flush rising into his cheeks.

The two men glared at each other. The loathing no longer a matter of conjecture.

“I will, of course, be calling Madame Gamache as a witness later in the trial, but are you quite sure she didn’t touch anything else? And remember, you’re under oath.”

“I do remember that,” snapped Gamache, before hauling himself back. “Merci. And yes, I’m sure.”

At the defense desk, the lawyers stared at each other in disbelief. It seemed Monsieur Zalmanowitz was doing their job for them. Destroying if not the credibility, then the likability of his main witness.

“In the meantime,” said the Crown, “perhaps you can tell us what you found when you finally arrived.”

*

They passed the S?reté car, parked by the church. And saw an agent standing at the foot of the stairs up to the door.

As Jean-Guy drove by the bistro, he noticed patrons standing at the window, staring.

Beauvoir had barely stopped the car when Gamache was out and walking swiftly, breaking into a run, down the path, past the agent, to his front door.

What had started as a misty though promising day had turned gloomy again. The clouds shutting out the tentative sun. The damp rolling down the hill and pooling in the village.

Reine-Marie was in the kitchen with Clara and Myrna. The woodstove pumping out heat. Mugs of tea in front of them.

“I’m sorry, mon coeur,” said Armand, as she stood and went to him and he took a step back, holding his hands up as though to ward her off. “I can’t—”

Reine-Marie stopped, her arms out for an embrace. And then she slowly lowered them.

Clara, standing a few steps behind Reine-Marie, thought she had never seen such sorrow in a man’s eyes.

Jean-Guy brushed by him, moving through the gulf between husband and wife, and quickly, efficiently took samples and photographs.

No one spoke until he had finished, and stepped away.

Then Armand stepped forward, embracing Reine-Marie, holding her tight. “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” she said.

“The police arrived about half an hour ago,” said Clara. “Until then, Myrna stood on the porch, making sure no one approached the church.”

“Good,” said Jean-Guy. “Did anyone?”

“No,” said Myrna.

Armand took Reine-Marie to the powder room, and together they washed the worst of the blood off her hands, his large fingers softly rubbing the now dried blood from her skin.

When they’d finished, he took her upstairs to their bedroom.

As she stripped down, he turned the shower on, making sure it wasn’t too hot.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You’re leaving? I’m sorry, of course you are. You have to.”

He held her, then stepping back he took her hands and looked down at them. There was still some blood stuck to her wedding ring. It was difficult not to see the symbolism.

This was what he’d brought into their marriage. Blood ran through their lives together. Like a river that sometimes broke its banks. Marring them. Staining them.

What would their lives have been like had he followed up his pre-law degree and not gone into the S?reté? Had he stayed at Cambridge? Perhaps become a professor.

He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be standing there trying to scrape one last bit of dried blood from his wife’s hand.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly.

“Someone else did this, Armand. You’re here to help.”

He kissed her and nodded toward the shower. “Go.”

She nodded toward the door. “Go. Oh, you’ll need this.”

She took the key to the church out of her sweater pocket. It too had blood on it.

Armand grabbed a tissue and took the key.

Downstairs, Beauvoir was talking to Clara and Myrna.

“Who else knows?”

“Reine-Marie told us, of course. About the cobrador,” said Clara. “But no one else. Obviously everyone knows something’s happened, especially when the agents arrived. But not what, and the agents wouldn’t tell them anything.”

“Because they don’t know,” said Beauvoir. It was vital, he knew, to guard information. Sometimes from your own people.

“Everyone’s gathered at the bistro,” said Myrna. “Waiting for news. Waiting for you. Some came here, but the agent stopped them.”

“Who?”

“Gabri, of course,” said Clara. “Honestly? Almost everyone came over.”