Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(46)

Gamache turned to Jean-Guy, who picked up the story. Telling Lacoste what he’d found out. The island. The plague victims, lepers, babies with birth defects, the witches. And the conscience the authorities created.

“The cobradors were arrested,” said Gamache. “And tortured, to tell them who they were and where they came from. But none talked. Those who didn’t die under torture were executed. But others kept coming, taking their place. Finally the authorities figured out where they were coming from and sent soldiers to the island. They killed everyone.”

“Everyone?” asked Lacoste.

The problem with having an imagination was being able to imagine scenes like that. Men. Women. Children.

“But it seems some escaped,” said Gamache. “Maybe even helped by soldiers sickened by what they’d been ordered to do.”

Tormented, he thought, by their own conscience.

“Now, you’re not telling me what you had on the village green was some sort of ancient avenger,” said Lacoste. “From the Dark Ages.”

“You don’t believe it?” asked Gamache, then smiled slightly before Lacoste could answer. “Non. I’m not saying that. What I am saying is that someone knew about the ancient cobrador and decided to use it to get what they wanted.”

“That someone being Katie Evans,” said Lacoste.

“No,” said Gamache. “It couldn’t have been her. I saw her at the boulangerie and in the bookstore when the cobrador was on the village green. And Reine-Marie saw her and her husband heading for dinner in Knowlton last night.”

“So if Katie Evans wasn’t the cobrador, who was?”

It was a question impossible to answer at the moment.

“And if she wasn’t the cobrador,” said Lacoste, “she must’ve been his target. But what’s she doing in his costume?”

They shook their heads.

“Whoever did this will be long gone by now,” said Beauvoir.

“I’m afraid so,” said Gamache. “We’ll hear more from the coroner, but it must’ve happened sometime in the night. The cobrador wasn’t there this morning when I walked Henri and Gracie.”

“What time was that?” asked Lacoste.

“Just after seven.”

“And when did you last see it?”

Gamache thought. “Last night, but I can’t tell you when it left.”

“But it wasn’t there this morning,” said Lacoste. “What did you think had happened to it?”

“I thought it left because it got what it wanted.”

“And what it wanted was Katie Evans,” said Lacoste.

“It would seem so.”

“I wonder what she did,” said Lacoste, “that was so bad.”

Gamache was staring straight ahead of him. Not into the root cellar, but into space.

“What is it?” asked Jean-Guy.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Really?” he said. “A guy in a black cape and mask doesn’t make sense?”

Gamache gave him a stern look, then turned to Isabelle Lacoste. “A modern cobrador is a debt collector, not a killer. And the original cobrador, from the time of the plague, was a conscience. Not a killer. Even when provoked, even to save its own life, it didn’t resort to violence. And neither did this one, last evening.”

He told them about the mob.

“So why did this one kill?” asked Beauvoir.

His question was met with silence.





CHAPTER 16

Olivier stood at the window of the bistro and watched the S?reté officers walking down the road from the church.

He wasn’t alone. The rest of the village, and those from outlying farms, had gathered in the bistro, the focal point for the community, in good times and bad.

And it was very clear which one they were now in.

They watched, silently, as Armand Gamache, Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Isabelle Lacoste walked toward them through the cold November drizzle that turned, every now and then, into sleet. Then back again.

Olivier and Gabri had been handing out coffee and tea, juices, and fresh, warm cookies from Sarah’s bakery. No alcohol. No need to feed already heightened emotions.

A fine mist had accompanied the drizzle so that Three Pines appeared socked in.

Both fireplaces, on either end of the bistro, were lit. And now the only sound, besides some labored breathing, was the cheery crackle of the logs.

The place smelled of woodsmoke and rich coffee. And wet wool from those who’d arrived late, hurrying through the damp afternoon.

On any other day, in any other circumstances, the bistro would’ve felt snug and safe and comforting. A refuge. But today, it did not.

They looked out the window, toward the trinity, and the bad news appearing out of the mist.

Then Olivier looked behind him.

At Patrick Evans. He was sitting, his legs no longer able to hold him. Lea sat beside him, holding his hand, and Matheo stood, his hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

But someone was missing. The only one not there.

Katie.

Though they were fairly sure they knew where she was.

At that moment, she was still alive.

But as soon as the S?reté officers arrived, and began to speak, she would die. They all knew that whatever had happened, however it had happened, the “who” was not in doubt.