Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(60)

“Auberge Gamache is open for business?” she asked, gliding back down, deeper into the suds.

The hint of roses from the bubble bath mixed with the steam, and Armand had the strange impression that the fog from outside had permeated their home. And as he did when he walked through the mist, he had an intense feeling of comfort.

“You okay?” he asked.

“This helps,” she said. It was clear she meant the company more than the bubbles. Or even the wine.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“It was awful, Armand. There was blood everywhere.”

She was trying not to cry, but tears streamed down her face, and he knelt beside the tub and held her hands. As she described, again, what she’d seen.

She needed to talk about it. And he needed to listen. To comfort.

“Who killed her, Armand? Was it the cobrador?”

She knew he wouldn’t have the answer, but she hoped, in the extreme privacy of their own bathroom, he might have an idea he could share with her.

“I think he’s at the center of it, yes. Whether he himself did it, I’m not sure.”

She looked into his eyes. “There was nothing you could do.”

“And that’s exactly what I did do. Nothing. But I’m not here to talk about me. I’m here for you.”

He caressed her skin with his thumb.

“You did do something,” she said, ignoring what he’d just said. “You warned him. You can’t arrest someone for standing on a village green. Thank God.”

“Thank God,” murmured Armand.

He knew she was right. But he could also feel his own conscience stirring. Accusing him of following the law, in lockstep. And marching right past common sense.

Katie Evans was dead. The cobrador was missing. And Reine-Marie was soaking in the bath, the blood long gone but the stain remaining.

“The law is sometimes an ass,” he said, squeezing her warm hand.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. There are some laws that should never be upheld, enforced.”

“But you can’t be the one who decides,” she said, sitting up straighter and looking at him. “You’re the head of the S?reté. You have to follow the law, even if it’s uncomfortable.” She held his eyes and spoke slowly, clearly. “You can’t kick someone off the public park in front of your home, Armand, just because you don’t like it.”

She made it sound so clear, so reasonable.

“What I don’t understand is how the killer knew the root cellar was there,” said Reine-Marie. “Hardly anyone ever goes in it.”

“Why did you?”

“I had some of those Chinese lantern flowers. Long stems. I wondered if there might be a vase there, even a chipped one, I could use.” She thought for a moment. “You think that’s where the cobrador went, when he disappeared at night?”

“It’s possible. Probable. The forensics report will tell us more, but it makes sense. It’s a pretty good hiding spot. There’s a bathroom, a kitchen. No windows in that little root cellar.”

“Did you find a weapon?”

He looked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

Now she looked confused. “Do you know what killed Katie?”

“The bat, of course.”

“Of course?”

In silence he regarded her, then his eyes widened.

“Can you describe again what you saw when you found the body?”

She sat up straighter in the bath, picking up on the shift in tone. She cast her mind back. “When I turned the light on I saw something dark, like a shadow, in the corner. It looked like a pile of black clothes. And then there was the blood.”

He squeezed her hand, and let that sit.

“What else was in the root cellar?” He hated doing this, but had to.

She frowned. “Jars of preserves on the shelves. Some vases, mostly chipped or cracked. Some broken candlestick holders. Things we couldn’t even sell in the rummage sale.”

“Anything else? On the ground?” It was as far as he could go. She had to tell him herself. Or not.

She scanned the room in her mind.

“Non. Why? What should I have seen? Did I miss something?”

“Non, but we almost did. Do you mind?” He got up.

“No, go.”

Armand bent down and he kissed her.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered.

As he left, he reflected on how many times he’d heard that from others.

It’s not my fault. Though it almost always was.





CHAPTER 20

“What’re you looking up?” asked Gamache, pausing in the doorway to his study.

“Lord of the Rings,” said Beauvoir.

He closed the search, shutting down the page.

“Flies?” asked Gamache.

“Right, right, Lord of the Flies. I just got to the part where Frodo and Ralph find the magic ring in the pig’s head. But I’m not sure why the pope is on the island.”

“Wikipedia,” muttered Gamache, as he walked toward the front door. “I need to take another look at the root cellar.”

“Why?” asked Beauvoir, following.

“Something Reine-Marie just told me.”