Chapter 15

C HAPTER 15

"Holy shit, Armand, you scared the life outta me."

Olivier had opened his eyes to see a man's face, in the dark, within inches of his own. He'd bolted upright so quickly they'd almost banged heads.

"What're you doing here? What's happened?"

"We need to talk."

"Now?" Olivier put on his glasses. "It's four thirty in the morning. I'm in bed, for Chrissake." Seeing Armand's face, he gave in, grudgingly. "Oh, okay."

Beside him, Gabri was snoring, and smiling.

"He smiles in his sleep?" asked Armand as Olivier threw on a bathrobe and slippers.

"And sometimes he laughs. What I wouldn't give to spend just five minutes in his head. I think it must smell of fresh baking in there."

Despite himself Armand laughed, and tried to think what the inside of Reine-Marie's head would smell like. Roses, probably. The garden on a warm summer morning. And perhaps just a hint of dusty documents.

He knew Jean-Guy's must smell like bacon.

Clara's would smell of oil paints and overripe banana. Myrna's of books and strong tea. Olivier's of money. Billy Williams of the musky forest. Ruth's? Well, they all knew what that would smell like.

And his own? He hoped it would smell of lemon meringue pie with a soup?on of damp dog, but he had his doubts.

He followed Olivier down the stairs of the bed and breakfast. On the outside, the building looked like what it was. A centuries-old former coaching inn. A brief rest stop on the road between New York and Montréal. Many stopped, few stayed.

But the inside had been redone by the two men when they'd bought it more than a decade ago. Far from the overstuffed chintz furniture and lace curtains one might have expected, the walls were a soothing blue grey. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, painted white, were in practically every room, overflowing with volumes actually read, jigsaw puzzles, board games. A fireplace in the living room faced the original leaded glass windows that looked out over the wide veranda and the village green beyond. From there, the men could see their bistro.

The flooring was worn wide plank, with oriental carpets scattered about.

It was comfortable and comforting. A relaxed marriage of the traditional and contemporary. Much like Olivier and Gabri themselves.

Going downstairs, Olivier, fully awake now, asked how Armand was, without mentioning the hit-and-run.

"I'm fine."

"‘Fine' as in Fucked-up. Insecure. Neurotic. And Egotistical?"

"Exactly. I have a question."

"That couldn't wait."

" Non. "

As they passed the front door, Olivier said, "We have to remember to lock it. We do when there're guests, but not when it's just us. We never thought anyone would be rude enough to come right into our bedroom." He gave Armand the stink eye. "Ruth sometimes comes in at night and takes booze and food. We thought it was a mouse at first, but then a bottle of scotch disappeared. We now leave dinner out on the counter."

"Like Santa Claus."

"If he was a lunatic, yes. But even she hasn't gotten as far as the bedroom."

"Though if that was where you kept the alcohol…"

Armand followed Olivier into the large country kitchen, where he was waved onto a stool. He watched while Olivier made them cappuccinos and put warmed almond croissants on plates for them both.

"What do you want, Armand?"

"You made a cocktail yesterday afternoon."

Olivier's brows shot up. "Don't tell me you woke me up in the middle of the night because you want one. I wouldn't advise it."

" Non ," Armand said with a smile. "What was it called?"

"Called? You're kidding, right?" When Armand just waited, Olivier paused to think. "The Last Word. Yes, that was it."

Armand was quiet for a moment. "Where did you get the recipe?"

"From our guest."

"I take it he's no longer here?"

"No. Stayed one night. Left yesterday afternoon."

Armand thought of the older man he and Reine-Marie had passed two days earlier. Both men had turned and caught each other's eye. It was just an instant, before the contact was broken, though enough for Armand to feel the man looked vaguely familiar.

"What was his name?"

"Monsieur Gilbert. Can't remember his first name, but it'll be in our reservations."

Armand felt a vague stirring. As though someone had just ruffled the air around him. It was not an alarming feeling. In fact, it was somehow comforting. Like the hint of a scent from a pleasant experience.

"Was the recipe he had from a newspaper clipping?" Armand had his phone out. He'd already looked up the photo.

"Yes. And he'd brought the bottle that was the main ingredient. Not many places carry it anymore. It was a gift, he said."

"Do you still have the clipping?"

"No. After a couple of sips, and when even Ruth gagged, I threw it into the fire."

That, thought Armand, was a shame. He'd have liked to see it.

Armand turned his phone around. Olivier saw the photograph of a page from Le Journal de Montréal . On it was the picture of a drink and the recipe for the Last Word. Across the top of the photo was neatly printed, Chief Inspector Gamache. This might interest you.

"Yup, that's it."

Armand clicked off his phone and put it on the kitchen island. "When was the last time you heard of this cocktail?"

"Never. Never heard of it. And no one's ever asked for one. And I can't remember the last time I was asked for anything with Chartreuse in it."

"It had Chartreuse?" Armand hadn't actually read the recipe—why would he? It had seemed unimportant. But now he opened his phone again and enlarged the newspaper article. Sure enough, the green liqueur was the main ingredient.

Now another presence stirred the air. One a lot less friendly than the first. And still, Armand could not quite grasp it.

" Oui. "

"What was he like?"

"Older. I'd say in his early seventies. Slender. But his clothes…"

"Yes?" Even in his brief glimpse of the man on the village green, his clothing had struck Armand. And his hat. It was like something he saw in old photos of his father. No one wore hats like that anymore.

"They were in good condition," said Olivier. "But out of date by about fifty years. Wide lapels. Fat tie. And his slacks and jacket didn't quite fit him."

Armand had noticed that too.

"It was like he got them from a secondhand store or the Salvation Army," said Olivier.

Or, thought Armand, from the back room of a mission for the homeless. Or maybe from a prison locker, left there when convicted and picked up decades later when released.

Was Monsieur Gilbert someone he'd arrested for murder? But it could not have been fifty years ago. Armand would have been a boy. Precocious, for sure, but not to that extent.

"And his personality?"

Olivier dragged a stool around and sat across from Armand. He took a sip of his cappuccino and considered.

"Very polite. Soft-spoken. But he had a presence. A nice one. Calming. He asked questions and actually listened to the answers."

"What sort of questions?"

"Oh, just about the village. How old it was. Why we chose to live here. He'd been up to St. Thomas's. Called it a sanctuary."

Armand smiled. It was the word that came to his mind too, when thinking of the tiny chapel.

It overlooked the village and smelled of the balance of time. Of weddings and baptisms and funerals. Of gatherings in the basement, where villagers brought deviled eggs and cucumber sandwiches without crusts, and brownies with marshmallows on top. Mostly they brought companionship, in celebrations and in grief.

But the overpowering presence in St. Thomas's was that of three brothers, boys really, depicted in the stained-glass window. Marching to their fate in the Great War. Never to return home. And yet always there.

There was, in the little chapel, the stench of shame and the overpowering fragrance of forgiveness for the unforgivable.

"Did you find out anything about him?"

"Monsieur Gilbert? I asked what he did, but he was vague. I can't actually remember what he said."

Which probably meant, Armand thought, that Olivier wasn't interested in the answer.

"I asked what brought him to Three Pines."

"And?"

"He just said he'd heard about it from someone. I asked who, but he didn't seem to remember."

"Did he ask about me?"

"You? No. Why would he?"

"His accent?"

"Québécois. Educated. But there was a slight twang in certain words. You know?"

Armand nodded. People often tried to hide their upbringing, but it was like caging an animal. It might not be free, but it was still there.

"Tell me you didn't wake me up at four thirty in the morning just to ask about our guest and some horrible drink he had us make."

"Actually, I did. Can you show me Monsieur Gilbert's reservation?"

"Well, I can, but it doesn't say much. He called, and I took down the information. He didn't do it online. Here."

Olivier opened the calendar on his phone. He wasn't wrong. The reservation simply said, P. Gilbert. Montréal. There was a phone number and the date he'd be staying. No address.

Armand took down the information. "When did he make the reservation?"

"A few days earlier. Not long."

"How did he pay?"

"Now that was a little strange. He paid cash. Almost no one does these days."

Armand took a sip of the strong, smooth coffee, and considered. Maybe the appearance of the Last Word on the bundle sent to the office and the recipe from the B&B guest was just a coincidence. It often happened that obscure things appeared in clusters. Unrelated. Then disappeared just as suddenly.

"There's a party and I wasn't invited?"

They turned to find Gabri in his huge pink frilly dressing gown and bunny slippers.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Olivier. "My husband."

"What's going on?"

"Armand came by to ask about that cocktail."

"At this hour? And here we thought Ruth was the one with the problem. It's all right, Armand, you're among friends."

When Armand just smiled, Gabri went on, in a more serious tone. "Didn't Reine-Marie tell you how awful it was? Blech. Even Ruth couldn't drink it, and she drinks from the toilet bowl."

"I don't think that's true," said Olivier.

"I saw her once."

While the two argued, Armand stood up. "Thanks for the coffee and croissant."

"You didn't touch it. Take it home for Reine-Marie."

" Merci. I will." He wrapped it in a napkin and put it in his pocket. "I imagine you've already cleaned his room."

"Whose?" asked Gabri.

"Monsieur Gilbert's."

"Yes. You're interested in him? He was such a nice man. Beautiful singing voice."

"How do you know that?"

"I heard him. He was in his room singing, softly. Couldn't make out the words and I didn't recognize the tune, but it was calming."

There was that word again, thought Armand. "Do you mind showing me his room?"

"Now you ask permission to go into a bedroom?" said Olivier, getting off his stool. "You have a strange idea of appropriate behavior."

The room Monsieur Gilbert had was simply and tastefully furnished, with a queen bed covered in a rose silk eiderdown. There was a comfortable armchair by an ornamental fireplace. The window looked out onto the village green, just becoming visible through the early-morning light struggling through the mist.

"He actually booked a smaller room," said Olivier.

"The smallest," added Gabri. "But since no one was here, we upgraded him."

"For free." Olivier's tone held a note of regret, if not resentment.

The two men watched as Armand poked around but found nothing.

" Merci. "

As they made for the front door, Gabri said, "I heard you talk about the church. When I went up there last night to clean up after the Sunday service—"

"What is it you do in those services?" Armand asked. "How do you make a mess?"

"Well, you know, chicken blood…," Gabri said, to Armand's laugh. "I found an envelope with your name on it. I meant to bring it with me but forgot it up there."

The hairs on Armand's neck went up.

A heavy mist, almost drizzle, now hung over the village, draining it of color so that everything appeared to be shades of grey. By the time they arrived at St. Thomas's, their clothing was damp, but not actually wet.

The church was unlocked, as usual.

Gabri turned on the overhead light, illuminating the few rows of gleaming wooden pews and the simple altar at the front.

The stained-glass brothers glowed red and green and the softest of blues.

"There." Gabri pointed to the white envelope. It was leaning against the top of the brass plaque under the window. The plaque had the names of those from the area who went to war and never returned. Names like Billy and Tommy, Gabrielle and P'tit Marcel.

Beneath the list was written, They were our children.

Gabri reached for the envelope, but Armand stopped him.

"When you found it yesterday, did you touch it?"

"Me? Non. "

Armand approached. Sure enough, in a fine clear hand, was written, Armand Gamache .

It was not, he could see, the same hand that had written on the newspaper.

He took a photo of it, then brought out a handkerchief and picked it up. The envelope was unsealed.

Sitting in the pew, enveloped by dull light from the brittle boys, he opened it and took out a piece of paper. And grew very quiet.

"What is it?" asked Olivier. The two men edged closer and leaned in as Armand unfolded the paper.

"Herbs?" said Olivier. "And spices. A recipe?"

"God," said Gabri. "Not another cocktail."

The top of the page was feathered, where it had been torn, and Armand was just able to make out two words, ripped in half.

Angelica stems.

He turned the page over. Someone had written:

Some malady…