“So you know what it refers to,” said Beauvoir. “A woman’s capacity to kill.”
“Yes, but mostly it’s about her dedication. Once committed some women will never give up, they’ll be merciless, unstoppable.” Gamache was silent for a moment, staring out the window but no longer seeing the flow of people bundled against the biting cold. “In what context were they talking about this? Why did The Wife say it?”
“They were talking about the case. Clara had asked Hanna Parra if she could kill.”
“Clara needs to be more careful,” said the Chief. “Did anyone particularly respond to that?”
“Clara said they all did, but after some discussion they reluctantly agreed the Mossad might have had it right.”
Gamache frowned. “What else did the women talk about?”
Beauvoir looked at his notes and told Gamache about the rest of the conversation. About fathers and mothers, about Alzheimer’s, about Charlie Mundin and Dr. Gilbert.
“There was something else. Clara thinks Marc Gilbert is desperately jealous of Old Mundin.”
“Why?”
“Apparently his father’s spending a lot of time at the Mundins’. The Wife admitted Old has developed a sort of bond with Dr. Gilbert. A substitute father.”
“Jealousy’s a powerful emotion. Powerful enough to kill.”
“But the wrong victim. Old Mundin isn’t dead.”
“So how could this play into the death of the Hermit?” the Chief asked and waited while there was a long pause. Finally Beauvoir admitted he didn’t see how it could.
“Both Carole Gilbert and Old Mundin are originally from Quebec City. Could you ask around about them?” When the Chief agreed Beauvoir paused before asking his last question. “How are you?”
He hated to ask, afraid that maybe the Chief would one day tell him the truth.
“I’m at the Café Krieghoff with Émile Comeau, a bowl of nuts and a Scotch. How bad can it be?” Gamache asked, his voice friendly and warm.
But Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew exactly how bad it could be and had been.
Hanging up, an image stole into his mind, uninvited, unexpected, unwanted.
Of the Chief, gun in hand, suddenly being lifted off his feet, twisting, turning. Falling. To lie still on the cold cement floor.
Gamache and Émile hailed a cab and took the diaries home. As Émile prepared a simple supper of warmed-up stew Gamache fed Henri then took him for a walk to the bakery for a fresh baguette.
Once home the men sat in the living room, a basket of crusty bread on the table, bowls of beef stew in front of them and the Chiniquy diaries piled on the sofa between them.
They spent the evening eating and reading, making notes, occasionally reading each other a particularly interesting, moving or unintentionally amusing passage.
By eleven Armand Gamache took off his reading glasses and rubbed his weary eyes. So far while historically fascinating the Chiniquy journals hadn’t revealed anything pertinent. There was no mention of the Irish laborers, Patrick and O’Mara. And while he did talk about James Douglas in the earlier diaries, the later ones mentioned him only in passing. Eventually there was an entry Émile read Gamache about Douglas packing up his three mummies and heading down to Pittsburgh, to live with his son.
Gamache listened and smiled. Chiniquy had made it sound petty, like a kid picking up his marbles and going home. Had Father Chiniquy done that on purpose, to diminish Dr. Douglas? Had there been a falling out? Did it matter?
An hour later he glanced at Émile and noticed the older man had fallen asleep, a journal splayed open on his chest. Gently raising Émile’s hand he removed the book, then put a soft pillow under Émile’s head and covered him with a comforter.
After quietly placing a large cherry log on the fire Gamache and Henri crept to bed.
The next day, before breakfast, he found an email from the Chief Archeologist.
“Something interesting?” Émile asked.
“Very. Sleep well?” Gamache looked up from his message with a smile.
“Wish I could say that was the first time I’d nodded off in front of the fire,” Émile laughed.
“So it wasn’t my stimulating conversation?”
“No. I never listen to you, you know that.”
“My suspicions confirmed. But listen to this,” Gamache looked back down to his email. “It’s from Serge Croix. I asked him to find out what digging work was being done in the old city in the summer of 1869.”
Émile joined his friend at the table. “The year Chiniquy and Douglas met the Irish workers.”
