“Yessir.” Tessier knew what “clean this up” meant. He’d cleaned up Audrey Villeneuve.
While Tessier made the arrangements, Francoeur watched as the flat farmland turned into hills, and forest, and mountains.
Gamache was getting closer, Francoeur knew. But so were they.
* * *
Chief Inspector Gamache craned his neck, to see what had stopped all the traffic. They were just inching along the narrow residential street. At a main intersection he spotted a city cop and a barricade. He pulled over.
“Move along,” the cop commanded, not even looking at the driver.
“What’s the holdup?” Gamache asked.
The cop looked at Gamache as though he was nuts.
“Don’t you know? The Santa Claus parade. Get going, you’re holding up traffic.”
* * *
Thérèse Brunel stayed by the window, standing to the side. Staring out.
It wouldn’t be long now, she knew.
But still she listened to Myrna’s story. The tale with the long tail. That went back decades. Almost beyond living memory.
To a saint and a miracle, and a Christmas tuque.
“MA,” said Myrna. “That was the key. Every hat their mother made had a tag with their initials. MC for Marie-Constance, et cetera.”
“So what did MA stand for?” Clara asked. She went back over the girls’ names. Virginie, Hélène, Josephine, Marguerite, Constance. No A.
Then Clara’s eyes widened and shone. She looked at Myrna.
“Why did everyone think there were only five?” she asked Myrna. “Of course they’d have more.”
“More what?” asked Gabri. But Olivier got it.
“More children,” said Olivier. “When the girls were taken from them, the Ouellets made more.”
Myrna was nodding slowly, watching them as the truth dawned. And, as with Constance and her hints, it now seemed so obvious. But it hadn’t been obvious to Myrna, until she’d read it in Armand’s letter.
When Marie-Harriette and Isidore had their beloved daughters taken away, what choice did they have but to make more?
In his letter, Chief Inspector Gamache explained that he’d had the tuque tested for DNA. They’d found his. They’d found Myrna’s. Both of them had recently handled the hat. They’d also found Constance’s DNA, and one other. A close match to Constance.
Gamache admitted he’d assumed it was her father’s or mother’s, but the fact was, the technician had originally said a sibling.
“Another sister,” said Clara. “Marie-A.”
“But why didn’t anyone know about this younger sister?” asked Gabri.
“Christ,” snapped Ruth, looking at Gabri with disdain. “I’d have thought someone who was practically a work of fiction himself would know more about myths.”
“Well, I know a gorgon when I see one.” Gabri glared at Ruth, who looked like she was trying to turn him to stone.
“Look,” Ruth finally said, “the Quints were supposed to be a miracle, right? A huge harvest from barren ground. Frère André’s final gift. Well, how would it look if Mama starting popping out children all over the place? Kinda takes away from the miracle.”
“Dr. Bernard and the government figured she’d laid the golden eggs, now she needed to stop,” said Myrna.
“If I’d said that they’d castrate me,” Gabri muttered to Olivier.
“But would people really care?” asked Olivier. “I mean, the Quints were pretty amazing no matter how many younger brothers and sisters they had.”
“But they were more amazing if seen as an act of a benevolent God,” said Myrna. “That’s what the government and Bernard were peddling. Not a circus act, but an act of God. Through the Depression and war, people flocked to them, not to see five identical girls, but to see hope. Proof that God exists. A generous and kind God, who’d given this gift to a barren woman. But suppose Madame Ouellet wasn’t barren at all? Suppose she had another child?”
“Suppose Christ hadn’t risen?” said Gabri. “Suppose the water wasn’t wine?”
“It was critical to their story that Madame Ouellet be barren. That’s what made the miracle,” said Myrna. “Without that the Quints became an oddity, nothing more.”
“No miracle, no money,” said Clara.
“So the new baby threatened to bring down everything they’d created,” said Ruth.
