snow and ice, to his home. And the book in his desk. And the notes written there, in black ink. Like charcoal.
His plague diary.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
“And the cobrador?” Clara’s voice cut through Gamache’s wandering mind and brought him back to the loft. “Who the hell was he? How does he fit in?”
“Well, he obviously wasn’t one of them,” said Isabelle. “Or even someone from the village. No one was missing.”
“Then who was he?” asked Reine-Marie.
“There’re a couple of other possibilities,” said Lacoste. “He could’ve followed Madame Evans here, playing out some old grudge. Or he was hired by someone here. Someone who knew that Matheo Bissonette had written about the cobrador phenomenon and would recognize it.”
“There is, of course, a simpler answer,” said Reine-Marie.
“Matheo Bissonette himself hired the cobrador,” said Isabelle. “And then told everyone, including Madame Evans, what it was. Yes, we thought of that. For it to work, she had to know what the thing was. Though it doesn’t answer why he, or anyone, would do it.”
They looked at Myrna.
“I don’t know why. Lea didn’t come to me to say Matheo was planning to kill Katie. Not that I remember, anyway.”
“Maybe he wasn’t,” said Armand. “Maybe the cobrador was just there to shame her. Murder was never part of the plan. But someone saw an opportunity, and took it. And you’re right,” he said to Clara. “It’s possible the cobrador’s target was someone else completely. Would you excuse me?”
He stood up and turned to Reine-Marie, who was also getting to her feet, a look of some surprise on her face at his abrupt need to leave.
“Would you ask Jean-Guy to meet us in the Incident Room, please? Isabelle, can you join me?”
They said their goodbyes to Myrna and Clara.
“Jeez,” said Clara, watching them out the window. “It’s like someone kicked him in the pants. Did we finally say something useful?”
“If we did, I can’t imagine what it was.”
“Maybe we’re out of cheese.” Clara turned around to look, but there was still plenty left.
Then the two women watched from the warmth of the loft as Armand, Reine-Marie and Isabelle paused on the village green, at about the spot the cobrador had stood vigil.
The evening was dire, with snow and ice pellets and freezing rain. A full English of crap.
Then Isabelle headed to the B&B. Armand put his head down and walked straight into the driving snow while Reine-Marie went home, which by now was just a faint glow through the flurries.
“I’m heading back to my studio,” said Clara.
“To finish your painting?” asked Myrna.
“It is finished. I’m going to start a new one.”
“Clara,” Myrna began. “Your show’s coming up. I just…”
She opened and closed her mouth.
“You’re a good friend,” said Clara. “And I know you mean well. But you’re just getting me upset. Making me doubt myself. Please,” she took Myrna’s large hands, “don’t say anything more. Trust me. I know when something’s finished. And when it’s not.”
Myrna walked her to the stairs, and heard the tiny bell tinkle as Clara left.
She wondered if Clara was right. Some things might appear done, complete. But were actually unfinished.
* * *
At the steps up to the church, Chief Superintendent Gamache paused.
Instead of hurrying inside, he made his way around the corner of the building.
Once at the back, where no one could see, he turned on the flashlight mode of his phone and examined the ground.
The snow in the beam was pristine. No tracks at all. But then, there wouldn’t be. The freshly falling snow would obliterate any tracks made the night before. And Lacoste’s team would have already looked.
But they wouldn’t have found what he was looking for.
Playing the light over the back wall of the church illuminated the weathered white clapboard.
He stepped closer, then back, closing one eye as the snow slapped the side of his face, then he turned to peer into the dark woods.
* * *
The guests at the B&B were just sitting down to dinner when Isabelle Lacoste arrived.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, but it did not look like she was interrupting much.
The shepherd’s pie, which smelled wonderful, sat on each of their plates, practically untouched.
“Would you like to join us?” Matheo asked. “There’s plenty.”
Isabelle recognized it for what it was. A vastly insincere invitation. She wondered what would happen if she accepted.
This had been a horrible day for them. Or, at least, for most of them.
They stared at her and, as Chief Inspector Lacoste looked at them, she suspected she was seeing a