Justice, she thought. A few months ago she knew exactly what that meant. Now she wasn’t so sure.
“Who’re they?” she asked Olivier.
Two men were sitting quietly in front of the empty hearth, enjoying a meal. Anton was speaking with them, perhaps describing the food he’d made.
They looked over at her and she smiled, and raised her glass to Anton, who waved back.
“Don’t know,” said Olivier. “Just passing through, I think. Not staying at the B&B. You know Gabri. One set of guests is more than enough.”
“So there is someone at the B&B?” she asked, smelling the refreshing tonic water, and gin, and lemon.
“Oui. Lea and Matheo are down.”
“Really? Did they say why?” She tried to sound casual, not letting Olivier see her whirring mind.
“I didn’t ask, but it’s probably something to do with the trial. We’re reading the reports. Seems they’re giving Armand a hard time. Lea and Matheo might want to have words with him. They seem pretty tense.”
Yes, thought Lacoste. That was one explanation.
Around her there was the hum of conversation. Many patrons were now finding the terrasse too hot and were retreating into the cool interior. They chatted, but there was little outright laughter. The trial, so far away, was felt very keenly in the village. Some of the villagers would be called as witnesses. Thankfully the investigators had headed off the Crown’s desire to call Ruth Zardo to the stand.
Lacoste’s own testimony was scheduled for the next day, though she knew it would never come to that. Not after the night to come.
Chief Inspector Lacoste hadn’t been in court that day and so hadn’t heard Gamache’s testimony. But she’d certainly heard reports. From colleagues, and on the news.
She’d heard about the increasing acrimony between the Chief Crown and the Chief Superintendent. To the point where they’d both been hauled into the judge’s chambers.
What had happened there? What had Gamache said?
Had he told Judge Corriveau what had really happened that November night, when he’d returned to the basement of St. Thomas’s?
Had he told the judge the secret they’d been so desperate to conceal, to the point of Gamache perjuring himself?
It had started as an offhand remark by a crazy old poet and had developed, over drinks in Myrna’s loft, into a suspicion. Which grew into an action.
* * *
Once in the church basement, Gamache took off his coat, embedded with snow, and tossed it over a chair. Then he led Beauvoir across the room to the root cellar.
“Can you get an evidence kit, please? And two sets of gloves.”
While Jean-Guy did that, Gamache turned on the industrial lamps installed that day by the Scene of Crime technicians, then he paused on the edge of the room.
All murder scenes had a solemnity, a gravity, about them, often at odds with the actual surroundings. A terrible killing in a cheerful place was especially horrible.
This little room, windowless, with a dirt floor and shelves sagging with forgotten preserves, and cobwebs made by long-dead spiders, was never going to be a cheerful place. The root cellar was meant to be cold, but the killing of Katie Evans made it all the more chilling.
It was not a place even a seasoned homicide investigator would want to spend much time in.
Gamache looked at the spot on the floor where the crumpled figure of Katie Evans, dressed in the cobrador costume, had been found. The former head of homicide for the Sûreté never forgot that this was not simply a job. A puzzle. An exercise for the reason and intellect.
A young woman had taken her last breaths, here. Lying in the dirt and dark, in the cold cellar. Not in bed, surrounded by loved ones, at the age of ninety, as she might have hoped.
“Madame Gamache didn’t see a bat when she found Katie Evans’s body. But it was there when Lacoste arrived. That means it was replaced, without anyone else seeing. This’s the back wall of the church.” Gamache walked up to it. “So it must be here.”
“What must?”
Gamache turned to Beauvoir. “Bootlegged alcohol was moved in and out of the church during Prohibition. They didn’t take it out the front door.”
Beauvoir’s eyes widened as he realized what Gamache was saying. “Shit.”
The two men began to carefully examine the shelving.
“Got it,” said Jean-Guy.
“Wait,” said Gamache. He picked up the Scene of Crime camera and recorded the moment Inspector Beauvoir swung out one of the shelves, then pushed on it.