shrugged and watched Matheo, now chatting with Clara. And wondered if Matheo had called it a cobrador, in front of Gabri of all people, on purpose. Right after Gamache had asked him to keep it quiet.
Was it an honest mistake? Willful? Strategic?
“Where’s Katie?” asked Myrna.
“She was here a few minutes ago,” said Patrick, looking around.
“She said she was heading to the microbrewery in Sutton to get more beer,” said Lea, raising her glass. “Proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. Benjamin Franklin.”
Gamache watched Lea Roux and wondered if one day in the not-too-distant future he’d be working for her. The next Première Ministre du Québec.
Gabri, following Ruth with the scotch bottle like some Victorian retainer, said, “I hate beer. Won’t have it in the house. Brings the whole tone down.”
“And the duck doesn’t?” asked Patrick, eyeing Rosa.
“We make exceptions,” said Gabri. “Both the duck and the fuck are family.”
“Actually, we like having Ruth and Rosa around. They make the rest of us look sane,” Clara explained.
“Well…” said Lea.
“Glass houses,” said Ruth, clutching Rosa to her and glaring at Lea.
She absently laid a veined hand on Rosa’s wings, folded tight to her back. Like a very small archangel. Rosa was nothing if not arch.
Lea took a breath and smiled. “Quite right. My apologies.”
“And you are quite wrong.”
“Sorry?”
“Benjamin Franklin didn’t say that about beer,” said Ruth.
“Who did?” asked Myrna.
“Franklin,” said Ruth.
“But you just said—” Patrick began.
“It’s not about beer,” said Ruth. “He was writing to a friend about wine. The quote got hijacked by people who felt it was better to paint the intellectual and diplomat as a man of the people. A lover of beer, rather than wine. Such is politics, non?” She turned back to Lea. “Illusion.”
“You got that right,” said Lea, and toasted the elderly woman with her beer.
But there was no amusement in her eyes anymore.
Yes, thought Gamache, holding the scotch Gabri had poured him, but not drinking it, there was definitely more here than, well, met the eye.
“Does he look familiar?” asked Reine-Marie.
No one had to ask who she meant.
“Well, he’s been standing there for more than a day now, so yes, he does,” said Clara.
“No, look again.”
In silence they contemplated the robed figure standing alone on the gray November day.
The quiet seemed to extend beyond the room. Beyond the B&B. Into the entire village. It was as though the bell jar was growing. Taking over more and more of Three Pines.
Two days earlier, children had been playing, laughing and shouting on the village green. Now there was nothing. No commotion. No motion. Not even the birds on its shoulders moved. It was as though in touching the thing, they’d turned to stone.
“He looks like Saint Francis of Assisi,” said Clara.
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Reine-Marie. “All those birds.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” said Lea. “That’s no saint.”
“Did you ask the Archangel Michael about our visitor?” Gamache asked.
Reine-Marie turned to him, surprised by the question. And yet curious to hear the answer.
No one believed an archangel actually visited the mad old poet. Not really. They didn’t even believe she believed it. Not really.
But they were curious.
“I did.”
“And?”
Just then a car appeared at the top of the hill into Three Pines.
“Must be Katie,” said Patrick. “Nope. Not our car.”
The vehicle stopped level with the creature. The stone birds took flight, but the robed figure did not.
Finally, the car moved forward.
It was Jean-Guy, bringing news.
* * *
“What had Inspector Beauvoir found out?” asked the Crown attorney.
It was nearing the end of the day and he was pushing, hurrying the Chief Superintendent along. Wanting to get this piece of information in before the judge broke for the day.
Wanting to leave the men and women of the jury with this as the last thing planted in their heads, before they headed to the terrasses and brasseries for a beer on this hot summer afternoon.
The Crown nodded to the clerk. “Exhibit A again, s’il vous plaît.”
And up came the village and the dark mark in the middle. This time, instead of silence, or that long sigh, there was a murmur of recognition, of excitement even.
Their shock had turned to familiarity, titillation. The alarm was gone. They felt almost comfortable with it, and proud of themselves for adjusting to so odd a sight.
Of course, it was just a picture. Not the real thing.
And their bravado was false. Not the real thing.
It was a mistake, Gamache knew, and suspected they did too, to get comfortable with such a creature. Even in