knew,” said Beauvoir. He didn’t need to consult his research. He doubted he’d ever forget what he’d read. “The first ones were beaten to death by mobs, who believed they were the embodiment of the Black Death. But as one died, another appeared. Little by little, the mobs noticed that the guys in the black robes and masks weren’t doing harm. There was even, it seems, a sort of dignity about them. Even when they knew they were going to die, they just stood still. They didn’t try to defend themselves. They didn’t fight back. They just kept staring at the person they were following until they were beaten to the ground.”
Gamache shifted in his seat and glanced over his shoulder, toward the village green.
Such devotion to a cause was admirable. But it was also, perhaps, insane.
“The priests and authorities couldn’t allow this to continue,” said Beauvoir. “They figured out who these people were, and where they came from. Soldiers were sent to La Isla del Cobrador, and every man, woman and child was slaughtered.”
Gamache inhaled sharply. Even from a distance, over time and territory, he could feel the outrage, the pain.
“When the population heard about that, there was a shit storm,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache glanced down at the printouts, fairly certain “shit storm” was not how it was described there.
“The robed figures became part of the mythology,” said Jean-Guy. “They were called cobradors, after the island. But it was a sideshow to all the other crap happening in Europe at the time. The cobradors were quickly forgotten.”
“But they didn’t disappear completely,” said Reine-Marie.
“Non. It seems not everyone from La Isla del Cobrador was killed. Some escaped. The theory was that they were helped by soldiers who couldn’t bring themselves to follow orders. Every now and then one would be spotted, mostly in the mountain villages.”
“And they continued to follow people who had done something terrible?” asked Gamache. “Something for which they had not been held accountable?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“And that’s how cobrador became debt collector.”
“No, that’s just it. That’s a modern interpretation. Cobrador translates, literally, into ‘collector.’ And there is that about them. The debt. But in the villages, they became known as something else. A conscience.”
* * *
The courtroom clock ticked past five.
All other cases had been adjourned for the day. They could hear footsteps in the hallway and voices murmuring and occasionally calling. Barristers who’d been pounding away at each other minutes before in court now invited each other for drinks on the terrasse of the nearby brasserie.
Inside Judge Corriveau’s courtroom, the atmosphere was close. The heat stifling. Everyone yearned to get out into the fresh air and sunshine. Get away from both the atmosphere and the increasingly claustrophobic story.
But there was one more question to be asked and answered.
“Chief Superintendent Gamache,” said the Crown. For once he didn’t sound self-important or pompous. For the first time all day he wasn’t preening or acting. His voice was quiet, grave. “From what Inspector Beauvoir found out about the cobrador, did you come to any conclusion?”
“I did.”
“And what was that?”
“That someone in the village had done something so horrific that a conscience had been called.”
CHAPTER 7
“Not coming home tonight?” Reine-Marie asked Armand when he called that evening.
“Afraid not. I’ll stay in the Montréal apartment. Too much to do here and court starts early.”
“Would you like me to drive in? I can bring something from the bistro.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m not much company, I’m afraid. And I have to work.”
“The trial?”
“Oui.”
“Are things going your way?”
He rubbed his forehead and considered the question. “It’s hard to tell. So many things have to come together just right. There seems such a fine line between falling into place and falling apart.”
Reine-Marie had seen him worried about court cases, the testimony of certain witnesses especially. But in this case, he was the only witness so far. What could worry him so soon?
“Will you get a conviction?”
“Yes.”
But his answer was too swift, too certain, for a man usually so measured and thoughtful.
“What are you doing for dinner?” she asked.
“Grabbing something here at the office.”
“Alone?”
Armand glanced through the crack in the door into the conference room, where Jean-Guy, Isabelle and the other officers were bent over maps. Mugs of coffee and platters of sandwiches from the local brasserie sat on the long table, along with jugs of water, laptops and papers. Beyond all that, he saw the lights of Montréal.
“Oui.”
* * *
Chief Superintendent Gamache rejoined the team and, putting his glasses back on, he bent over