Katie and Patrick Evans.”
“Ahh, yes. The Evanses.” The Crown looked over at the defense table, then back at Gamache. “The contractor and his architect wife. They built glass houses, I believe. Also friends of yours?”
“Also acquaintances,” Gamache corrected, his voice firm. He did not like the insinuation.
“Of course,” said Zalmanowitz. “And why were they in the village?”
“It was an annual reunion. They’re school friends. They were in the same class at the Université de Montréal.”
“They’re all in their early thirties now?”
“Oui.”
“How long have they been coming to Three Pines?”
“Four years. Always the same week in late summer.”
“Except this year, they came in late October.”
“Oui.”
“Strange time to visit. No fall colors left and no snow yet for skiing. It’s pretty dreary, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps they got a better rate at the B&B,” said Gamache, with an expression of trying to be helpful. “It’s a very nice place.”
When he’d left Three Pines early that morning to drive into Montréal, Gabri, the owner of the bed and breakfast, had run over with a brown paper bag and a travel mug.
“If you have to mention the B&B, can you say something like ‘the beautiful B&B’? Or you could call it lovely.”
He had gestured behind him. It wouldn’t be a lie. The old stagecoach inn across from the village green, with its wide verandah and gables, was lovely. Especially in summer. Like the rest of the village, the B&B had a front garden of old perennials. Roses and lavender, and spires of digitalis and fragrant phlox.
“Just don’t say ‘stunning,’” Gabri advised. “Sounds forced.”
“And we wouldn’t want that,” said Gamache. “You do know this is a murder trial.”
“I do,” said Gabri, serious as he handed over the coffee and croissants.
And now Gamache sat in the trial and listened to the Chief Crown.
“What took the classmates to Three Pines initially?” Monsieur Zalmanowitz asked. “Were they lost?”
“No. Lea Roux and Dr. Landers grew up together. Myrna Landers used to babysit her. Lea and Matheo had visited Myrna a few times and came to like the village. They mentioned it to their friends and it became the site of their annual reunion.”
“I see. So Lea Roux and her husband were the ones who instigated it.” He made it sound somehow suspicious. “With the help of Madame Landers.”
“Dr. Landers, and there was no ‘instigation.’ It was a perfectly normal reunion.”
“Really? You call what happened perfectly normal?”
“Up until last November, yes.”
The Chief Crown nodded in a manner that was meant to look sage, as though he didn’t quite believe Chief Superintendent Gamache.
It was, thought Judge Corriveau, ridiculous. But she could see the jury taking it all in.
And again, she wondered why he would imply such a thing, with his own witness. The head of the Sûreté, for God’s sake.
The day was heating up, and so was the courtroom. She looked at the old air conditioners slumped in the windows. Turned off, of course. Too noisy. It would be distracting.
But the heat was becoming distracting too. And it wasn’t yet noon.
“When did it all, finally, strike you, Chief Superintendent, as abnormal?” asked Zalmanowitz.
Gamache’s rank was emphasized again, but now the Crown’s tone suggested a degree of incompetence.
“It really began during that Halloween party in the bistro,” said Gamache, ignoring the provocation. “Some of the guests wore masks, though most were recognizable, especially when they spoke. But one was not. One guest wore heavy black robes down to the floor, and a black mask. Gloves, boots. A hood was pulled up over his head.”
“Sounds like Darth Vader,” said the Crown, and there were chuckles in the gallery.
“We thought that, at first. But it wasn’t a Star Wars costume.”
“Then who did you think it was supposed to be?”
“Reine-Marie”—Gamache turned to the jury to clarify—“my wife—” They nodded. “—wondered if it was the father from the film Amadeus. But he wore a specific hat. This person just had the hood. Myrna thought he might be dressed as a Jesuit priest, but there wasn’t a cross.”
And then there was his manner. While around him people partied, this figure stood absolutely still.
Soon people stopped speaking to him. Asking about his costume. Trying to work out who it was. Before long, people stopped approaching him. And a space opened up around the dark figure. It was as though he occupied his own world. His own universe. Where there was no Halloween party. No revelers. No laughter. No friendship.
“What did you think?”
“I thought it was Death,” said Armand Gamache.
There was silence now, in the courtroom.
“And what did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Really? Death