comes to visit and the head of the Sûreté, the former Chief Inspector of homicide, does nothing?”
“It was a person in a costume,” said Gamache with patience.
“That’s what you told yourself that night, perhaps,” said the Crown. “When did you realize it really was Death? Let me guess. When you were standing over the body?”
CHAPTER 2
No. The figure at the Halloween party was disconcerting, but Gamache had really begun to think something was very wrong the next morning, as he’d looked out their bedroom window into the damp November day.
“What’re you looking at, Armand?” asked Reine-Marie, coming out of the shower and walking over to him.
Her brow dropped as she looked out the window. “What’s he doing there?” she asked, her voice low.
Where everyone else had gone home, gone to sleep, the figure in the dark cloak had not. He’d stayed behind. Stayed there. And was still there. Standing on the village green in his wool robes. And hood. Staring.
Gamache couldn’t see from that angle, but he suspected the mask was also in place.
“I don’t know,” said Armand.
It was Saturday morning, and he put on his casual clothes. Cords and shirt and a heavy fall sweater. It was the beginning of November and the weather wasn’t letting them forget it.
The day had dawned gray, as November often did, after the bright sunshine and bright autumn leaves of October.
November was the transition month. A sort of purgatory. It was the cold damp breath between dying and death. Between fall and the dead of winter.
It was no one’s favorite month.
Gamache put on his rubber boots and went outside, leaving their German shepherd Henri and the little creature Gracie to stare after him in bewilderment. Unused to being left behind.
It was colder than he’d expected. Colder even than the night before.
His hands were icy before he’d even reached the green, and he regretted leaving his gloves and cap behind.
Gamache placed himself right in front of the dark figure.
The mask was in place. Nothing visible except the eyes. And even those were obscured by a sort of gauze.
“Who are you?” he asked.
His voice was calm, almost friendly. As though this were a cordial conversation. A perfectly reasonable situation.
No need to antagonize. Time enough for that later, if need be.
But the figure remained silent. Not exactly at attention, it wasn’t that wooden. There was about it a sense of confidence, of authority even. It was as if it not only belonged on that spot, but owned it.
Though Gamache suspected that impression came more from the robes and the silence than the man.
It always struck him how much more effective silence was than words. If the effect you were after was to disconcert. But he didn’t have the luxury of silence himself.
“Why are you here?” Gamache asked. First in French, then in English.
Then waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Forty-five seconds.
* * *
In the bistro, Myrna and Gabri watched through the leaded-glass window.
Two men, staring at each other.
“Good,” said Gabri. “Armand’ll get rid of him.”
“Who is he?” Myrna asked. “He was at your party last night.”
“I know, but I have no idea who he is. Neither does Olivier.”
“Finished with that?” asked Anton, the dishwasher and morning busboy.
He reached for Myrna’s plate, now just crumbs. But his hand stopped. And, like the other two, he stared.
Myrna looked up at him. He was fairly new to the place but had fit in quickly. Olivier had hired him to do the dishes and bus, but Anton had made it clear he hoped to be head chef.
“There is only one chef,” Anton had confided in Myrna one day while buying vintage cookbooks at her shop. “But Olivier likes to make it sound like there’s a fleet of them.”
Myrna laughed. Sounded like Olivier. Always trying to impress, even people who knew him too well for that.
“Do you have a specialty?” she asked as she rang up the total on her old cash register.
“I like Canadian cuisine.”
She’d paused to look at him. In his mid-thirties, she thought. Surely too old, and too ambitious, to be a busboy. He sounded well educated, and was well turned out. Lean and athletic. With dark brown hair trimmed on the sides and longer on top so that it flopped over his forehead in a way that made him look more boyish than he actually was.
He was certainly handsome. And an aspiring chef.
Had she been twenty years younger …
A gal can dream. And she did.
“Canadian cuisine. What’s that?”
“Exactly,” Anton had said, smiling. “No one really knows. I think it’s