her reminiscence. “But that was Notre-Dame in Paris. Chartres. Mont St.-Michel. Not exactly your village chapel.”
Gamache crossed his legs and nodded. There certainly were no flying buttresses in St. Thomas’s, though it was a nicer place to sit than Notre-Dame. It all depended, of course, on what you were looking for.
“Then why do you think she was there?” he asked, repeating Lacoste’s question.
Lea shook her head. “Maybe she just needed some quiet time. Maybe it was cold and she went in to warm up. I honestly don’t know.”
Gamache noticed that Isabelle had not said that Katie was found in the basement, nor had she told them that Katie was in the cobrador costume.
A costume that was highly symbolic. It spoke of sin, of debt. Of the unconscionable and the uncollected. It spoke of revenge and shame. It was an accusation.
And it had been placed on the dead woman.
Not in error, but on purpose. With a purpose.
Yes, thought Gamache, there was a connection between Madame Evans and the cobrador.
The question was, did her friends know what it was?
“This’s my fault,” said Lea. “If I hadn’t protected him last night, he might’ve been scared away. Or beaten. But at least Katie would be alive.” Then she turned to Gamache. “It’s your fault too. You could’ve done something. But all you did was talk to him. You kept saying he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Well, now he has. If you’d stepped in, she’d still be alive.”
Gamache said nothing, because there was nothing to be said. He’d already explained many times to the villagers that there was nothing he could do. Though given what had happened, he knew he’d go back over it and over it. Wondering if that was really true.
He also knew that her rage was really directed at whoever had picked up that bat and killed her friend. He just happened to be a more convenient target.
So he let her have at it. Without backing away. Without defending himself. And when she’d finished, he was silent.
Lea Roux was in tears now, having opened the gates to her anger, her sorrow.
“Oh, shit,” she gasped, trying to regain control of herself, as though crying for a dead friend was shameful. “What have we done?”
“You did nothing wrong,” said Lacoste. “And neither did Chief Superintendent Gamache. Whoever did this is to blame.”
Lea took the tissue Lacoste offered and thanked her, wiping her face and blowing her nose. But still crying. Softer now. More sorrow. Less rage.
“You can’t really think the cobrador thing came here for Katie,” said Lea.
“Do you have another theory?” Lacoste asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe the cobrador did do it, but not on purpose. Maybe Katie followed him and found out who he was, and he killed her.”
Gamache nodded slowly. That had occurred to him as well.
But then, why put her in the costume?
And again, why kill her at all? It seemed an extreme overreaction to being exposed.
But that could mean that she recognized him.
Gamache returned his gaze to the fog outside. Far from being oppressive, he found it soothing. Enveloping, not smothering.
Was Katie Evans’s murder premeditated? Had she been the target all along? Or was it the impulsive act of a person who’d been found out? Cornered in that church basement?
“So you can’t think of anyone who might wish your friend harm?” asked Lacoste.
“Not that I know of. She was an architect. She built homes.”
“Did any project go badly wrong? An accident maybe? A collapse?”
“No, never.”
“Her marriage to Patrick,” said Gamache. “Was it a happy one?”
“I think so. She wanted children but he didn’t. You might’ve noticed, he’s a bit of a child himself. Not in a playful way, more in a needy way. He needed mothering. Katie gives him that. She gives us all that. She’s very maternal. Would’ve made a wonderful mother. She’s godmother to our eldest. Never forgets a birthday.”
Lea looked down at the tissue, twisted into shreds in her hands.
“I think their relationship was good,” she said. “I couldn’t see it myself. Especially when—” She looked at Lacoste, then over at Gamache.
They remained silent, waiting for her to finish the sentence.
“When she could’ve had Edouard.”
“Your friend from college,” said Gamache. “The one who killed himself.”
“Or just fell,” she said. It was something she had to believe. Struggled to believe. Lea gave a huge sigh. “Love. What can you do?”
Gamache nodded. What could you do?
Beauvoir, Matheo and Dr. Harris returned, having gotten Patrick to bed.
“He’ll be fine,” said Sharon Harris. “Needs sleep is all.”
“I’ll walk you