his own experiences, but also from his own children. Especially Daniel, his eldest.
University was a time of education, and not all of it in a classroom. It was a time to experiment. To grab life. To consume at random, like the first time at a buffet. And then to stagger to a stop, overstuffed and nauseous. And sometimes unable to pay the bill.
They got the drugs, the booze, the random sex and the consequences out of their system. And began to make more thoughtful choices.
But some never quite managed to push away from the buffet.
What were the chances that four of them would go wild, and all four of them would find their way back to civilization?
Wasn’t there a pretty good chance one of them wouldn’t make it all the way back?
And then he remembered. There was one. A fifth.
“Tell us about Edouard.”
“What?” said Matheo. “Why?”
“It was a tragedy,” said Gamache. “And those reverberate.”
“But it wasn’t Katie’s fault,” said Lea. “She wasn’t even there when he fell. She and Patrick had snuck off into his dorm room. If it was anyone’s fault, it was the dealer who sold Edouard the drugs.”
“And who was he?” asked Lacoste.
“You’re kidding, right?” said Matheo. “That was fifteen years ago. I barely remember the names of my professors. And the guy took off right after Edouard died. As soon as the cops started asking questions.”
“So you don’t know his name?” asked Beauvoir.
“No. Look, Edouard died years ago. It can’t have anything to do with Katie today.”
“You might be surprised,” said Gamache, “how many murders start in the distant past. They have time to fester, to grow. To become malformed and grotesque. Like those men and women abandoned on the island off Spain. But they always come back.”
He commanded the quiet room, the only sound the slight tip-tap of sleet on the panes.
“Where were you last night?” Lacoste asked.
“At the Gamaches’ for dinner,” said Matheo. “And then bed.”
“You didn’t hear Madame Evans leave the B&B or return?”
“Non, I heard nothing,” said Matheo, and Lea nodded.
The Sûreté officers walked Lea and Matheo to the door.
When they’d left, Lacoste and Beauvoir turned to Gamache.
“Do you think the killer is long gone?” Lacoste asked.
“Non. I think whoever killed Katie Evans is still here. And is watching us.”
CHAPTER 19
“What’re they doing now?” asked Jacqueline.
“They’re still there.”
Anton looked out the bay window of Sarah’s Boulangerie toward St. Thomas’s Church, while Jacqueline stood at the worktable behind the counter and kneaded. Pummeling the dough.
“They’ve taken her away,” said Anton, turning from the window. “The ambulance has gone.”
He’d come in with the news that a body had been found in the chapel. That it was one of the visitors. Katie Evans.
By then, they’d known. But still, having it confirmed was a shock.
Anton tried sitting, but found he couldn’t get comfortable, and so he paced the small boulangerie, while trying not to make it look like pacing.
When he’d woken up that morning and the cobrador was gone, he’d thought it would be okay. That they didn’t need to tell Gamache anything. But now—
A woman had been killed and there were cops everywhere.
It was worse than ever.
“We should’ve told them,” said Jacqueline, pulling sticky dough off her fingers.
“That we knew it was a cobrador? You think it had something to do with what happened.”
“Of course it did,” she snapped, then scraping the dough off the counter, she threw it down with such force it flattened. The air, the life, knocked out of it. It would not rise now. “You can’t be that much of an idiot.”
He looked at her as though he’d been the one kneaded and thumped. And winded by a blow.
“Honestly, Anton. We were told about the cobrador last year. And now it’s here? Didn’t it occur to you that maybe it’s come for us?”
“But why would it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jacqueline. “Because we worked for a madman?”
“They’re the ones who left,” said Anton. “Not us. Besides, we don’t know anything.”
“We know enough. Maybe he sent the cobrador as a warning. To keep our mouths shut.”
But if the cobrador had come for them, why was Madame Evans dead?
The cops hadn’t yet told them exactly what had happened, but it was obvious. Madame Evans wasn’t just dead. Judging by the activity at the church, it was neither natural nor an accident.
“Is it too late to say something?” he asked.
“Maybe not.” She punched the dough. “But it’ll look bad. They’ll wonder why we didn’t tell them sooner.”