A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2)

A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2) Page 88

‘Probably telling her to keep still. She kept wiggling. Very annoying.’

‘And she listened to you? Why?’

‘Everyone listens to Kaye,’ said Em with a smile. ‘Like her father, she’s a natural leader.’

Gamache thought that wasn’t totally true. He thought that of the three friends Émilie Longpré was the real leader, though the quietest.

‘Our Kaye here ran Thompson Mills up on Mont Echo for decades, all by herself. Trained and organized a bunch of mountain men, and they adored her. It was the most successful logging operation around.’

‘If I could get some brute into a lye bath once a week I could get CC to stop fidgeting,’ said Kaye. ‘Never could stand the nervous sort.’

‘We now believe de Poitiers wasn’t her real name,’ said Gamache, watching their reactions. But both women continued to stare at the photographs. ‘We think her mother came from Three Pines and that’s why CC came here. To find her mother.’

‘Poor child,’ said Em, still not looking up. Gamache wondered whether she was deliberately avoiding eye contact. ‘Did she?’

‘Find her mother?’ said Gamache. ‘I don’t know. But we know her mother’s name started with an L. Do you know of anyone?’

‘Well, there is one,’ said Émilie. ‘A woman named Longpré.’

Kaye sputtered with laughter. ‘Come on, Chief Inspector. You can’t suspect Em here? Do you think she could abandon a child? Em could no more do that than she could win a curling match. Absolutely incapable.’

‘Thank you, dear.’

‘Anyone else?’ he asked. There was a pause and both women eventually shook their heads. Gamache knew then they were hiding something. They had to have been. They’d both lived in Three Pines when CC’s mother was there and back in the fifties in a small Quebec village a pregnant girl would have been noticed.

‘Can I offer you a lift home?’ Em asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.

Gamache bent to pick up the photographs and his eye caught something. Kaye looking particularly cross at CC, and CC staring ahead at the empty chair as though desperate to get to it. He knew then how the murderer had done it.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Clara and Peter Morrow turned their television and VCR on and Beauvoir shoved the tape into the slot.

He wasn’t looking forward to this. Two hours of some old English movie where all they probably did was talk, talk, talk. No explosions. No sex. He thought he’d rather have the flu than sit through The Lion in Winter. Beside him on the sofa Agent Lemieux was all excited.

Kids.

Émilie Longpré dropped Gamache at the old Hadley house as he requested.

‘Would you like me to wait?’

‘No, madame, mais vous êtes très gentille. The walk back will do me good.’

‘It’s a cold night, Chief Inspector, and getting colder.’ She pointed to her dashboard. The time and temperature were displayed. Minus fifteen Celsius already and the sun had just set. It was four thirty.

‘I’ve never liked this house,’ she said, looking at the turrets and blank windows. Ahead the village of Three Pines beckoned, the lights glowing and warm with a promise of company and an aperitif by a glad fire. With a wrench Gamache opened the car door, which screamed in protest, its hinges frozen and crying. He watched as Émilie’s car disappeared over the small hill into the village, then he turned back to the house. A light could be seen in the living room and a hall light went on after he’d rung the bell.

‘Come in, come in.’ Richard Lyon practically yanked him through the door then slammed it shut. ‘Terrible night. Come in, Chief Inspector.’

Oh, for God’s sake, don’t sound so hearty. Can’t you just once sound normal? Try to be like someone you admire. President Roosevelt, maybe. Or Captain Jean Luc Picard.

‘What can I do for you?’ Lyon liked the sound of his voice now. Calm and measured and in control. Just don’t fuck up.

‘I need to ask you some questions, but first, how’s your daughter?’

‘Crie?’

Why was it, Gamache wondered, that every time he asked about Crie, Lyon seemed perplexed, almost surprised to discover he had a daughter, or that anyone cared.

‘She’s doing all right, I suppose. Ate something for lunch. I put the heat up so she’s not so cold.’

‘Is she speaking?’

‘No, but then she never did much.’

Gamache felt like shaking this lethargic man who seemed to live in a world of cotton batting, insulated and muffled. Without being invited Gamache walked into the living room and sat down opposite Crie. The girl’s clothes had changed. Now she wore white shorts that strangled her legs, and a pink halter top. Her hair was in pigtails, and her face blank.