spoke now to Porter Wilson but noticed everyone looked at Elizabeth, who remained silent.
“Eventually, maybe. But there was no advantage for us, and a whole lot of—” Porter searched for a word. “Inconvenience.”
“Monsieur Renaud could be very persuasive,” said Gamache, remembering the vitriolic campaigns the amateur archeologist had waged against anyone who denied him permission to dig.
“True,” admitted Porter. He seemed tired now, as the full import of what had happened weighed more and more heavily. As horrible as it would have been to have Augustin Renaud dig for Champlain beneath their Lit and His Society, the only thing worse was what had happened.
“May I see your minutes for the meeting?”
“I haven’t done them up yet,” said Elizabeth.
“Your notebook will do.”
He waited. Eventually she handed him her notebook and putting onhis half-moon reading glasses he scanned the minutes, noting who was there for the meeting.
“I see Tom Hancock and Ken Haslam were there, but left early. Were they there when Augustin Renaud showed up?”
“Yes,” said Porter. “They left shortly after that. We were all there.”
Gamache continued to scan the minutes then over his glasses he looked at Elizabeth.
“There’s no mention of Monsieur Renaud’s visit.”
Elizabeth MacWhirter stared back. It seemed clear that when she’d asked for his help she hadn’t expected him to ask them quite so many questions, and uncomfortable ones at that.
“I decided not to mention it. He didn’t speak to us, after all. Nothing happened.”
“A great deal happened,
madame
,” said Gamache. But he’d also noticed that she’d said “I,” not “we.” Was she letting them off the hook? Taking the burden of responsibility herself? Or was it really a unilateral decision?
They might be in a lifeboat, but Gamache now had a clear idea who was captain.
SIX
It was early afternoon and Jean-Guy Beauvoir realized he’d already made a mistake. Not a big one, more an annoyance.
He had to return to Montreal and interview Olivier Brulé. He should have done that first, before coming down to Three Pines. Instead, he’d spent the last hour quietly in the bistro. Everyone had left, but not before making sure he was in the best chair, the big, worn, leather armchair beside the fireplace. He dipped an orange biscotti into his
café au lait
and looking through the frosty window he could see the snow, falling gently but steadily. Billy Williams had been by once with the plow, but the snow had already filled in behind him.
Beauvoir dropped his gaze to the dossier in his hand and continued reading, snug and warm inside. Half an hour later he glanced at the mariner’s clock on the mantelpiece. One twenty.
Time to go.
But not to Montreal. Not in this weather.
Returning to his room in the B and B, Beauvoir changed into his silk long underwear then layered his clothing strategically, putting on his snowsuit last. He rarely wore it, since he preferred being runway-ready and this suit made him look like the robot from
Lost in Space.
Indeed, in the winter, Québec looked like the staging area for an alien invasion.
Fortunately the chances of running into the editor of
Vogue Hommes
in the woods was pretty small.
He walked up the hill, hearing his thighs zinging together and barely able to put his arms flat to his sides. Now he felt a bit like a zombie, clump, clump, clumping up the hill to the inn and spa.
“Oui?”
Carole Gilbert answered the door and looked at the snow-covered zombie. But the older woman showed absolutely no fright, not even surprise. Gracious as ever she took two steps back and let the alien into the inn, run by her son and daughter-in-law.
“May I help you?”
Beauvoir unwrapped himself, now feeling like The Mummy. He was an entire B-grade film festival. Finally he removed his hat and Carole Gilbert smiled warmly.
“It’s Inspector Beauvoir,
non
?”
“Oui, madame, comment
“Eventually, maybe. But there was no advantage for us, and a whole lot of—” Porter searched for a word. “Inconvenience.”
“Monsieur Renaud could be very persuasive,” said Gamache, remembering the vitriolic campaigns the amateur archeologist had waged against anyone who denied him permission to dig.
“True,” admitted Porter. He seemed tired now, as the full import of what had happened weighed more and more heavily. As horrible as it would have been to have Augustin Renaud dig for Champlain beneath their Lit and His Society, the only thing worse was what had happened.
“May I see your minutes for the meeting?”
“I haven’t done them up yet,” said Elizabeth.
“Your notebook will do.”
He waited. Eventually she handed him her notebook and putting onhis half-moon reading glasses he scanned the minutes, noting who was there for the meeting.
“I see Tom Hancock and Ken Haslam were there, but left early. Were they there when Augustin Renaud showed up?”
“Yes,” said Porter. “They left shortly after that. We were all there.”
Gamache continued to scan the minutes then over his glasses he looked at Elizabeth.
“There’s no mention of Monsieur Renaud’s visit.”
Elizabeth MacWhirter stared back. It seemed clear that when she’d asked for his help she hadn’t expected him to ask them quite so many questions, and uncomfortable ones at that.
“I decided not to mention it. He didn’t speak to us, after all. Nothing happened.”
“A great deal happened,
madame
,” said Gamache. But he’d also noticed that she’d said “I,” not “we.” Was she letting them off the hook? Taking the burden of responsibility herself? Or was it really a unilateral decision?
They might be in a lifeboat, but Gamache now had a clear idea who was captain.
SIX
It was early afternoon and Jean-Guy Beauvoir realized he’d already made a mistake. Not a big one, more an annoyance.
He had to return to Montreal and interview Olivier Brulé. He should have done that first, before coming down to Three Pines. Instead, he’d spent the last hour quietly in the bistro. Everyone had left, but not before making sure he was in the best chair, the big, worn, leather armchair beside the fireplace. He dipped an orange biscotti into his
café au lait
and looking through the frosty window he could see the snow, falling gently but steadily. Billy Williams had been by once with the plow, but the snow had already filled in behind him.
Beauvoir dropped his gaze to the dossier in his hand and continued reading, snug and warm inside. Half an hour later he glanced at the mariner’s clock on the mantelpiece. One twenty.
Time to go.
But not to Montreal. Not in this weather.
Returning to his room in the B and B, Beauvoir changed into his silk long underwear then layered his clothing strategically, putting on his snowsuit last. He rarely wore it, since he preferred being runway-ready and this suit made him look like the robot from
Lost in Space.
Indeed, in the winter, Québec looked like the staging area for an alien invasion.
Fortunately the chances of running into the editor of
Vogue Hommes
in the woods was pretty small.
He walked up the hill, hearing his thighs zinging together and barely able to put his arms flat to his sides. Now he felt a bit like a zombie, clump, clump, clumping up the hill to the inn and spa.
“Oui?”
Carole Gilbert answered the door and looked at the snow-covered zombie. But the older woman showed absolutely no fright, not even surprise. Gracious as ever she took two steps back and let the alien into the inn, run by her son and daughter-in-law.
“May I help you?”
Beauvoir unwrapped himself, now feeling like The Mummy. He was an entire B-grade film festival. Finally he removed his hat and Carole Gilbert smiled warmly.
“It’s Inspector Beauvoir,
non
?”
“Oui, madame, comment
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