Page 115

Armand stared, then looked more closely.

It was the bridge. Painted at the very moment it collapsed. Tiny flailing figures were dropping into the cold waters of the St. Lawrence River below.

He reached into his pocket and felt the old ring. This could not, he knew, be a coincidence.

“Armand?” said Mongeau. “Everything okay? Is it the Québec Bridge?”

Gamache nodded, only partly hearing the minister. His mind occupied with an old hymn, and an old bridge. And an old ring.

He locked the door to the evidence room, and double-checked. More afraid that whatever was in there would get out than that anyone could get in. He knew it was insane, but he also, now, had some inkling who was behind all this. And yes, “insane” was the word that sprang to mind.

Gamache and Mongeau stepped into the shiny midday, as though emerging from a cave. Armand took a deep breath of the fresh air, turned his face to the sun, and felt his hand steady. Then the two men walked over the stone bridge across the Rivière Bella Bella and back into the village.

“What is it, Armand?” said Mongeau.

Gamache was sorely tempted to tell him about the last time he’d heard that song. The last person who’d hummed it. But he could not. Mostly because it might be a vital piece of the puzzle, but also because, well …

Armand Gamache knew how powerful words could be, and he did not, yet, want to utter them. That name.

“It’s nothing.”

“Something to do with the song?”

“It’s nothing, Robert,” Gamache repeated, his voice firm. The message now clear. No further. You will go no further.

And it was clear by his expression that Mongeau got the message.

To soften it a little, Armand said, “I heard that you defended me to Sam Arsenault. Thank you for that.”

“Troubled young man.”

“Oui. I also heard that you said you could see goodness in him. Is that true?”

Mongeau smiled. “I see goodness in most people. I think you do too.”

“Most, but not all. Do you see it in his sister, Fiona?”

Mongeau took a few steps in silence. It was a lovely spring day. The air was soft with the scent of sweet woodruff, and the lilac that flourished in Three Pines. Plants that appeared to die each fall but came alive again each spring. It always seemed a miracle.

But Gamache knew that resurrection was not always a blessing. Not everything dead should come back.

“My sight is imperfect. I see through the glass darkly,” Mongeau quoted in answer to Armand’s question about Fiona. “Sorry. Easier to take someone else’s words. Makes me sound smart.” He smiled. “What St. Paul said happens to be true. I only see part, not the whole.”

“And what do you see when you look at Fiona Arsenault?” Gamache pressed, knowing his own sight was almost completely obscured when it came to those two young people.

Mongeau stopped. “This is where I leave you. If you ever do want to talk, about yourself, let me know.”

Gamache watched the man head to the church. To his sanctuary. Where his wife was healthy and would outlive him.

Armand longed to spend a moment, just a moment, sitting on the bench on the village green. To close his eyes and tilt his face to the sun. A quiet moment of peace next to the three huge pines. These particular trees were planted more than a century ago by three brothers just before they headed off to war. They were still saplings when all three returned, as stained-glass figures.

Armand didn’t stop. There was no time to rest. No peace yet.

“Excusez-moi?” Reine-Marie said.

“I need you to go to England.”

“Why?”