A Great Reckoning Page 27

  “Not a lot, really. I don’t think many people actually even met him.”

  “Was that unusual?” asked Amelia.

  Monsieur Bergeron smiled. “Not many meet me. The Société des cartelogues du Québec tried to do a biography of Turcotte for the Canadian Encyclopedia. Here, let me find it.”

  He pulled a thick book from his shelf. Wiping off the dust, he found a page, then handed the book to Huifen.

  “Antony Turcotte, cartographer,” she read. “Born in LaSalle, in 1862. Died in 1919.”

  “But not in Three Pines,” said Amelia, reading over her shoulder. “It says here he’s buried in a place called Roof Trusses. Roof Trusses?”

  She looked at Monsieur Bergeron, who smiled. “I’m afraid so. Turcotte’s one great error. It’s become legendary in the toponymie world.”

  “He named a village Roof Trusses?”

  “We can’t explain it. Well, actually we can, sort of. At the entrance to the village, there used to be a small business that made—”

  “Roof trusses?”

  “Oui. Those wooden things that hold up roofs. We think, because he didn’t speak much English, that he mistook the sign for the name of the village.”

  “He never explained?”

  “He was never asked. He sent in his map, with the place names, but this was a tiny village and no one noticed until years later.”

  “So how do you know he didn’t make other mistakes?” asked Huifen.

  Monsieur Bergeron looked affronted and even slightly confused, as though the idea of Antony Turcotte making another error was incomprehensible.

  “He was human, after all,” she prompted, despite the mythologizing that had apparently happened over the years.

  “Antony Turcotte did not make another mistake, and the one he made he owned for eternity, by choosing to be buried there,” said Bergeron, his voice clipped.

  Amelia was about to point out that Turcotte had left the village of Three Pines off the map, but stopped herself. She suspected that had not been a mistake.

  “This biography doesn’t mention a wife or children,” said Huifen.

  “No, there was no record of either. It doesn’t mean he didn’t have them, just that the records were lost. As you can see, we couldn’t find out much about him.”

  The entry was indeed sparse.

  “Can you show us Roof Trusses on the map?” asked Huifen.

  Monsieur Bergeron looked a little sheepish. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Don’t tell me—” started Huifen.

  “It doesn’t exist anymore,” said Bergeron. “When the error was discovered, it was renamed, something the villagers themselves chose. But then it disappeared too.”

  “Disappeared?” asked Amelia.

  “It happens,” said Bergeron. “Villages spring up around a single industry and when it dies, the village dies.”

  And now Roof Trusses, like Three Pines, was not even a tiny dot on a large map, thought Amelia.

  * * *

  Jacques rammed the drawer of the filing cabinet shut with such force the sound knocked Nathaniel out of his skin.

  Hands trembling, breath short and shallow, his pupils dilated, Nathaniel dropped his head, but not before he saw Jacques turn and look down the long, long line of files. And focus. On him.

  The younger cadet went back to the cards, desperately going through them, trying to find the one with the answer. But Jacques was bearing down on him with purpose. He’d reached the end of his patience with the search, and had found something more interesting to do.

  Please, oh please, thought Nathaniel as his fingers fumbled. But his eyes no longer took in the words on the cards, and he waited, numb, for the shove, the punch, the slap. The harsh word. Or worse.

  Instead, a few feet away, Jacques stopped. A familiar buzzing had halted him. And, like Pavlov’s dog, he couldn’t help but react to it, bringing his iPhone out.

  His face lit up from the screen.

  “Where’re the Ts?”

  “Over here,” said Nathaniel, scuttling over a few cabinets. “Why?”

  But Jacques didn’t answer. He found the drawer and flipped through the records mumbling, “Turcotte. Turcotte. Here’s one. No, not him.”

  After a few minutes, Jacques stepped back, too puzzled to be annoyed, yet.

  * * *

  Huifen’s phone beeped.

  “Jacques just texted from the registry office. There’s no record of an Antony Turcotte.”

  Amelia tapped her phone a few times, once again bringing up the photograph of the memorial window. Scrolling down, she read the names.

  “No Turcotte here either.”

  “Are you sure our map was drawn by Antony Turcotte?” Huifen asked.

  “Positive,” said Monsieur Bergeron.

  “Then why can’t we find him?” asked Huifen.

  And why, thought Amelia, is everything to do with Antony Turcotte disappearing?

  CHAPTER 28

  “Salut, Armand.” Michel Brébeuf rose from behind the desk in his office. “I’m sorry. Commander.”

  There was a slight nip in the air.

  He put out his hand with exaggerated courtesy and Gamache shook it, then introduced Deputy Commissioner Gélinas.

  “Of the RCMP.” Brébeuf pointed to the small pin Gélinas wore on his lapel. “I’ve noticed you in the halls. Here to assure fairness in the investigation?”

  When Gélinas nodded, Brébeuf turned to Gamache.

  “Still doing the right thing, I see.”

  The nip became a bite.

  “And we’re hoping you will too,” said Gamache, and saw the smile drift off Brébeuf’s face. “May we?”

  But before Brébeuf could answer, the two men had taken seats. Gamache crossed his legs and made himself comfortable.

  “Now, Michel, we have a few questions.”

  “I’ve already been questioned, but always happy to help further. Are you any closer to finding out who killed Leduc?”

  “We’re plodding along,” said Gamache. He turned to Gélinas, who’d been watching with interest.

  To say there was animosity between the men would be a gross understatement. The air was almost unbreathable for the sulfur. Most of it emanating from Brébeuf, but Gamache was giving off his fair share. It was hidden beneath a razor-thin, and crackling, sheen of civility. But the stink of a long-rotted relationship was squeezing through the cracks.

  Any thought the RCMP officer had that these two had colluded in the murder of Serge Leduc disappeared immediately. He doubted these men could bake a cake together, never mind plan and execute a killing.

  “How well did you know Serge Leduc?” Gélinas asked.

  “I’d heard of him, of course. I was still with the Sûreté when he was transferred here. Second-in-command under that old fool, though Leduc actually ran the place.”

  “You were a senior officer at the time,” said Gélinas. “A superintendent.”

  Michel Brébeuf gave a shallow nod of assent.

  “You won’t remember, but we met once,” said Gélinas. “Years ago, at a consular function.”

  “Did we?”

  It was said politely, but it was clear Brébeuf did not remember and didn’t care to put in the effort to try. Paul Gélinas would have been just another guest. But Michel Brébeuf was always memorable. A small man who took up a lot of space, not because he demanded it but because he radiated authority.

  Unintentionally, or perhaps not, he became the center of attention in any room.

  The only other person Gélinas had met who could immediately and naturally command a room was the man sitting beside him. But Armand Gamache had another skill that Brébeuf didn’t seem to possess.

  He could disappear, when he chose. And it appeared he chose to disappear at that moment.

  Armand Gamache sat quietly. Almost a hole in the room.

  It was in some ways more disconcerting than the energy throbbing off the man across the desk.

  “So you knew him,” said Gélinas.

  “Serge Leduc? We were introduced a few times, at formal occasions. When I came here to speak to the graduating class, and at parades. But he was generally on the field with the cadets while I was on the podium.”

  A not-so-subtle reminder of their relative positions.

  “And when you accepted to teach here, did you rekindle the relationship?”

  “Now you’re being deliberately misleading,” said Brébeuf with amusement that did not extend to his gray winter eyes. Eyes, Gélinas thought, that looked like the slush in the street. Not water, not snow. Some in-between state. March eyes.

  “There was nothing to rekindle. We were barely acquainted, but yes, we came to know each other slightly better after we were thrown together here.”

  “You make it sound like you were trapped.”

  “Do I? I don’t mean to.”

  “How well did you get to know him over these past few months?”

  Brébeuf looked at him, and Gélinas could almost see his thoughts. He’s wondering how much we’ve found out. He knows by now the DNA and fingerprint results are in.

  He knows exactly what steps we’re taking, and in what order. And how to be a step ahead.

  “I’d visited him a few times in his rooms.”

  “And did he go to yours?”

  The question surprised Brébeuf and he raised his brows slightly. “No.”

  “What did you talk about, when you were together?”

  “We exchanged war stories.”

  “And did he tell you about fraud and contract fixing and the numbered accounts he holds in Luxembourg?” asked Gélinas.

  There was a slight movement off to his left, from Gamache.

  He doesn’t approve of my telling Brébeuf about Leduc’s criminal activities, thought Gélinas. But it was too late, and the RCMP officer had done it deliberately, to see Brébeuf’s reaction.

  “He alluded to some less than legal activity on his part,” said Brébeuf. “I think in an attempt to flatten the playing field. He was aware, of course, of my history.”

  “He wanted to let you know that he didn’t judge you?” asked Gélinas, and saw Brébeuf bristle.

  “Believe me, Deputy Commissioner, Serge Leduc’s judgment was of no importance to me.”

  “And yet, it appears you had a great deal in common. You were both senior Sûreté officers. Both misused your positions and were eventually caught and expelled from the Sûreté for criminal activity. Both of you were saved from prosecution by friends in high places. In your case, Monsieur Gamache. In his case, the Chief Superintendent. And you both found yourselves here, at the academy.”

  “Have you come here to insult me, or ask for my help?”

  “I’m pointing out the commonalities in your CVs,” said Gélinas. “That’s all.”

  “There might be commonalities, as you put it, but I had nothing in common with him,” said Brébeuf. “He was just that. Common. A lump of coal that thought it was a diamond. He was a moron with a big office.”

  “Then what were you doing in his living room? His bathroom? His bedroom?” asked Gélinas, his voice no longer quite so cordial. He shoved a hard copy of the forensics report across the desk. “What were you doing handling the murder weapon?”

  Beside him, Gamache stirred again, and then subsided.

  Brébeuf picked up the paper and scanned it with the practiced eye of a seasoned investigator. Going straight to the pertinent information.

  His face, at first grim, relaxed a fraction. Gélinas realized, in that moment, why Gamache had reacted, albeit subtly, when the report was given to Brébeuf.

  Yes, it showed that Michel Brébeuf might have held the murder weapon. But it also showed it was even more likely that Gamache had.

  “You know as well as I do,” said Brébeuf, sliding the page back to Gélinas, “that this is supposition. Inadmissible.”

  “Then you deny it?”

  “Of course I do. I had no idea he had a gun, though I should’ve guessed. Only a fool would keep one in his rooms at a school. Though I’d never have expected this type of gun. A revolver? Does this make sense to you?”

  He’d asked the question of Gamache.

  “I would’ve expected a missile launcher,” said Gamache, and Brébeuf laughed.

  And in a flash, in that easy laugh, Gélinas saw something else.

  How these two could have once been friends. They’d have made a formidable team, too, had one not stepped back and the other stepped up.

  The mood in the room seemed to have changed, with that moment between the two men.

  Michel Brébeuf grew quiet, contemplative.

  “Do you want to know why we sometimes had dinner and drinks together?” Brébeuf asked. His voice deepening, softening.

  Paul Gélinas nodded and glanced over at Gamache, who hadn’t moved. He was still watching Brébeuf with keen, attentive eyes.

  “I went there because I was lonely,” said Brébeuf. “I was surrounded by people here, but no one wanted anything to do with me. I don’t blame them. I did this to myself, and I came here to try to make amends. I knew it would be difficult to talk to the senior cadets, every day, about corruption and my own temptation. About all the things that can go wrong, when you’re given authority and a gun and no boundary but your own. It’s one thing to be told that power corrupts,” he turned to Gamache, “but you were right. It’s far more effective to see an example. I told them about what I’d done, how it started small, insignificant even. And grew. I told them about the dangers of falling in with the wrong people. I taught an entire class on the theme of one bad apple. And admitted that had been me. And on the very first day of class, I wrote Matthew 10:36 across the top of the blackboard, and left it there. It was humiliating, but necessary.”

  He’d spoken quietly, and directly to Armand.

  “I thought the worst would be the classroom, but it wasn’t. The worst was the evenings, when I could hear laughter and music. When I knew you were just down the corridor, talking to your cadets. And I sat there, alone, waiting for someone to perhaps show up.”

  Paul Gélinas felt he had vanished, been overwhelmed, buried. A climber caught up in the avalanche that was the relationship between these two men.

  “I visited Serge Leduc every now and then because he was the only one who smiled when he saw me.”

  “Did you kill him, Michel?” asked Armand quietly.

  “Would you put a bullet in your life raft?” asked Brébeuf. “No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t like or respect him. But then, I don’t like or respect myself. But I didn’t shoot the man.”

  “Do you have any idea who did?” asked Gélinas, clawing his way back into the interview.

  “I wish I could tell you I think it was a professor and not a student, but I can’t,” said Brébeuf. “The cadets these days aren’t like we were. They’re rough, coarse. Look at that freshman, the one with all the tattoos and piercings. And the language I’ve heard out of her. To professors. Shocking. What’s she doing here? One of Leduc’s recruits, no doubt.”

  “Actually, she’s one of mine,” said Gamache. “Amelia Choquet is top of her class. She reads Ancient Greek and Latin. And she swears like the criminals she’ll one day arrest. While you, Michel, are gentility itself. And have broken most of the laws you promised to uphold.”

  Brébeuf took a deep breath, either steadying himself, or readying the attack. The thin ice they’d been on had given way. Gamache himself had shattered it.

  There was a moment when the world seemed to stop entirely.

  And then Michel Brébeuf smiled. “I was the more senior officer, Armand, but you were always the better man, weren’t you? How comforting for you to know that. And to always remind me.” He leaned his lean body across the desk. “Well, fuck you.”

  It was said with a strange mixture of humor and anger. Was he joking, Gélinas wondered, or was the insult real?

  He looked over at Gamache, who’d raised his brows but was also smiling. And Gélinas understood then how well these two men knew each other. And while there was malice, there was also a closeness. An intimacy.

  It was a bond that could only have been formed over many years. But hate bonds as surely, and closely, as love.

  Paul Gélinas made a mental note to look into their pasts. He knew them professionally, but now it was time to dig into their personal lives.

  “The murder of Serge Leduc didn’t happen out of the blue,” said Brébeuf. “If it had, you’d have caught the person by now. No. It was considered. He enjoyed tormenting people. Especially people who couldn’t fight back. But he obviously chose the wrong target.”

  “You think Leduc hurt and humiliated someone so badly that they got their revenge?” asked Gamache.

  “I do, and I can see you do too. And you, Deputy Commissioner?”

  “I reserve judgment. You’re both more experienced in murder than I am.”

  “Do you think he means murder, or investigating murder, Armand?” asked Michel as they got to their feet.

  “I think Monsieur Gélinas says exactly what he means,” said Gamache.

  “Then I think you’re in a bit of trouble,” said Brébeuf. He laughed. With genuine pleasure.

  Paul Gélinas felt nauseous as he walked down the hall. Made seasick by Brébeuf’s wildly corkscrewing emotions.

  Neither man looked behind him, but they could feel Brébeuf’s eyes on their backs. And then they heard the office door quietly click shut.

  “You two were friends?” asked Gélinas.

  “Best friends,” said Gamache. “He was a good man, once.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think he still is?” Gélinas asked when they reached the stairs.

  Gamache paused at the top step. The stairwell was flooded with light from the three-story window that framed the vast thawing prairie.

  The echo of cadets calling to each other to hurry bounced off the walls, and urgent steps were heard on the marble stairs below.

  And Armand remembered how he and Michel would race up an old, scuffed mahogany staircase, taking them two at a time. Late for class. Again. Because of some sudden discovery the young men had made. A trap door. The way into the attic. A bone that might be human. Or from a chicken.

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