How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (49 page)

When Marie-Harriette and Isidore had their beloved daughters taken away, what choice did they have but to make more?

In his letter, Chief Inspector Gamache explained that he’d had the tuque tested for DNA. They’d found his. They’d found Myrna’s. Both of them had recently handled the hat. They’d also found Constance’s DNA, and one other. A close match to Constance.

Gamache admitted he’d assumed it was her father’s or mother’s, but the fact was, the technician had originally said a sibling.

“Another sister,” said Clara. “Marie-A.”

“But why didn’t anyone know about this younger sister?” asked Gabri.

“Christ,” snapped Ruth, looking at Gabri with disdain. “I’d have thought someone who was practically a work of fiction himself would know more about myths.”

“Well, I know a gorgon when I see one.” Gabri glared at Ruth, who looked like she was trying to turn him to stone.

“Look,” Ruth finally said, “the Quints were supposed to be a miracle, right? A huge harvest from barren ground. Frère André’s final gift. Well, how would it look if Mama starting popping out children all over the place? Kinda takes away from the miracle.”

“Dr. Bernard and the government figured she’d laid the golden eggs, now she needed to stop,” said Myrna.

“If I’d said that they’d castrate me,” Gabri muttered to Olivier.

“But would people really care?” asked Olivier. “I mean, the Quints were pretty amazing no matter how many younger brothers and sisters they had.”

“But they were more amazing if seen as an act of a benevolent God,” said Myrna. “That’s what the government and Bernard were peddling. Not a circus act, but an act of God. Through the Depression and war, people flocked to them, not to see five identical girls, but to see hope. Proof that God exists. A generous and kind God, who’d given this gift to a barren woman. But suppose Madame Ouellet wasn’t barren at all? Suppose she had another child?”

“Suppose Christ hadn’t risen?” said Gabri. “Suppose the water wasn’t wine?”

“It was critical to their story that Madame Ouellet be barren. That’s what made the miracle,” said Myrna. “Without that the Quints became an oddity, nothing more.”

“No miracle, no money,” said Clara.

“So the new baby threatened to bring down everything they’d created,” said Ruth.

“And cost them millions of dollars,” said Myrna. “The child had to be hidden. Armand thinks that’s what we were seeing, when Marie-Harriette closed the door on her daughters in the newsreel.”

They remembered the image, frozen in their minds. Young Virginie howling. Trying to get back into the house. But the door had been closed. Shut in her face by her own mother. Not to keep the girls out, but to keep the younger child in. To keep MA away from the newsreels.

“Constance only told us one personal thing,” said Gabri. “That she and her sisters liked to play hockey. But there’re six players on a team, not five.”

“Exactly,” said Myrna. “When Constance told me about the hockey team, it seemed important to her, but I thought it was just some old memory. That she was sort of testing out her newfound freedom to reveal things, and had decided to start with something trivial. It never occurred to me that was it. The key. Six siblings, not five.”

“I didn’t pick up on it either,” said Ruth. “And I coach a team.”

“You bully a team,” said Gabri. “It’s not the same thing.”

“But I can count,” said Ruth. “Six players. Not five.” She thought for a moment, absently stroking Rosa’s head and neck. “Imagine being that child. Excluded, hidden. Watching your sisters grab the spotlight, while you’re kept in the dark. Something shameful.”

They paused and tried to imagine what that would be like. Not having one sister who was a favored child, but five of them. And not simply favored by the parents, but by the world. Given beautiful dresses, toys, candy, a fairy-tale house. And all the attention.

While MA was shoved aside. Shoved inside. Denied.

“So what happened?” asked Ruth. “Are you saying Constance’s sister killed her?”

Myrna held up the envelope with Gamache’s careful writing. “Chief Inspector Gamache believes it goes back to the first death. Virginie.” Myrna turned to Ruth. “Constance saw what happened. So did Hélène. They told the other sisters, but no one else. It was their secret, the one that bound them together.”

“The one they took to the grave,” said Ruth. “And tried to bury. Virginie was murdered.”

“One of them had done it,” said Gabri.

“Constance came here to tell you that,” said Clara.

“After Marguerite died, she felt she was free to finally talk,” said Myrna.

“Matthew 10:36.” Ruth’s voice had dropped to a whisper.
“And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household.”

*   *   *

Jean-Guy Beauvoir drove down the familiar road. It was covered in snow now, but when he’d first seen it, years before, it had been dirt. And the trees overhead hadn’t been bare, but in full autumn color, with the sun shining through. Ambers and reds, warm yellows. Like a stained-glass window.

He hadn’t remarked on the beauty of the place. Been too reserved and cynical to stare in open awe at the pretty, peaceful village below.

But he’d felt it. That awe. And that peace.

Today, though, he felt nothing.

“How far now?” Francoeur asked.

“Almost there,” said Beauvoir. “A few more minutes.”

“Pull over,” said the Chief Superintendent, and Beauvoir did.

“If Chief Inspector Gamache was going to set up a post in the village,” Francoeur asked, “where would it be?”

“Gamache?” asked Beauvoir. He hadn’t realized this was about Gamache. “Is he here?”

“Just answer the question, Inspector,” said Tessier from the backseat.

The van carrying the two agents and equipment idled behind them.

This was the moment of truth, Francoeur knew. Would Beauvoir balk at giving away information about Gamache? Up until now Francoeur hadn’t asked Beauvoir to actively betray his former boss, but to simply do nothing to help him.

But now they needed more from Beauvoir.

“The old railway station,” came the reply, without protest or hesitation.

“Take us there,” said Francoeur.

*   *   *

Myrna still held the envelope containing the handwritten letter from Armand Gamache. In it he detailed all he knew, and all he suspected, about the murder of Constance Ouellet, and the murder of her sister Virginie over fifty years earlier.

Constance and Hélène had witnessed it. Virginie neither tripped, nor did she throw herself down those stairs. She was pushed. And behind that push was years and years of pain. Of being ignored, hidden, marginalized, denied. Years and years of the Quints getting all the attention. From the world, yes. But worse, from Mama and Papa.

When the girls came home for their rare visits, they were treated like princesses.

It warped a child. It wore a child down, until there was nothing recognizable left. And then it twisted them. The girls might have been spoiled, but their young sibling was ruined.

That little heart filled with hate. And grew into a big heart, filled with big hate.

And when Virginie teetered at the top of those long wooden stairs, the hand shot out. It could have saved her. But it didn’t. It tipped her over the edge.

Constance and Hélène had seen what happened and chose to say nothing. Perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of a near maniacal need for privacy, secrecy. Their lives, and their deaths, were nobody’s business but theirs. Even their murders were private.

All this Gamache explained in his letter to Myrna, and now Myrna explained to those gathered in her home. Hiding in her home.

“The Chief Inspector knew he was looking for two things,” said Myrna. “Someone whose initials were MA and who’d now be in their mid-seventies.”

“Wouldn’t there be birth records?” Jérôme asked.

“Gamache looked,” said Myrna. “There was nothing in the official record or in parish records under Ouellet.”

“The powers that be might not be able to create a person,” said Jérôme. “But they could erase one.”

He listened to the story, but kept his eyes on his wife. Thérèse was silhouetted against the window. Waiting.

“In considering the case, Armand realized he’d met four people who fit the description,” Myrna continued. “The first was Antoine, the parish priest. He’d said he’d started as priest long after the girls had left, and that was true, but he’d failed to admit he’d actually grown up in the area. The Quints’ uncle said he’d played with Antoine as a child. Père Antoine may not have lied, but he hadn’t told the whole truth either. Why?”

“And the priest was in a position to alter the records,” said Clara.

“Exactly Gamache’s thinking,” said Myrna. “But then there was the uncle himself. André Pineault. A few years younger than the girls, he described playing hockey with them, and he moved in with their father and looked after him until Isidore died. All the act of a son. And Monsieur Ouellet left the family farm to him.”

“But MA would be a woman,” said Clara. “Marie someone.”

“Marie-Annette,” said Myrna. “Annette is the name of Constance’s neighbor. The only person the sisters socialized with. The only person allowed onto their porch. It sounds to us a small thing, almost laughable, but to the Quints, so traumatized by public scrutiny, letting anyone close to their home was significant. Could Annette be either Virginie, or the lost sibling?”

“But if Constance and Hélène saw her kill Virginie, would they have anything to do with her?” Gabri asked.

“Maybe they forgave her,” said Ruth. “Maybe they understood that while they were damaged, their sister was too.”

“And maybe they wanted to keep her close,” said Clara. “The devil you know.”

Myrna nodded. “Annette and her husband Albert were already in the neighborhood when the sisters moved in next door. If Annette was the sister, it suggests either forgiveness”—Myrna looked at Ruth—“or a desire to keep a close eye on her.”

“Or him.”

They looked at Thérèse. She was looking out the window, but had obviously been listening.

“Him?” asked Olivier.

“Albert. The neighbor,” said Thérèse. Her breath fogged the windowpane. “Maybe she wasn’t their sister, but he was their brother.”

“You’re right,” said Myrna, carefully placing Gamache’s letter on the table. “The Sûreté technician was sure the third DNA he’d found belonged to a man. That tuque with the angels was knitted by Marie-Harriette for her son.”

“Albert,” said Ruth.

When Myrna didn’t respond they looked at her.

“If Isidore and Marie-Harriette had a son,” she said, “what would they name him?”

There was silence then. Even Rosa had stopped muttering.

“Old sins have long shadows.” They looked at Agent Nichol. “Where did this all begin? Where did the miracle begin?”

“Frère André,” said Clara.

“André,” said Ruth into the quiet room. “They’d have named him André.”

Myrna nodded. “Gamache believes so. He thinks that was what Constance was trying to tell me, with the tuque. Marie-Harriette knitted it for her son, named after their guardian angel. A DNA test will confirm it, but he thinks André Pineault is their brother.”

“But MA,” asked Gabri. “What does the M stand for?”

“Marc. All the girls in Marie-Harriette’s family were named Marie something and all the boys were named Marc something. Gamache found that out in the churchyard. He’d have been Marc-André, but called André.”

“Brother André,” said Gabri. “Literally.”

“That’s what Constance was trying to tell us,” said Myrna. “What she did tell us. Me. She actually said that hockey was brother André’s favorite sport. I was the one who capitalized the B, not her. Not Brother André, but brother André. The sixth sibling. Named after the saint who’d produced a miracle.”

“He killed Constance so she wouldn’t tell you that he’d killed Virginie,” said Clara. “That was what the sisters had kept secret all those years, what kept them prisoners long after the public stopped prying.”

“But how did he know she’d tell?” Olivier asked.

“He didn’t,” said Myrna. “But Gamache thinks they kept in touch. André Pineault claimed not to know where the girls lived, but he later said he’d written to tell them their father was dead. He knew their address. That suggested they kept in some contact. It was strange that Pineault would lie about that.

“Gamache thinks Constance must have told him what her plans were for Christmas. To visit her friend and former therapist. And Pineault got frightened. He must have suspected that with Marguerite dead, Constance might want to tell someone the truth, before her time came. She wanted the truth about Virginie’s death to be known. She’d kept his secret all those years but now, for her own and Virginie’s sake, she needed to be free of it.”

“So he killed her,” said Ruth.

Jérôme saw Thérèse’s back stiffen, then he heard a sound. He got up and walked swiftly across to the window to join her.

He looked out. A large black SUV followed by a van were driving very slowly down the hill.

“They’re here,” said Thérèse Brunel.

THIRTY-NINE

Armand Gamache drove onto the Champlain Bridge. There was no sign, yet, of any effort to close it but he knew if anyone could do it, it would be Isabelle Lacoste.

The traffic was heavy and the road still snowy. He passed a car and glanced in. A man and a woman sat in the front and behind them an infant was strapped into a car seat. Two lanes over he could see a young woman alone in her car, tapping her steering wheel and nodding to music.

Red brake lights appeared. The traffic was slowing. They were now creeping along. Bumper-to-bumper.

And ahead, the huge steel span rose.

Gamache knew almost nothing about engineering. About load tests and concrete. But he did know that 160,000 cars crossed this bridge every day. It was the busiest span in Canada and it was about to be blown into the St. Lawrence River. Not by some enraged foreign terrorist, but by two of the most trusted people in Québec.

The Premier and the head of the police force.

It had taken Gamache a while, but finally he thought he knew why.