Page 140
“I had no choice.”
By then Fleming had been in the SHU for more than a decade. If he wasn’t mad before, he was by then. Though Gamache knew John Fleming had almost certainly come out of the womb a lunatic.
“At the last minute, the last second, I reneged. He’d taken a few steps outside, had a taste of freedom, before I had him taken back in.”
It was close, and Armand almost, almost, had to follow through with that terrible calculation. Release a madman into society to murder again. And again. Or allow plans for a weapon of mass destruction to be sold to the highest bidder.
Even at his most prolific, Fleming could not match that death toll. And Armand was confident he could recapture the lunatic, eventually. Eventually.
But finally, he didn’t have to.
He could still hear the screams, unholy shrieks, like some wraith being burned alive, as Fleming was dragged back into the hellhole.
Hardye Moel nodded. She understood. That event had focused his mania, his rage, on the Chief Inspector.
Armand checked his phone again. Still nothing from Reine-Marie or Amelia.
“I’d like to get in touch with some of the people who came to the exhibition,” said Reine-Marie. “To see why they’re so taken with The Paston Treasure. Especially people who came from a distance. North America, for instance. Any idea how I might do that?”
Amelia looked at Reine-Marie with new respect. This might work.
“Not a clue,” said Cecil.
“Was it possible to book a private tour of the exhibition?” Amelia asked. “I imagine a real enthusiast would want that.”
“Now that’s true,” said the docent. “I think I can find that list if you’re interested, since it would involve bookings and payment.”
“Please,” said Reine-Marie, and looked at Amelia with new respect.
He returned a few minutes later, waving sheets of paper.
“Here it is. The people who reserved private talks on The Paston Treasure during that exhibition.”
He handed Reine-Marie the list. It was two pages long, mostly academics who wanted exclusive access to the painting. But there, on the second page, was one Lillian Virginia Mountweazel.
Hardye took a seat in one of the comfortable armchairs, her back to the canvas. Armand had poured them each a coffee, which she gratefully took.
As he joined her, she leaned toward him. “Do you think Fleming’s here?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see how he could be. I’d recognize him, I’m sure. Fairly sure. I think.” He heaved a sigh. “I need a clear head to find him, and I’m worried…”
She gave him space and time.
“… that I’m coming unhinged.”
“Because of what happened in the SHU this morning, with the warden.”
Gamache nodded.
“What’re you afraid of, Armand?”
“Besides going completely mad and committing murder myself?”
“Besides that.”
He’d actually been afraid of this question, suspecting she’d ask. But it was no use lying. Why invite her here to help him, then hide the truth?
“I’m afraid I’ll fail. I’m afraid that whatever happens, it will be my fault. Since I found out he’d escaped, it feels like only part of my brain is working. The rest is screaming at me.” He lowered his voice. “He’s screaming at me.”
