Page 151

“I remember the day I came home and told Sylvie I wanted to enroll in divinity school,” said Robert, smiling.

Armand listened. He wondered if the minister remembered he was there, or if he was talking to himself.

“She didn’t argue. Wasn’t surprised, though it meant a complete change in lifestyle. No more private clubs, no more business class travel. No more fine meals in ridiculously priced restaurants. We’d have to sell the business, the house, the lake house at Manitou. We’d have to watch every cent. But she didn’t argue. I think she was relieved that I’d finally seen what had been obvious to her for years. I was miserable and making everyone around me miserable.”

He turned slightly and looked at Armand. Studying his face for something. Then he looked away again.

“This’s our first posting, you know. I wanted a church in Montréal or Québec City, so the bishop sent me here.” He chuckled. “Took us a few days to even find the place. I kept calling the diocese to make sure they got it right.”

Robert shook his head. Lost in the past. Where Sylvie was beside him in the car.

As Armand watched, Robert reached out, palm up, then slowly closed his hand over hers as they searched the countryside for the place that seemed more myth than real.

“She’d decided to stop treatment by then. She wanted to just live out the rest of her days. That’s really why I wanted a city, so we’d be close to a hospital. But she wanted the countryside, where she’d be close to nature. She loved going for walks around here. Every evening after dinner, we walked, though recently we just sat in the garden.” He fell silent, remembering. And then he remembered. And lost her again, the island drifting farther out to sea.

For Robert Mongeau there would always be a before and an after. All events would henceforth be dated from Sylvie alive and Sylvie dead.

As Robert squeezed his eyes shut, Armand felt the sharp thrust into his own heart.

“I know, I know, I know she’s with God,” said Robert. “I know she’s at peace. But oh God, oh God.”

Armand reached out and took his hand.

He was aware of time ticking by. Aware Beauvoir was waiting for him. Aware Fleming might be too, just outside that door.

But this was important. He hoped, if something happened to Reine-Marie, someone would hold his hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” repeated Robert, crying openly now.

“It’s all right,” Armand whispered. They were, he knew, empty words. But he had to offer something.

Mongeau gathered himself, sat up straighter, took his hand from Armand’s, and wiped his eyes and nose with a handkerchief. Then unexpectedly smiled.

“I can’t imagine what Claude thought. I practically ran him over when I backed out of the drive on my way over here. After they’d…”

It took Armand a moment to understand what he was saying. “The driveway? At your house? Claude was at your place this morning?”

“Yes. I pay him extra to do odd jobs around the place. He was weeding the drive. In my hurry to get here, to get away, I didn’t see him. Thankfully he managed to get out of the way. He’s far more agile than he looks.”

“Was he there yesterday too?”

“Yes, but only after he’d finished work here.”

Armand stepped carefully, but Robert seemed grateful for the change of topic.

“Can you tell me how you came to hire Monsieur Boisfranc?”

“Claude?” The minister paused to think. “I thought I told you. He was recommended. Some woman staying at the B&B came to service one Sunday.” He paused. “I remember because Sylvie was too weak to come. It was a bad few days for her. First service she’d missed.” He reflected for a moment, then continued on. “The woman stayed for coffee and cake after and must’ve overheard Gabri and me talking about the search for a caretaker.”

“What did she say?”

“That she volunteered for a group in Montréal, a halfway home for former convicts. Claude was one. Convicted of petty crimes. In and out of prison. I interviewed him and decided to hire him.”

“A former convict?”

Robert shifted in his seat to look at Gamache. “You’re the last person I’d expect to deny someone a second chance. You have, after all, a convicted murderer in your home. The worst Claude did was steal some clothes.”

“I’m not blaming or accusing you of anything.”