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Turned out, Caufield had never believed the official story and was relieved to know that Gamache didn’t either. Unasked, unobserved, she’d already started digging deeper.
“Lauzon could never have put all that together,” she said. “You’re doing that wrong.”
“I’m sorry,” said Reine-Marie.
“You put the clotted cream on the scone first, then the strawberry jam. Not the other way around.”
Caufield seemed as incensed about the scone issue as the plot to provoke mass murder and a regional war.
“Désolée,” said Reine-Marie and, turning to Armand, she grimaced.
“Lauzon’s slimy, but more interested in immediate gains. He has no patience. This plot took patience and a master tactician with all the necessary contacts and access. You’re doing that wrong.”
“I’m sorry?” said Armand.
“You put the milk in first, then pour the tea.” The head of British Intelligence huffed, indignant.
“If she calls us colonials, I’m leaving,” muttered Reine-Marie. Though, choosing her battles, she put the clotted cream onto her next scone first.
And in his next cup of tea, Armand poured the milk first.
“So it is Woodford.” He realized as he said it that up until that moment, he’d clung onto a thread of hope that Marcus Lauzon was, in fact, guilty.
“It is.” Sherry Caufield leaned forward and dropped her voice. “You need to stop him, Armand. If he gets control of North America, we’ll all be fucked.”
They’d hoped that the danger was past. But they were wrong. While the forests were not deliberately set on fire, the internet was. Conspiracy theories were gaining ground, fueling wilder and wilder claims. More fear, more fuel, more converts.
Clearly the truth was not effective, so Chief Inspector Gamache did the only thing possible. He lied. And lied. And dug and dug. And lied some more when interviewed, when asked. And hoped the lies would buy them time.
CHAPTER 36
The break came not from Sherry Caufield, but much closer to home.
“Patron?” said Isabelle Lacoste, knocking on his open office door and stepping in. It was late one Friday afternoon in February. “My husband and kids are going to his family in Québec City, for the Carnaval. I begged off.”
He looked up from the reports he’d been reading and indicated a chair.
“Non, I won’t sit, merci. I was wondering if I could come down to Three Pines for a few days. Bring my skis and a stack of books. I thought I’d start with Nineteen Eighty-Four.”
He took off his glasses and looked at her closely before saying, “Wonderful. In fact, I think Annie and the kids are also going to Carnaval this week. I’ll join you and see if Jean-Guy wants to come down too.”
“That would be fun.” Though it was clear she did not mean fun.
She too had lied.
It was far too cold over the weekend to consider cross-country or downhill skiing, and only the village children dared go outside, bundled up until they could barely walk. They put on their skates and glided around the pond, with their hockey sticks and soft puck. Checking each other into the soft snowdrifts. When even they got too cold, they ran into the bistro for hot chocolate with melting marshmallows.
The days were bright, the sun almost blinding. The nights were crisp and clear, the sky strewn with stars. Every window in the village was etched with frost, while every chimney had a trail of smoke.
Their footsteps, as they walked briskly to the bistro, or the bookstore, or Clara’s for dinner, squeaked on the hardened snow, and their breath froze in their nostrils and sinuses, bringing tears to their eyes.
Most of the time the three of them joined Reine-Marie by the fire in the living room, reading and chatting and trying to avoid eye contact with Ruth and Rosa. Giving every appearance of relaxation, while inside their insides were churning.
Finally, Monday dawned overcast, with flurries. And much milder.
“Downhill or cross-country?” Jean-Guy asked over an apparently lazy breakfast of omelets, English muffins, and crab apple jelly made from the orchard out back.
“I think cross-country, don’t you?” said Isabelle.
