The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (32 page)

Even now, even when worn down and cornered, Gamache could see the elderly scientist twisting, so deep was the instinct and perhaps the training to evade.

“The plans may have been found,” Gamache said quietly.

“Ahh,” said Rosenblatt. The sound slipped out of him, like a long tail on a sigh.

He nodded a few times, carrying on some internal conversation. A debate. An argument. And then he spoke.

“Guillaume Couture designed Project Babylon. I suspect Gerald Bull conceived of the idea, but he needed someone smarter than himself to actually figure out how to do it. So he found Dr. Couture ferreting away in the engineering department of McGill. Couture became Bull’s chief designer and silent partner.”

Now that he’d started, Professor Rosenblatt couldn’t seem to stop talking. It was such a stream of information and confidences that Gamache found himself wary. Not sure if this was the truth, half-truths, or a blockade of lies.

Though it fit with their own conclusions. Perhaps a bit too well.

“Gerald Bull essentially committed suicide when he put himself forward as the sole designer of Project Babylon,” said Rosenblatt. “He was killed to stop him. No one knew about Guillaume Couture.”

“Except you,” said Beauvoir.

“Oh, I didn’t know. Not until much later. All that research on Gerald Bull, it didn’t fit, until I factored in someone else. Someone smarter.”

“Do you think Dr. Couture would have kept the plans?” Beauvoir asked. “After all, they’re what got his boss killed.”

“It was his life’s work,” said Rosenblatt. “Guillaume was a nice man, in many ways a gentle man. But he was unbothered by a conscience. He had no imagination. No, that’s probably unfair. He was myopic. Shortsighted. He only saw the challenge, the scheme. He didn’t look beyond that, to what his plans would actually do.”

“So what does that mean?” Beauvoir demanded. “Would he have kept the plans or not?”

“I think so,” said Rosenblatt. “They were the work of a lifetime. Without doubt the highlight of his career.” He considered for a moment. “You say the woman killed last night was his niece?”

“She lived in his home,” said Gamache.

In the background, the clock on the bistro mantel struck the hour. Midnight.

“And you didn’t find the plans?” Rosenblatt asked.

Gamache shook his head and in the silence the clock continued to sound. One measured stroke after another.

“You think the killer has the designs for Project Babylon,” said Rosenblatt.

“I think it’s possible. We have to assume he found them,” said Gamache.

The clock struck one last time, then stopped.

Michael Rosenblatt looked at it, then back at Gamache.

“The chimes at midnight, Chief Inspector,” he said quietly. “It’s later than we thought.”

Beauvoir saw a look pass between the two men and knew he’d missed some reference. But not the meaning.

They walked the professor back to the B and B and made sure he got up to his room. A light was on under Mary Fraser’s door, and Gamache paused, then tapped.

“What’re you doing?” Beauvoir whispered.

“The CSIS agents need to know that the plans might’ve been found,” Gamache whispered back.

“Just a minute,” came Mary Fraser’s pleasant voice. The door opened and she stood there adjusting an unexpectedly frilly dressing gown. “Oh.”

“You were expecting someone else?” Jean-Guy asked.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. She had her glasses on and papers were spread out on the bed. Jean-Guy strained to get a look at them, but she stepped out and closed the door.

“What can I do for you? It must be late.” She peered at her watch. “It’s past midnight.”

It’s later than we thought
. Rosenblatt’s words drifted into Beauvoir’s mind.

“The plans might’ve been found,” said Armand.

The bookish woman who lived in a filing cabinet disappeared and a much sharper person stood before them, albeit in a frilly pink dressing gown.

“Come with me,” said the CSIS agent, and led them downstairs and into the farthest corner of the B and B’s living room.

“Should we get Monsieur Delorme?” Gamache asked.

“No need,” she said, taking a seat. “You can tell me and I’ll pass the information on to him.”

Gamache and Beauvoir sat in the two remaining armchairs.

“You might have heard about another murder in the area,” said Gamache. “A woman named Antoinette Lemaitre.”

“Yes, the owner of the B and B told me. He seems to be town crier.”

“Antoinette Lemaitre was Guillaume Couture’s niece.”

Fraser stared at Gamache, the words sliding off her expressionless face to drop into silence. It took effort for an intelligent person to look that vacant, and Gamache suspected she was working very, very hard at that moment.

“Whose niece?” she asked.

“Please, madame,” said Gamache. “We have no time for this. You know as well as I do that Guillaume Couture worked with Gerald Bull at HARP, and almost certainly on the Supergun.”

Once again he took the photograph out of his pocket. Unfolding it, he handed it to her. Her brows rose very slightly, creating tiny crevices in her forehead.

“You cannot possibly be an expert on Gerald Bull and not know that,” said Gamache.

Mary Fraser folded the picture in half and offered it back.

“Dr. Bull had many colleagues. Including, might I remind you, Professor Rosenblatt.”

“True, but Professor Rosenblatt’s niece wasn’t just murdered and the home he once owned ransacked,” said Gamache, taking back the photograph. “Time is running out and your evasions are wasting what little we have left. You seem to be treating this as some sort of game. We know all about Dr. Couture.”

“You know nothing,” she hissed. “You’re mired in guesses, not facts. And don’t you ever presume to lecture me about the importance of what we’re doing. You gave up that right when you ran away to this quaint little village with its café au laits and village fêtes. Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

“Yes, you told me this afternoon. A suspect, maybe even a pedophile because I happen to have cared about a nine-year-old boy.”

Mary Fraser had managed to get under his skin and now the sore erupted.

“No,” she said. “I see a hypocrite. You saw the chance to retire and you took it, knowing no one would blame you. I see a man bloated with croissants and fear, desperate to hide out in this little village, beyond harm and beyond reproach while the rest of us keep fighting. And then you pass judgment on me? You’re a disgrace, monsieur.”

“That’s it—” said Beauvoir.

“
Non
,” said Gamache, breaking eye contact with Fraser to look at Jean-Guy. “
Non
,” he said, regaining his own composure.

Then he turned back to Mary Fraser.

“I didn’t come up here to discuss my choices,” he said. “But to warn you that someone killed Antoinette Lemaitre then tore her home apart last night. We think he was looking for the plans to Project Babylon.”

“That’s a big leap,” said Mary Fraser.

“Is it? We have every reason to believe Guillaume Couture designed the Supergun. Not Gerald Bull. Dr. Bull was the salesman, and Dr. Couture was the scientist. That’s why the gun was built here, because Dr. Couture knew the area. Knew the people. And knew no one would come looking for Project Babylon in a Québec forest. It was perfect. Until someone killed Gerald Bull.”

“These are all guesses,” she said.

“You seem resistant to the possibility,” said Gamache. “Why is that? We have a direct line connecting Dr. Couture to Gerald Bull—”

“—you have a grainy old photograph.”

“We have more than that,” he said, but Beauvoir noticed he stopped short of implicating Professor Rosenblatt.

The CSIS agent seemed perfectly composed. Her hands rested in her lap, but the fingers were tightly intertwined, turning the tips white.

“None of this is news to you, is it?” Gamache asked, tumbling to the truth. “You knew all along. Was that the file you were reading this afternoon? The name you were trying to hide from me? It was Guillaume Couture.”

She sat up straighter, as though bracing herself.

“You came here knowing the connection with Guillaume Couture, but you didn’t say anything,” said Gamache, his voice rising slightly. “You didn’t warn us, you didn’t warn Antoinette Lemaitre.”

She was silent.

“We could have saved her.”

“You could do nothing,” she snapped. “You’ve discovered more than I would have thought possible, but you have no idea what you’ve gotten hold of. Back off. Step away.”

“Why? So more people can die while you pursue whatever your own goals are?” he demanded. “And what are they exactly?”

“You’re right, we knew about Dr. Couture, of course we did,” said Mary Fraser. “But we all assumed Project Babylon died with Gerald Bull. There were rumors a gun had been built, but rumors are rife in the intelligence community, most put out as misdirection. We kept Couture under surveillance for a few years, but like you, he’d retired down here and grew tomatoes and roses and joined a bridge club, and faded away. The threat faded away.”

“Until the gun was found.”

“Yes. That was a surprise,” she admitted.

“Why didn’t you tell us about Guillaume Couture when you first saw the gun?” Beauvoir demanded. “Why didn’t you tell us about his role in creating Project Babylon, and the fact he lived in the area and had a niece?”

She said nothing.

“You didn’t want us to know,” said Beauvoir. “You want—”

Gamache placed a hand on Beauvoir’s arm, and he stopped talking.

Mary Fraser had not looked at Beauvoir when he spoke, but continued to keep Gamache in her sights.

“That was wise, Monsieur Gamache.”

Beauvoir was staring at Gamache, unclear why he’d stopped him.

“We’re here on official business, Monsieur Gamache. For CSIS. But there is someone you should be asking yourselves about. Michael Rosenblatt. Why is he still here?”

It was, Gamache thought, an evasion on her part. An attempt to redirect his attention. But it was also, he had to admit, a question that was making its way to the top of his list.

“Why do you think Professor Rosenblatt’s still here?” Beauvoir asked.

“I have no idea,” she said. “That’s your concern, not mine. I have one brief, and that’s to make sure no one else ever builds a weapon like the one we found in the woods. That’s all I care about.”

“That’s all?” asked Beauvoir. “And the human cost?”

She looked at the younger man as though he’d said something adorable. A child learning to pronounce words he couldn’t possibly understand.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” Gamache asked her.

“I honestly don’t care,” Mary Fraser said.

“I see someone who’s been tunneling in the dark for so long you’ve gone blind.”

“I thought it would be something like that,” she said, smiling. “But you’re wrong. I’m not blind. My eyes have simply adjusted to the darkness. I see more clearly than most.”

“And yet you can’t see the damage you’re doing,” he said.

“You have no idea the things I see,” she said, her voice hard and clipped. “And have seen. You have no idea what I’m trying to prevent.”

“Tell me,” Gamache said.

And for the briefest instant, Jean-Guy Beauvoir thought she might. But then it was gone.

“You accused me of not understanding your world,” Gamache said. “And you might be right. But you no longer understand mine. A world where it’s possible to care about the life of a nine-year-old boy, and to be enraged by his death. A world where Antoinette Lemaitre’s life and death matter.”

“You’re a coward, monsieur,” she said. “Not willing to accept a few deaths to save millions. You think that’s easy? Well, it’s easy when you run away, as you’ve done. But I stay. I fight on.”

“For the greater good?” asked Gamache.

“Yes.”

He got up, suddenly repulsed, and stood in the middle of the charming room.

“I don’t think what you do is easy,” he said. “At least, not at first. I think it’s soul-destroying. But once that happens, it gets easier. Doesn’t it?”

Mary Fraser stood up then and faced him.

“Go to hell,” she said quietly.

“I will. If necessary. I expect I’ll see you there.”

“Just know this, monsieur,” she said to his back. “A coward not only dies a thousand deaths, he can cause them too.”

As they left, they noticed movement on the B and B stairs, and saw Brian standing there. Halfway up and halfway down. Frozen.

How much did he hear?
Beauvoir wondered.

He heard it all, Gamache knew, judging by the look on Brian’s face.

Wordlessly, Brian retreated upstairs.
All sorts of funny thoughts running through his head
, thought Gamache as he and Beauvoir left the B and B.

“Why did you stop me when we were talking with Mary Fraser?” Jean-Guy asked as they walked back home.

“I was afraid you were about to say something that should not be said. At least, not in that company.”

“That they knew about Couture and the plans and wanted to find them not for CSIS but for themselves,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache nodded.

“Do you think that’s who Antoinette was expecting last night? Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme?”

“It’s possible,” conceded Gamache.

“Who are these people,
patron
?”

“That,
mon vieux
, is a very good question.”

CHAPTER 28

Clara poured a coffee from the percolator in Myrna’s New and Used Bookstore and brought it over to her seat in the bay window. Morning was struggling through the cracks in the heavy clouds, shooting columns of light onto the forest.

“I’m hearing rumors that Antoinette’s death and Laurent’s might be connected,” she said, and watched Myrna lower the newspaper just enough to stare at her. “And might have something to do with that gun in the woods.”

Myrna crumpled the paper onto her lap.

“Really?” She took off her glasses. “But how could that be? Antoinette’s death was during a robbery probably, or maybe something to do with the play—”

Clara shook her head. “The police don’t think so anymore.”