The Madness of Crowds

A few years ago, when Agent Beauvoir had first arrived in homicide and the Chief Inspector said things like that, he’d roll his eyes and smirk.

Gamache had ignored him and waited. And waited. Until one day Jean-Guy Beauvoir understood that when people died, they didn’t go away. They were very much alive in the minds, in the hearts, in the vivid memories of those left behind.

And they were not always easy to live with. Some ghosts had demands.

“How old was Abigail when her sister died?” Armand asked.

“Fifteen,” said Isabelle.

“And her father was alone with Maria when she died?”

“As far as we know. Because of the manner of her death, the coroner did a full autopsy.”

“May I?” Gamache held out his hand, and Lacoste gave him the autopsy report. “Both, if you don’t mind,” he said. “And Paul Robinson’s death certificate.”

Putting on his glasses, he started to read. Nodding every now and then.

He was not, they saw, skimming. He was reading every word.

“Can you send me the electronic versions?” he asked.

When she did, he attached the reports to an email to Sharon Harris. Their coroner and colleague.

Taking off his glasses, he heaved a sigh. “Are you staying over, Isabelle?”

“Yes. I’ve got my room at Olivier and Gabri’s B&B.”

“Good.” He looked at his watch. It was past eleven. “Time for bed I think. We won’t get an answer until the morning.”

Beauvoir drove his car back down the hill, but Armand felt the need for fresh air, as did Isabelle. Instead of going straight down into the village, Armand asked her, “Do you mind?”

She shook her head and followed him, knowing where they were headed. They stopped at the bench and swept off the fluffy snow that had accumulated during the day. As she did, Isabelle reached out and caressed the back of the seat. It was too dark to see the words etched into it, but she could feel them.

Armand and Reine-Marie had put the bench there so that friends and strangers could rest from the journey. Could sit and contemplate the vista, then drop their eyes to the homes below. The wood smoke rising from their chimneys and the buttery light spilling from their mullioned windows. They could watch the huge pine trees sway, wave, on the village green.

The three pines in a cluster that gave the village its name was an old United Empire Loyalist code to tell war-weary refugees that they were safe. At last.

But while Armand and Reine-Marie had put the bench there, the words etched into it remained a mystery. They’d just appeared. First one phrase, then, below it, another. No one admitted to doing it, but Armand had a feeling that it had been Billy Williams, who, while often enigmatic, still managed to make himself understood.

Written on one of the weathered slats was part of a prayer.

May you be a brave man in a brave country.

And underneath that, Surprised by Joy.

The night was completely still. Isabelle and Armand sat side by side, their breaths coming out in puffs.

And in one of the puffs were the words “How are you, Isabelle?”

“Better,” she said.

“Better than?”

“Before.” She smiled and sat in peace for a moment before speaking again. “The day after I got home from the hospital, you came over. You made us tea and brought treats from the bistro and we talked. Do you remember?”

“I’ll never forget.”

“You told me that you were stronger than you had been before you were wounded a few years earlier. I could see that was true. For you. But I was afraid I’d never get there. I could barely speak or move on my own. I had to have help feeding myself.”

How well she remembered the Chief, sitting beside her, tearing the flaky croissant into bite-sized pieces. Then, instead of feeding her as everyone else did, he placed a small piece into her hand, and closed her fingers over it, until she gripped it.

Then, as tears of embarrassment streamed down her cheeks, he gently lifted her hand to her mouth. It took a couple of tries. The bread kept slipping from her grasp, but the tears had stopped. As she concentrated.

And finally, they had it.

They cheered. As though she’d done something remarkable. Which she had.

They did it again. And again. Until the croissant was all eaten.

It tasted better than anything she’d ever had before, or since.

From then on, that was how she asked her husband, her parents, her carers, her children, to do it. It took far more time, and was often frustrating, even humiliating. But finally she could do it on her own.

She turned to him now. His face was outlined against the stars. The deep scar on his forehead was invisible. But if she reached out, she’d be able to feel it. Etched there.

“I still have days when I struggle,” she said.

He nodded. “Me too. When I’m tired.”

“I search for words,” she said. “And when I find them, I slur. But that just reminds me how far I’ve come.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had to make that journey, Isabelle.”