Page 114 of The Grey Wolf
“Do you have a yearbook?”
The Archbishop smiled. “No, Chief Inspector. The seminary didn’t have a yearbook club. But I can put you in contact with the priest who was, if I remember correctly, Philippe’s best friend. He’d know more. He’s retired.”
After asking Father Thomas to look up the information, the Archbishop got to his feet.
“I hope you find what you need. Go in peace, Armand.”
“And you, Your Grace.” Once again, he held those eyes. “Merci.”
CHAPTER26
As soon as the plane landed, Jean-Guy picked up the text with information on Gamache’s contact.
He raised his brows when he saw the name. Then checked his watch. He had just enough time for his meeting at the Washington seminary where Brother Sébastien had taught before going to the Hay-Adams hotel bar to see the contact.
“How can I help you?”
Sister Joan was in her late thirties. Much younger than Beauvoir had expected. All the priests and nuns at his school had been, or seemed, elderly. Dried-up. Stern. Angry. Tired. Unhappy.
The head teacher, Père Pierre, had worn a long cassock, all black, except for the white priest’s collar and the huge ivory cross that hung on his chest.
The big black Bible on the desk. The cross. The cane.
The very smell of the seminary was beginning to get to him. Disinfectant and chalk and sweet cloying incense. The walls here were painted the same light green as his school. A sort of faded chartreuse. The color of fear and powerlessness. Of shame and guilt and undefined but definite sin.
“I’m looking for information on one of your former teachers.” Beauvoir was surprised to hear the voice of a grown man come out of his ten-year-old body. “A Brother Sébastien Fontaine. He’s from Québec. A Dominican.”
“Let me look.” She put on glasses and went around to sit at her computer. “Yes. Here he is. You’re right, he was a teacher but left the seminary.”
“Really? Why would he do that?”
Taking off her glasses, the administrator met Beauvoir’s gaze. “His personal information is confidential.”
“I was hoping you could see your way clear—”
“To breaking our ethical agreement with students and staff, to a perfect stranger who wandered in off the street?” She smiled. “Would you?”
Despite his annoyance, Jean-Guy could see her point. He could also see that she was not Père Pierre. And this was not his school. And he was not ten years old.
“I didn’t just wander in. I took a flight from Montréal to get here. I’m a homicide investigator, and my questions aren’t just for fun. Do you know who his friends were? Did he hang out with other teachers?” Here Beauvoir paused, but decided to plow ahead. “I’m especially looking for another Dominican monk or priest. An American. His name begins withB.”
“That’s strangely specific while still managing to be vague, Inspector.”
But he saw the head teacher’s eyes flit over to the computer screen, then back again.
“I’m sorry. I can’t answer your questions.”
“Look, Sister.” Even to his own ears he sounded like James Cagney. “Is there anything you can tell me about Sébastien? About his time here”
Nothing.
“About why he left?”
There. Again that very slight shifting eye to the computer. Years interrogating suspects, interviewing witnesses, had attuned Beauvoir to what would be invisible to others.
The important question wasn’t about Sébastien’s time at the seminary, it was why he left.
“I can tell you a couple of things, Inspector. According to his file, Brother Sébastien had two close friends here. Both teachers.”
