Page 183 of The Grey Wolf
“I don’t have time for this.” Gamache had given the gun back to Beauvoir and was calling the local Sûreté detachment and the coroner.
“Patron, the conference call.”
“Cancel it. Put out an APB on Caron and the vehicle.”
Armand spread the altar cloth over Dom Philippe. As he did, he noticed something sticking out from the Abbot’s breast pocket. Kneeling beside the man, Gamache pulled it out.
It was the photo of young Yves, his sister Eunice, and niece Jeanne. The only thing he’d kept with him all those years in Saint Gilbert Between the Wolves. The only thing he’d taken with him.
Armand tucked it back in.
“The killer shot Caron, so maybe she was telling the truth.”
“Maybe. Or maybe the cleanup has started,” said Gamache. “Maybe Lauzon realized she was planning to blackmail him once he took power. The evidence in the satchel might be Langlois’s notes. In the middle of an attack, when she was wounded, she stopped to pick it up. It must be valuable.”
“So she either took it to maybe stop the attack,” said Beauvoir. “Or she took it because she needs to have something to hold over Lauzon.”
Gamache nodded.
“So we know nothing.”
“Perhaps not nothing.”
They could hear sirens. The local police and coroner were arriving. Gamache took Beauvoir aside and whispered.
“I had breakfast today with Shona Dorion.”
“The blogger? The one who hates you? Why…” As Armand watched, the light went on for his second-in-command. “For the same reason Caron came to you.”
“No one would think we could be allies. I think Langlois did the same thing. I think I know where he hid his notes.”
Brother Constantine was indeed in the small room behind the infirmary. Alive, well, and oblivious. The little round man was happily preparing his concoction. He looked up as they entered, clearly expecting someone else.
His expression changed when he saw Sébastien. And changed even more when he saw who was with him. A woman.
“What’s going on? You shouldn’t be here.” He placed a pudgy hand over a huge manuscript on the table in front of him.
“Have you been here all day,mon frère?” Lacoste asked.
“Who are you? Why’re you here? You can’t be here. I’m making up the recipe. And you’re a woman.”
It wasn’t clear which was the greater transgression, but the two together were more than the monk could immediately grasp.
“Where’s Brother Robert? I expected him half an hour ago. You need to leave.”
Constantine waved at them, knocking over one of the many mortars and pestles lined up on the table.
The shelves behind him were chockablock full with jars of dried herbs and nuts that no doubt produced spices.
There were so many scents it was impossible to identify any one of them. But it was pleasant. The sense Isabelle got, as she inhaled the scents, was one of comfort. As though Christmas and Easter, Thanksgiving, and the height of summer were holding a party.
She hated to break it up but had no choice. “I’m afraid Brother Robert is dead.”
“Dead?” Now the monk was bewildered. “But he can’t be. He’s so young. What happened?”
Brother Constantine looked from one to the other. It was clear he’d grown attached to the quiet young newcomer to their community.
“Did he give you anything to keep safe?” Lacoste asked.
