Page 61 of The Grey Wolf
“Monsieur Gilbert’s.”
“Yes. You’re interested in him? He was such a nice man. Beautiful singing voice.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard him. He was in his room singing, softly. Couldn’t make out the words and I didn’t recognize the tune, but it was calming.”
There was that word again, thought Armand. “Do you mind showing me his room?”
“Now you ask permission to go into a bedroom?” said Olivier, getting off his stool. “You have a strange idea of appropriate behavior.”
The room Monsieur Gilbert had was simply and tastefully furnished, with a queen bed covered in a rose silk eiderdown. There was a comfortable armchair by an ornamental fireplace. The window looked out onto the village green, just becoming visible through the early-morning light struggling through the mist.
“He actually booked a smaller room,” said Olivier.
“The smallest,” added Gabri. “But since no one was here, we upgraded him.”
“For free.” Olivier’s tone held a note of regret, if not resentment.
The two men watched as Armand poked around but found nothing.
“Merci.”
As they made for the front door, Gabri said, “I heard you talk about the church. When I went up there last night to clean up after the Sunday service—”
“What is it you do in those services?” Armand asked. “How do you make a mess?”
“Well, you know, chicken blood…,” Gabri said, to Armand’s laugh. “I found an envelope with your name on it. I meant to bring it with me but forgot it up there.”
The hairs on Armand’s neck went up.
A heavy mist, almost drizzle, now hung over the village, draining it of color so that everything appeared to be shades of grey. By thetime they arrived at St. Thomas’s, their clothing was damp, but not actually wet.
The church was unlocked, as usual.
Gabri turned on the overhead light, illuminating the few rows of gleaming wooden pews and the simple altar at the front.
The stained-glass brothers glowed red and green and the softest of blues.
“There.” Gabri pointed to the white envelope. It was leaning against the top of the brass plaque under the window. The plaque had the names of those from the area who went to war and never returned. Names like Billy and Tommy, Gabrielle and P’tit Marcel.
Beneath the list was written,They were our children.
Gabri reached for the envelope, but Armand stopped him.
“When you found it yesterday, did you touch it?”
“Me?Non.”
Armand approached. Sure enough, in a fine clear hand, was written,Armand Gamache.
It was not, he could see, the same hand that had written on the newspaper.
He took a photo of it, then brought out a handkerchief and picked it up. The envelope was unsealed.
Sitting in the pew, enveloped by dull light from the brittle boys, he opened it and took out a piece of paper. And grew very quiet.
“What is it?” asked Olivier. The two men edged closer and leaned in as Armand unfolded the paper.
