Page 62 of The Grey Wolf
“Herbs?” said Olivier. “And spices. A recipe?”
“God,” said Gabri. “Not another cocktail.”
The top of the page was feathered, where it had been torn, and Armand was just able to make out two words, ripped in half.
Angelica stems.
He turned the page over. Someone had written:
Some malady…
CHAPTER16
The paper sat on the gleaming pew beside Armand.
Some maladywas looking up at him.
He’d asked Olivier and Gabri to leave him alone in the chapel so he could think.
Gabri had been about to ask a question, or ten, but stopped himself. He could see that Armand wasn’t just surprised, he was dumbstruck. Thunderstruck. And needed space and time and peace and quiet. To find some answers.
What he didn’t need were more questions.
They left. And Armand stared ahead. Trying to see his way clear. The fog was getting thicker. Settling around him. He felt he was well and truly lost. Wandering in circles. And if that was the case, the only thing to do was to stand still. And think. Assess. Think some more.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
He had to tell himself not to race ahead. Not to leap from uncertain conclusion to uncertain conclusion. Until he leaped right over the edge.
Now was the time for clarity, not speed.
But still, his mind sped. Then, with effort, it slowed, and slowed. And landed on the one certainty.
Armand Gamache knew who that man was. The one he’d passed on the village green. The one he’d recognized, but not recognized. The one who’d given his name as Monsieur Gilbert.
Armand almost smiled at that. Perhaps he should have twigged then, when Olivier said it. But he hadn’t. It was just too unlikely.
Monsieur Gilbert, who’d sung softly alone in his room at the B&B. Armand would bet good money that it had been just as the sun set when Gabri had heard that beautiful voice behind the door.
Monsieur Gilbert, who’d worn baggy old clothes and spent time in the church, and left a note here, for Armand to find. The other half of which had been placed in the coat stolen from his home. For Armand to find.
Placed there by a very different hand. Who had written on the reverse side a single word.
Water.
What was the connection? For there was one. A very strong one. Two halves of a note. Two halves of a whole. Were the people who’d possessed the document that too?
Did the one know about the other? Know what the other had done with their half? Know that Armand now possessed both halves? The whole?
But the whole of what?
Armand looked down at the piece of paper, sitting like a companion beside him on the pew in the peaceful little chapel.
Some malady…It sounded like a threat, and might be one. But it was also a quote. One he knew, and one Monsieur Gilbert knew he’d recognize.
Some malady is coming upon us. We wait. We wait.
It was from the T. S. Eliot playMurder in the Cathedral. About the brutal murder of Thomas à Becket by assassins, after the king had muttered, “Who will rid me of this meddlesome priest?”
