A Rule Against Murder

“Letter B, Letter B,” it sang, to the tune of the Beatles’ “Let It Be.”

“Oh, God,” Lacoste whispered and raised her arms too. Beside her Marianna was staring, numb and dumb and uncomprehending. Everything else could fall, she saw it all day, every day. Except Bean. She stepped forward and raised her arms. Unseen beside her, Sandra lifted her hands toward the child. The precious thing, stuck on the roof.

Bean, hands now free of the book, brought them together in front. Clutching reins, eyes staring at the big man opposite.

“Higher, Bean,” Gamache urged. Wheeled and soared and swung, said a voice in his head, and Gamache’s right hand opened slightly, to grasp a larger, stronger, one.

The child gave a mighty yank and kicked Pegasus in the flanks.

Shocked, Pierre Patenaude let go and Bean fell.

Armand Gamache dived. He sprang with all his might and seemed to hover in the air, as though expecting to make the other side. He strained, reached out his hand, and touched the face of God.

THIRTY

Gamache’s eyes locked on the flying child. They seemed to hang in mid-air then finally he felt the fabric of Bean’s shirt and closed his grip.

Hitting the roof he scrambled for purchase as they started skidding down the slick steep side. His left hand shot up and gripped the very top of the roof, where skilled hands had battered and connected the now tarnished copper more than a hundred years earlier. And had placed a ridge along the peak of the roof. For no reason.

Now he was hanging down the side of the metal roof, clinging on to the copper ridge with one hand, and Bean with the other. They looked into each other’s eyes and Gamache could feel his grip firm on the child, but slipping on the roof. He could see, in his peripheral vision, frantic activity below, with shouts and calls and screams that seemed another world away. He could see people running with ladders, but he knew it would be too late. His fingers were tearing away from the roof and he knew in another instant they would both slide over the edge. And he knew if they fell he’d land on top of the child, as Charles Morrow had done. Crushing what lay beneath. The thought was too much.

He felt his fingers finally lose contact with the ridge, and for a blessed and surprising moment nothing happened, then the two of them started over.

Gamache twisted in one final effort, to heave the child away from him and toward the open arms below. Just then a hand gripped his from above. He didn’t dare look, in case it wasn’t real. But after a moment he looked up. Rain fell into his eyes and blinded him, but he still knew whose hand held his in a grip from long ago, and long ago lost.

Ladders were quickly raised and Beauvoir scrambled up, taking Bean and handing the child down, then crawling up onto the roof and supporting the Chief Inspector with his own young body.

“You can let go now,” said Beauvoir to Pierre Patenaude, who was clinging to Gamache’s hand. Patenaude hesitated a moment, as though he didn’t yet want to release this man, but he did and Gamache slid gently into the younger man’s arms.

“All right?” Beauvoir whispered.

“Merci,” Gamache whispered back. His first words in his new life, in a territory he hadn’t expected to see, but one that stretched, unbelievably, before him. “Thank you,” he repeated.

He allowed himself to be helped down, his legs shaking and his arms like rubber. Once on the ladder he turned and looked up, into the face of the person who’d saved him.

Pierre Patenaude looked back, standing upright on the roof as though he belonged there, as though the coureurs de bois and the Abinaki had left him there when they’d departed.

“Pierre,” a small but firm voice said in a conversational tone. “It’s time to come in.”

Madame Dubois’s head poked out of the skylight. Patenaude looked at her and stood straighter. He put his arms out and tilted his head back.

“Non, Pierre,” said Madame Dubois. “You are not to do that. Chef Véronique has made a pot of tea and we’ve lit a fire so you won’t get a chill. Come down with me now.”

She held out her hand and he looked at it. Then, taking it, he disappeared into the Manoir Bellechasse.

Five of them sat in the kitchen of the Manoir. Patenaude and Gamache had changed into dry clothes and were wrapped in warm blankets by the fire while Chef Véronique and Madame Dubois poured tea. Beauvoir sat beside Patenaude, in case he made a run for it, though no one expected him to any more.

“Here.” Chef Véronique hesitated a moment, a mug of tea in her large grip. It hovered between Gamache and Patenaude, then it drifted over to the maître d’. She handed the next one to Gamache with a small, apologetic smile.