The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)

Only two men left in the world.

And now they faced each other.

“We’ve known each other since the academy. We’ve circled each other since then,” said Gamache. “It’s time to stop. What’s this about?”

“I came to help.”

“I believe that. But help who? Not me. Not Inspector Beauvoir. On whose orders are you here?”

Was there just the slightest flicker on those last words?

“You’re too late, Armand,” said Francoeur. “You missed your chance.”

“I know. But it wasn’t just now. I made my mistake years ago when I was investigating Chief Superintendent Arnot. I should’ve waited before arresting him, until I could get all of you.”

Francoeur didn’t bother to deny it. If it was too late for Gamache to stop whatever was happening, it was also way too late for Francoeur to issue denials.

“Was it Arnot?”

“Arnot’s in prison for life, Armand. You know that. You put him there.”

Now the Chief did smile, though it was weary. “And we know that means nothing. A man like Arnot will always get what he wants.”

“Not always,” said Francoeur. “It wasn’t his idea to be arrested, tried and sentenced.”

It was a rare admission by Francoeur that Gamache, for a moment, had actually bested Arnot. But then had stumbled. Hadn’t finished the job. Hadn’t realized there were more to be gotten.

And so the rot had remained, and grown.

Arnot was a powerful figure, Gamache knew. Had powerful friends. And a reach well beyond prison walls. Gamache had had a chance to kill him, but had chosen not to. And sometimes, sometimes, he wondered if that wasn’t also a mistake.

But now another thought struck him. Francoeur wasn’t texting Arnot. The name, while respected by Francoeur, didn’t evoke terror. It was someone else. Someone more powerful than the Superintendent. Someone more powerful even than Arnot.

“Who were you writing to, Sylvain?” Gamache asked for the third time. “It’s not too late. Tell me, and we can wrap this up together.” Gamache’s voice was even, reasonable. He held out his hand. “Give me that. Give me your codes. That’s all I need, and it’s over.”

And Francoeur seemed to hesitate. Moved his hand to his pocket. Then let it fall, empty, to his side.

“You’ve misunderstood again, Armand. There’s no grand conspiracy. It’s all in your head. I was texting my wife. As I suspect you write to your wife.”

“Give it to me, Sylvain.” Gamache ignored the lie. He kept his hand out and his eyes on his superior. “You must be tired. Exhausted. It’ll be over soon.”

The two men’s eyes locked.

“You love your children, Armand?”

It was as though the words had physically shoved him. Gamache felt himself momentarily off balance. Instead of answering he continued to stare.

“Of course you do.” Francoeur’s voice held no rancor now. It was almost as though they were old friends, chatting over a scotch at a brasserie on St-Denis.

“What’re you saying?” Gamache demanded, his voice no longer reasonable. He could feel all reason escaping him, disappearing into the thick, dark forest. “Leave my family out of this.” Gamache spoke in a low growl, and the part of his brain that could still reason realized the wild creature he thought was in the woods, wasn’t. It was in his skin. He’d become feral, at the very thought of his family threatened.

“Did you know that your daughter and your Inspector are having an affair? Maybe you’re not as in control of everything as you seem to think. What else don’t you know, if that could get by you?”

The rage Gamache had been trying to control died out completely with those words. To be replaced by something glacial. Ancient.

Armand Gamache felt himself grow very quiet. And he could sense a change in Francoeur as well. He knew he’d gone too far. Had stepped too far from the reeds.

Gamache knew about Jean-Guy and Annie. Had known for months. From the day he and Reine-Marie had visited Annie and seen the little jug of lilacs on her kitchen table.

They’d known, and been immeasurably happy for Annie, who’d loved Jean-Guy from the moment she’d met him more than a decade earlier. And for Jean-Guy, who so clearly loved their daughter.

And for themselves, who loved both young people.

The Gamaches had let them have their space. They knew Annie and Jean-Guy would tell them, when they were ready. He knew. But how did Francoeur? Someone must have told him. And if it wasn’t Jean-Guy and wasn’t Annie, then—