“The case,” he lied.
“I see.”
They both looked over to the village green. There wasn’t much activity. Ruth was trying to stone the birds, a few villagers were working in their gardens. One was walking a dog. And the Chief Inspector and some strange woman were walking along the dirt road.
“Who’s she?”
“Someone who knew the dead woman,” said Beauvoir. No need to say too much.
Myrna nodded and took a few plump cashews from the bowl of mixed nuts.
“It’s good to see the Chief Inspector looking so much better. Has he recovered do you think?”
“Of course he has. Long ago.”
“Well, it could hardly be long ago,” she said, reasonably. “Since it only happened just before Christmas.”
Was that all it was, Beauvoir asked himself, amazed. Only six months? It seemed ages ago.
“Well, he’s fine, as am I.”
“Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and egotistical? Ruth’s definition of fine?”
This brought an involuntary smile to his lips. He tried to turn it into a grimace, but couldn’t quite.
“I can’t speak for the Chief, but I think that’s just about right for me.”
Myrna smiled and took a sip of her beer. She followed Beauvoir, who was following Gamache.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
Beauvoir tensed, an involuntary spasm. “What d’you mean?”
“What happened, in the factory. To him. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I know that,” he snapped.
“I wonder if you do. It must’ve been horrible, what you saw.”
“Why’re you saying this?” Beauvoir demanded, his head in a whirl. Everything was suddenly topsy-turvy.
“Because I think you need to hear it. You can’t always save him.” Myrna looked at the tired young man across from her. He was suffering, she knew. And she also knew only two things could produce such pain so long after the event.
Love. And guilt.
“Things are strongest where they’re broken,” she said.
“Where did you hear that?” He glared at her.
“I read it in an interview the Chief Inspector gave, after the raid. And he’s right. But it takes a long time, and a lot of help, to mend. You probably thought he was dead.”
Beauvoir had. He’d seen the Chief shot. Fall. And lie still.
Dead or dying. Beauvoir had been sure of it.
And he’d done nothing to help him.
“There was nothing you could do,” said Myrna, rightly interpreting his thoughts. “Nothing.”
“How do you know?” demanded Beauvoir. “How can you know?”
“Because I saw it. On the video.”
“And you think that tells you everything?” he demanded.
“Do you really believe there was more you could’ve done?”
Beauvoir turned away, feeling the familiar ache in his belly turn into jabs of pain. He knew Myrna was trying to be kind but he just wished she’d go away.
She hadn’t been there. He had, and he’d never believe there was nothing more he could have done.
The Chief had saved his life. Dragged him to safety. Bandaged him. But when Gamache himself had been hurt it had been Agent Lacoste who’d fought her way to him. Saved the Chief’s life.
While he himself had done nothing. Just lay there. Watching.
* * *
“You liked her?” Gamache asked.
They’d come full circle and were now standing on the village green, just across from the
“I did,” said Suzanne. “She’d become kind. Thoughtful even. Happy. I didn’t expect to like her when she first dragged her sorry ass into the church basement. We weren’t exactly best friends before she’d left for New York. But we were both younger then, and drunker. And I suspect neither of us was very nice. But people change.”
“Are you so sure Lillian had?”
“Are you so sure I have?” Suzanne laughed.
