Beauvoir thought. But he knew no answer would be coming.
The chief turned back to his walk, and continued to tiptoe between the squiggling worms. Beauvoir watched him for a moment, the tall, elegant, powerful man, avoiding the worms. Then he too started walking, tiptoeing, so that from any of the mullioned windows around the village green they looked like two grown men in an awkward, though familiar, ballet.
‘Do you remember the name?’ Beauvoir asked when he caught up with the chief.
‘Chauvet. They’re the caves at Chauvet.’
When they got back to the B. & B. they were met by the aroma of fresh-brewed café au lait, maple-cured back bacon and eggs.
‘Eggs Benedict,’ announced Gabri, rushing to greet them and take their coats. ‘Yummy.’
He pushed them along through the living room and into the dining room where their table was set up. Gamache and Beauvoir sat down and Gabri placed two steaming, frothy bols of coffee in front of them.
‘Patron, did you see a stack of books in the living room when you came down?’ Gamache asked, taking a sip of the rich brew.
‘Books? No.’
Gamache put his bol down and walked into the living room. Through the archway Beauvoir watched as he walked round and finally returned, replacing his white linen napkin on his lap.
‘They’re gone,’ he said, though he didn’t look upset.
‘The yearbooks?’
Gamache nodded and smiled. He hadn’t planned it, but this was good. Someone was rattled. Rattled enough to sneak into the B. & B., which everyone knew was never locked, and take the yearbooks from twenty-five years ago.
‘Yummy, yummy,’ said Gabri, placing the platters in front of his guests. Each held two eggs on a thick slice of Canadian back bacon which in turn rested on a golden toasted English muffin. Hollandaise sauce was drizzled over the eggs and fruit salad garnished the edges of each plate.
‘Mangez,’ said Gabri. Gamache reached out his hand and took Gabri’s wrist lightly. He looked up at the large, disheveled man. Gabri stood stock-still, staring. Then he lowered his eyes.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Gamache asked.
‘Eat. Please.’
‘Tell me.’
Beauvoir’s fork with a massive mound of egg, dripping hollandaise, stopped almost at his mouth. He stared at the two men.
‘There’s more. It’s the papers, isn’t it?’ said Beauvoir, suddenly knowing.