“And sunk, I’m afraid,” said Gamache.

Myrna laughed. “Too true. Looking back, I realize she was a great one for hints. She dropped them all over the place, for a year. She said she had four sisters. But I never thought she meant all the same age. She said her parents were obsessed with Brother André, but that she and her sisters were told not to talk about him. That it would get them into trouble. She said people were always trying to find out about their lives. But I thought she just had snoopy neighbors, or was paranoid. Never occurred to me she meant all of North America, including newsreels, and that it was the truth. She must have been pretty exasperated with me. I’m embarrassed to admit I might never have twigged if she hadn’t finally just told me.”

“I’d like to have been there for that conversation.”

“I’ll never forget it, that’s for sure. I thought we were going to talk about intimacy issues again. I sat there with my notebook on my knee, pen in hand”—Myrna aped it for him now—“and then she said, ‘My mother’s name was Pineault. My father’s name was Ouellet. Isidore Ouellet.’ She was looking at me as though this was supposed to mean something. And the funny thing was, it did. There was a sort of vague stirring. Then when I didn’t respond she said, ‘I go by the name Constance Pineault. I actually think of myself as that now, but most people know me as Constance Ouellet. My four sisters and I share a birthday.’ I’m ashamed to say even then it took me a moment or two to understand.”

“I’m not sure I’d have believed it either,” said Gamache.

She shook her head, still in some disbelief. “The Ouellet Quintuplets were almost fictional. Certainly mythical. It was as though the woman I knew as Constance Pineault announced she was a Greek goddess, Hera come to life. Or a unicorn.”

“It seemed unlikely?”

“It seemed impossible, delusional even. But she was so composed, so relaxed. Almost relieved. A more sane person would be hard to find. I think she could see I was struggling to believe her, and I think she found it amusing.”

“Was she also suffering from depression? Is that why she came to you?”

Myrna shook her head. “No. She had moments of depression, but everyone does.”

“Then why did she come to you?”

“It took us a long time to figure that out,” admitted Myrna.

“You make it sound as though Constance herself didn’t know.”

“She didn’t. She was there because she was unhappy. She wanted me to help her figure out what was wrong. She said she felt like someone who suddenly realizes they’re color-blind, and everyone else lives in a more vibrant world.”

“Color-blindness can’t be cured,” said Gamache. “Could Constance?”

“Well, first we had to get at the problem. Not the brass band banging away on the surface, but the barb beneath.”

“And did you get at the barb?”

“I think so. I think it was simple. Most problems are. Constance was lonely.”

Chief Inspector Gamache thought about that. A woman never alone. Sharing a womb, sharing a home. Sharing parents, sharing a table, sharing clothing, sharing everything. Living in a constant crowd. People around all the time, inside the house, and outside. Gawking.

“I’d have thought what she’d crave was privacy,” he said.

“Oh, yes, they all craved that. Oddly enough, I think that’s what made Constance so lonely. As soon as they could, the girls retreated from the attention, but they retreated too far. Became too private. Too isolated. What started as a survival mechanism turned against them. They were safe in their little home, in their private world, but they were alone. They were lonely children who grew into lonely adults. But they knew no other life.”

“Color-blind,” said Gamache.

“But Constance could see there was something else out there. She was safe, but she wasn’t happy. And she wanted to be.” Myrna shook her head. “I wouldn’t wish celebrity on my worst enemy. And parents who do it to their children should be tied up by their nuts.”

“You think the Quints’ parents were to blame?”

Myrna considered that. “I think Constance thought so.”

Gamache nodded to the pictures on the coffee table between them. “You asked if I found those in Constance’s home. I didn’t. There were no personal photos there at all. None in frames, none in albums. I found those in the national archives. Except”—he picked up the one of the four young women—“this one. Constance had packed it, to bring down.”