The Cruelest Month

by Louise Penny

  ‘We thought so. We had the contents analyzed. It was aspirin.’

  ‘So what was the problem?’ asked Gabri.

  ‘Its strength,’ said Gamache. ‘It was low dose. Way below normal. People with heart conditions often take a low dose aspirin once a day.’

  There were nods around the ring. Gamache paused, staring at Hazel.

  ‘Madeleine kept something a secret. Even from you. Perhaps especially from you.’

  ‘She told me everything,’ said Hazel, as though defending her best friend.

  ‘No. One last thing, one huge thing, she kept from you. From everyone. Madeleine was dying. Her cancer had spread.’

  ‘Mais, non,’ said Monsieur Béliveau.

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ Hazel snapped. ‘She’d have said something.’

  ‘Odd that she didn’t. I think she didn’t want to, because she sensed something in you, something that fed on, and created, weakness. Had she told you, though, you wouldn’t have killed her. But by then the plan was in motion. It started with this.’

  He held up the alumni list he’d gotten from the school that afternoon.

  ‘Madeleine was on the alumni of your old high school. So were you.’ Gamache turned to Jeanne, who nodded. ‘Hazel took one of Gabri’s brochures, typed “Where lay lines meet – Easter Special” across the top and mailed it to Jeanne.’

  ‘She stole one of my brochures,’ Gabri said to Myrna.

  ‘Big picture, Gabri.’

  With a struggle he accepted that maybe he wasn’t quite as aggrieved as Madeleine. Or Hazel.

  ‘Poor Hazel,’ said Gabri, and everyone nodded. Poor Hazel.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Akind of shell shock settled over Gamache in the week that followed. His food tasted dull, the paper held no interest. He read and re-read the same sentence in Le Devoir. Reine-Marie tried to engage him in discussions of a trip to the Manoir Bellechasse to celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. He responded, showed interest, but the clear, sparkling colors of his life had dulled. It was as though his heart was suddenly too heavy for his legs. He lugged himself around, trying not to think about what had happened. But one evening when he was out for a walk with Reine-Marie and Henri, the shepherd had suddenly tugged free and raced across the park toward a familiar man on the other side. Gamache called after him and Henri stopped. But not before the man on the far side had also spotted the dog. And the owner.

  Once more, and for the last time, Michel Brébeuf and Armand Gamache locked eyes. In between so much life happened. Children played, dogs rolled and fetched, young parents marveled at what they’d produced. The air between the men was ripe with lilac and honeysuckle, the buzz of bees, puppies barking, children laughing. The world stood between Armand Gamache and his best friend.

  And Gamache longed to walk across and hug him. To feel the familiar hand on his arm. The smell of Michel in his nostrils: soap and pipe tobacco. He yearned for his company, his voice, his eyes so thoughtful and full of humor.

  He missed his best friend.

  And to think for years Michel had actually hated him. Why? For being happy.

  How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes.

  But today no happiness could be found there, only sorrow and regret.

  As Gamache watched, Michel Brébeuf raised one hand then lowered it and walked away. Gamache was just raising his, but his friend had already turned away. Reine-Marie took his hand, and he picked up Henri’s leash and the three of them continued their walk.

  Robert Lemieux had been charged with assault and attempted murder. He faced a long prison sentence. But Armand Gamache couldn’t bring himself to lay charges against Michel Brébeuf. He knew he should. Knew he was a coward for backing away. But every time he approached Paget’s office to lay the charge he remembered little Michel Brébeuf’s hand on his arm. Telling him in his little boy voice it would be all right. He wasn’t alone.

  And he couldn’t do it. His friend had saved him once. And now it was his turn.

  But Michel Brébeuf had resigned from the Sûreté, a broken man. His house for sale, he and Catherine were leaving their beloved Montreal and all they knew and loved. Michel Brébeuf had placed himself beyond the pale.

  Armand Gamache was invited to take tea with Agent Nichol and her family one Saturday afternoon. He pulled up to the house, tiny and immaculate. He could see the faces at the picture window overlooking the road, though they disappeared as he came up the walk. The door was opened even before he knocked.

  He met Yvette Nichol for the first time. The person, not the agent. She was dressed in simple slacks and a sweater, and he realized it was also the first time he’d seen her without a stain on her clothing. Ari Nikolev, small and thin and worried, wiped his palms on his pants then held his hand out.

  ‘Welcome to our home,’ he said in broken French.

  ‘It’s an honor,’ said Gamache, in Czech. Both men must have spent the morning practicing the other’s language.

  The next hour was taken up with a cacophony of relatives shouting at each other in languages Gamache couldn’t even begin to recognize. One old aunt, he was sure, was creating it as she went along.

  The food kept coming, the beverages. Then the songs. It was a joyous, even riotous, event. And yet, every time he looked for Nichol he found her standing just outside the living room. Finally he approached her.

  ‘Why don’t you come in?’

  ‘I’m fine here, sir.’

  He watched her for a moment. ‘What is it? Do you ever go in?’ he asked in amazement, standing next to her on the threshold.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve never been invited.’

  ‘But it’s your own home.’

  ‘They’ve taken all the places. There’s no room.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-six,’ came the sullen reply.

  ‘Time you made your own place. Insist. It’s not their fault you’re standing here, Yvette.’

  Still she hesitated. The truth was, it was comfortable there. Cold, lonely sometimes, but comfortable. What the hell did he know? Everything was easy for him. He wasn’t a girl, he wasn’t an immigrant, his mother hadn’t died young, he wasn’t mocked by his own family. He wasn’t a lowly agent. He’d never understand how hard it was for her.

  As Gamache left, full of sweet cakes and strong tea, he asked Yvette Nichol to walk him to his car.

  ‘I want to thank you for what you did. I know how painful it is to deliberately put yourself outside the group.’

  ‘I’m always outside,’ she said.

  ‘Time to come in, I think. I believe this is yours.’

  He reached into his pocket and pressed something into her hand. Opening it she found a warm stone.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Nichol nodded.

  ‘Do you know, in the Jewish faith when someone dies, loved ones put stones on top of the grave marker. I gave you a piece of advice a year or so ago, when we first discussed the Arnot case. Do you remember it?’

  Nichol pretended to think, but she remembered clearly.

  ‘You said I should bury my dead.’

  Gamache opened his car door.

  ‘Consider it.’ He nodded to the stone in her hand. ‘But just make sure they’re really dead before you bury them otherwise you’ll never get rid of them.’

  As he drove away he thought, maybe, he should take his own advice.

  Armand Gamache ascended to the top floor of Sûreté headquarters, walking along the corridor to the impressive wooden door. He knocked, hoping no one was in.

  ‘Come in.’

  Gamache opened the door and stood before Sylvain Francoeur. The Superintendent didn’t move. He stared at Gamache with undisguised loathing. Gamache reached into his pants pocket, instinctively looking for the charm he’d carried most of his life. But his pocket was empty. A week ago he’d placed his father’s dented and damaged crucifix in a simple white envelope with a littl

e note, and given it to his son.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to apologize. I was wrong to accuse you of spreading stories about my family. You didn’t do it. I’m sorry.’

  Francoeur’s eyes narrowed, waiting for the ‘but’. None came. ‘I’m prepared to write an apology and send it to all the members of the council who were there.’

  ‘I’d like you to resign.’

  They stared at each other. Then Gamache smiled wearily. ‘Is this going to be it for the rest of our lives? You threaten, I retaliate? I accuse, you demand? Do we really need to do this?’

  ‘I’ve seen nothing to change my opinion of you, Chief Inspector. Including how you’ve handled this. Superintendent Brébeuf was a far better officer than you’ll ever be. And now, thanks to you, he’s gone too. I know you, Gamache.’ Francoeur stood and leaned over his desk. ‘You’re arrogant and stupid. Weak. You rely on instinct. You never even saw that your best friend was working against you. Where was your instinct then? The brilliant Gamache, the hero of the Arnot case. Blind. You’re blinded by your emotions, by your need to help people, to save them. You’ve brought nothing but disgrace on the force from the moment you got into a leadership position. And now you come sucking up. It’s not over, Gamache. It’ll never be over.’

  The word splashed into Gamache’s face, no longer smiling. He stared at Francoeur, who was trembling with rage. Gamache nodded then turned and left. Some things, he knew, refused to die.

  A few days later the Gamaches, including Henri, were invited to a party in Three Pines. It was a sunny spring day, the young leaves in full bloom and turning the trees every shade of fresh green. As they bumped and thumped along the dirt road, the canopy of lime green overhead shining like the stained glass in St Thomas’s, they noticed unusual activity off to one side. Though they couldn’t quite see it yet, Gamache knew it was at the old Hadley house and wondered if the villagers were finally tearing it down. A man stepped into the center of the road and waved them to the side. Monsieur Béliveau, in overalls and a painter’s cap, was smiling.

  ‘Bon. We all hoped you’d come.’ The grocer leaned into the open window, patting Henri who’d climbed over Gamache to see who was there so that it appeared a dog was driving the car. Gamache opened the door and Henri bounced out to great yells of recognition from villagers who hadn’t seen him since he was a puppy.

  Within minutes Reine-Marie was up a ladder, scraping flaking paint from the old house, and Gamache was scraping trim around ground floor windows. He didn’t like heights and Reine-Marie didn’t like trim.

  As he scraped he had the impression the house was moaning, as Henri did when he rubbed his ears. With pleasure. Years of decay, years of neglect, of sorrow, were being scraped away. It was being taken down to its real self, the layers of artifice removed. Had that been the moaning all along? Had the old house been moaning for pleasure when company finally arrived? And they’d thought it sinister?

  Far from tearing it down, the villagers of Three Pines had decided to give the old Hadley house another chance. They were restoring it to life.

  Already the place seemed to preen in the sun, shining where the new paint had been applied. Teams were installing new windows and others were cleaning inside.

  ‘A good spring clean,’ as Sarah the baker said, her long auburn hair falling out of the bun at the back of her head.

  A barbecue was fired up and the villagers took a break for beer or lemonade, burgers and sausages. Gamache took his beer and stood staring over the hill, into Three Pines. It was quiet. Everyone was here, old and young; even the ill had been helped up and given lawn chairs and a brush so that all souls of the village touched the Hadley house and broke the curse. The curse of anguish and sorrow.

  But most of all, loneliness.

  The only people not there were Peter and Clara Morrow.

  ‘I’m ready,’ Clara sang from her studio. Her face was streaked with paint and she rubbed her hands on an oil rag, too soiled to do any good.

  Peter stood outside her studio, steadying himself. Breathing deeply and saying a prayer. A begging prayer. Begging for the painting to be truly, unequivocally, irredeemably horrible.

  He’d given up fighting the thing he’d run from as a child, hidden from as the words chased him through his days and into his dreams. His disappointed father demanding he be the best, and Peter knowing he’d always fail. Someone was always better.

  ‘Close your eyes.’ Clara came to the door. He did as he was told and felt her small hand on his arm, leading him.

  * * *

  ‘We buried Lilium on the village green,’ said Ruth, coming up beside Gamache.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. She leaned heavily on her cane and behind her stood Rosa, growing into a fine and sturdy duck.

  ‘Poor little one,’ she said.

  ‘Fortunate one, to have known such love.’

  ‘Love killed her,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Love sustained her,’ said Gamache.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the old poet then turned to look at the Hadley house. ‘Poor Hazel. She really did love Madeleine, you know. Even I could see it.’

  Gamache nodded. ‘I think jealousy’s the cruellest emotion. It twists us into something grotesque. Hazel was consumed by it. It ate away her happiness, her contentment. Her sanity. In the end Hazel was blinded by bitterness and couldn’t see that she already had everything she wanted. Love and companionship.’

  ‘She loved not wisely but too well. Someone should write a play about that,’ said Ruth, smiling ruefully.

  ‘Never work,’ said Gamache. After a moment’s silence he said almost to himself, ‘The near enemy. It isn’t a person, is it? It’s ourselves.’

  Both looked at the old Hadley house, and the villagers working to restore it.

  ‘Depends on the person,’ said Ruth, then her face changed to surprise. She pointed to the woods at the back of the old Hadley house. ‘My God, I was wrong. There are fairies at the end of the garden.’

  Gamache looked round. There at the very back of the garden the brush moved. Then Olivier and Gabri emerged, dragging cut bracken.

  ‘Ha,’ laughed Ruth, triumphant, then her laughter died and she was left with a small smile on her hard face. ‘Behold, I show you a mystery.’ She nodded toward the villagers working on the old house. ‘The dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.’

  ‘In the twinkling of an eye,’ said Gamache.

  ‘Ready?’ Clara asked, her voice almost squeaky with excitement. She’d worked non-stop, racing the arrival of Fortin. But then it had become something else. A race to get what she saw, what she felt, onto the canvas.

  And finally she had it.

  ‘Okay, you can look.’

  Peter’s eyes flew open. It took him a moment to absorb what he saw. It was a huge portrait, of Ruth. But a Ruth he’d never seen. Not really. But now, as he looked, he realized he had seen her, but only in passing, at odd angles, in unsuspecting moments.

  She was swathed in luminous blue, a hint of a red tunic underneath. Her skin, wrinkled and veined, was exposed down her old neck and to her protruding collar bones. She was old and tired and ugly. A weak hand clasped the blue shawl closed, as though afraid of exposing herself. And on her face was a look of such bitterness and anguish. Loneliness and loss. But there was something else. In her eyes, something about the eyes.

  Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to breathe again, or need to. The portrait seemed to do it for him. It had crawled inside his body and become him. The fear, the emptiness, the shame.

  But in those eyes, there was something else.

  This was Ruth as Mary, the mother of God. Mary as an old and forgotten woman. But there was something those old eyes were just beginning to see. Peter stood still and did as Clara had always advised and he’d always dismissed. He let the painting come to him.

  And then he saw it.

  Clara had captured the moment when despair turned to hope. That instant, when the world changed forever. That’s what Ruth was seeing. Hope. The first, new-born, intimation of hope. This was a masterpiece, Peter knew. Like Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. But while Michelangelo had painted the instant before God brought Man to life, Clara had painted the moment the fingers touched.

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ he whispered. ‘It’s the most wonderful painting I’ve ever seen.’

  All the artsy descriptive words fled before the portrait. All his fears and insecurities vanished. And the love he felt for Clara was restored.

  He took her in his arms and together they laughed and wept for joy.

  ‘The idea came to me that night at dinner, when I watched Ruth talk about Lilium. If you hadn’t suggested the dinner, this never would’ve happened. Thank you, Peter.’ And she gave him a huge hug and kiss.

  For the next hour he listened as she talked a mile a minute about the work, her excitement infecting him until they were exhausted and exhilarated.

  ‘Come on.’ She poked him. ‘Up to the old Hadley house. Grab a six-pack from the cold room; they’ll probably need it.’

  As he left he peeked into Clara’s studio once more and was relieved to feel just a hint, just an echo of the crippling jealousy he’d felt. It was going, he knew. Soon it would disappear completely and for the first time in his life he’d be able to be genuinely happy for someone else.

  And so Peter and Clara made their way to the old Hadley house, Peter carrying a case of beer and a tiny shard of jealousy, which started festering.

  * * *

  ‘Happy?’ Reine-Marie slipped her hand into Gamache’s. He kissed her and nodded, pointing his beer down the lawn. Henri was playing fetch with an exasperated Myrna, who was trying to get someone else to throw the ball to the tireless dog. She’d made the mistake of giving him a soiled hot dog and now she was his new best friend.

  ‘Mesdames et messieurs.’ Monsieur Béliveau’s voice bellowed over the gathering. The eating stopped and everyone gathered at the porch of the old Hadley house. Beside Monsieur Béliveau stood Odile Montmagny, looking very nervous, but sober.

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