by Louise Penny
‘That’s right,’ agreed Myrna, remembering more as she cast her mind back. ‘Didn’t the defense imply he’d set Arnot up?’
Peter nodded. ‘Arnot was a superintendent in the serious crimes squad. At the trial it came out that Arnot had ignored some violent crimes, even murder. Just let it happen.’
‘Especially when it involved natives,’ said Myrna, nodding.
‘I was just about to say that. Eventually, Pierre Arnot had ordered his most trusted officers to actually kill.’
‘Why?’ Clara asked, trying to remember back that far.
Peter shrugged. ‘The notion put forward by papers like this,’ he held up his copy of La Journée, ‘was that Arnot was just allowing the criminals to kill each other instead of innocent people. A community service.’
There was silence in Myrna’s loft as the three remembered the shocking revelations. All the more shocking since the Québécois, French and English, had respect, even affection for the Sûreté. Until this. The trial had ended all that.
Peter remembered watching the news. Watching the senior Sûreté officers arriving grim-faced every day. The microphones and cameras thrust into their faces. At first they’d arrived together, a show of unity. But in the end two were cut out of the herd.
Gamache and his immediate superior. A Superintendent someone. The Superintendent had been the only one to publicly stand beside Gamache. It was almost touching to watch the two men growing wearier and more drawn as the revelations and accusations and bitterness increased.
But still Gamache had smiled when asked the same stupid, leading, insulting questions by reporters. He’d been calm, old-fashioned in his courtesy. Even when he’d been accused of disloyalty. Even when, finally, he’d been accused of being an accomplice. Of knowing about the murders and giving his tacit approval. After all, Arnot had implied, how could the head of homicide not have known?
‘It was awful,’ said Clara. ‘Like watching the Hindenburg crash over and over in slow motion. Something noble had been wrecked.’
Peter wondered whether Clara was thinking of Gamache or the Sûreté itself.
‘The papers were sure torn,’ he said. ‘Most supported Gamache, but some called for his resignation.’
‘That paper,’ Myrna jutted her head toward La Journée, folded next to Peter, ‘ran editorials saying Gamache should be in the same cell as Arnot. Let the two kill each other.’
‘What happened to Arnot and the others?’ Clara asked.
‘In some penitentiary somewhere. It’s a wonder they haven’t been killed by the inmates yet.’
‘I bet that asshole Arnot is running the place,’ said Myrna. She balled up her napkin and threw it with as much force as a paper napkin could achieve onto the table. The other two stared at her, surprised by her sudden anger.
‘What is it?’ asked Clara.
‘Don’t you get it? We’ve just talked about that case as though it was some episode on a TV drama. It was real. That man Arnot killed people. Killed the very people he was supposed to help. Why? Because they were natives, full of despair and sniff. And the one man who put a stop to it, who had the balls to stand up to Arnot and the entire Sûreté hierarchy, they tried to destroy too. Arnot’s psychotic, and I don’t say that lightly. I know the signs. I’ve diagnosed and worked with psychotic people for years. Don’t you get it?’
She looked at Peter and Clara then leaned over and picked up Peter’s paper, slapping it back down on the table, as though punishing it.
‘It’s not over. The Arnot case is still going on.’
The phone rang and Clara picked it up.
‘It’s Olivier,’ she said, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Wow, thanks. I’ll pass it along.’ Clara hung up and turned to the others. ‘Have you ever heard of ephedra?’
TWENTY
Jean Guy Beauvoir handed out the assignments.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste was to look into the life of Madeleine Favreau, Agent Nichol was to go through the list of suppliers of ephedra and find out if any shipped recently to the area, and Robert Lemieux would accompany Inspector Beauvoir and Chief Inspector Gamache.
‘But that’s not right,’ said Nichol, stunned by Beauvoir’s mistake in judgment. ‘He started looking into epilepsy, or whatever it is.’
‘Ephedra,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Weren’t you even listening?’
‘Look, it’s on the computer, isn’t it?’
Beauvoir swung around and glared at Gamache, making sure the boss understood how ridiculous this woman was.
‘The point is,’ continued Nichol, apparently oblivious of the impression she made, ‘he started it, he should finish it.’
‘What? Is that a new rule?’ asked Beauvoir. ‘This isn’t a school yard and this isn’t a debate. You’ll do as you’re ordered.’
‘Fine. Sir.’ Nichol stomped back to her desk, not acknowledging Lemieux’s attempt to catch her eye and smile an apology.
After they’d gone and the technicians were busy in another part of the room, Nichol brought out her cell phone. It’d been vibrating all through the meeting and it was all she could do not to answer. But that would have been a disaster.
‘Oui, allô,’ she said and wasn’t at all surprised to hear the familiar voice.
‘Tell me what’s happening,’ he said. She did and there was a pause on the other end. ‘I don’t like this. You should be with Gamache. Did you do something wrong? Did you upset him?’
‘Of course not. I even came up with the cause of death. Everyone was saying it was that drug stuff and I said she was scared to death. The chief even agreed and said it.’
‘Wait a minute, are you saying you showed him up in front of his entire team?’
‘It’s not hard.’
‘What have I told you? What have I taught you? Don’t antagonize him.’
‘What? So, I’m supposed to just agree?’
‘There’s more at stake here than a single case. You know that. Don’t fuck up.’
‘Stop saying that.’
‘Stop fucking up.’
The line went dead.
Armand Gamache nodded to two people sitting at a small round table outside Olivier’s Bistro, taking advantage of the fresh spring sun. Given a chance Quebecers stayed out on terrasses late into the fall and got back as soon as they could in the spring. Wearing turtleneck sweaters and coats, hats and gloves, they sought the sunshine.
These two were dipping biscotti into their cappuccinos and talking animatedly. The part of the conversation Gamache picked up sounded very much like the tendril of words he’d caught in the wind as they’d walked by the people standing on the village green with their dogs.
The village seemed to have one song today, with a single lyric.
Ephedra.
Gamache stopped and stared hard at Agent Lemieux who had a smile on his face and seemed to be enjoying the pleasant spring day.
‘Did you hear that?’ Gamache asked. Lemieux cocked his head to one side, listening.
‘Is it a robin?’
Inspector Beauvoir shook his head.
‘Listen more closely, please,’ said Gamache.
Lemieux became very quiet and listened, closing his eyes. He heard the river marauding past. He heard birds, though perhaps not robins. He heard people talking. He heard the word ‘ephedra’.
He opened his eyes and stared at Gamache.
‘Those two sitting at the bistro table must have something to do with the murder,’ he whispered. Then he heard ‘ephedra’ again. This time from the direction of Monsieur Béliveau’s general store.
‘Agent, perhaps you can tell me how you did your research yesterday.’ Gamache was looking at him quite sternly.
‘Well, I was waiting for the psychic to return and noticed a computer on the desk, so I looked it up.’
‘Using Gabri’s computer.’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you close the sites you looked at?’ Inspector Beauvoir asked.
‘I’m sure I did.’
>
‘I’d never use ephedra, far too dangerous,’ a villager was saying to her companion as they walked by the men, pausing to smile at Gamache, who raised his hat to them. ‘But I hear Gabri used to use it, or was it Olivier? And frankly, Myrna could use a pill or two.’
Gamache replaced his cap and stared at Lemieux. It was one of the most disconcerting looks he’d ever had. Part demanding and part searching.
‘Maybe I didn’t erase it. I’m sorry. What a fool.’ Robert Lemieux dropped his head and shook it. He all but stomped his foot. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘You do know what this means,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Yes sir. It means everyone in the village, probably in the county, now knows we’re interested in ephedra. They’re smart enough to figure out why.’
‘It means the murderer knows we know and will certainly dispose of the pills if he hadn’t already,’ said Gamache. ‘This is probably the only ephedra-free community in Quebec now.’
Lemieux lifted his head and let it flop back so that his nose was pointing to the blue sky. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t even think.’
‘How could you not think? Well, think now. What do you think we’re about?’ Beauvoir hissed, trying not to raise his voice for the villagers to hear. ‘Someone here is a murderer. Someone here isn’t afraid to kill. Do you know what stops most people from killing? Fear. Fear of getting caught. We’re dealing with someone who’s fearless. Very scary person, Lemieux. And you just handed them a huge advantage.’
Gamache listened with interest, though without agreement. Fear might stop some people from committing murder, but he knew for certain fear was what drove most people to kill. It was what nested below all the other emotions. It was what twisted and turned the other emotions into something sick. It was an alchemist and could turn daylight into night, joy into despair. Fear, once taken root, blocked the sun. And Gamache knew what grew in that darkness. He searched for it every day.
‘You’re right, you’re absolutely right,’ said Lemieux. ‘I’m sorry.’
He looked squarely at Gamache, who stared back sternly. Then Lemieux saw the slightest softening. Lemieux relaxed. Brébeuf was right. Intentionally leak the ephedra information, get them angry at you, apologize like hell.
Everyone loves a sinner, but none more than Gamache. And why not? After all the sinning he himself had done. After setting up Arnot and almost destroying the Sûreté, of course the great Gamache would love sinners.
Lemieux wondered what it would be like when he himself was head of homicide. Not right away, of course. But Brébeuf would have to reward him. And he’d move up quickly. And when this was over there’d be promotions to be had.
‘Be careful,’ Gamache said softly and for a terrible instant Lemieux wondered whether Gamache’s searching look could actually penetrate the skin. Did he know?
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘You must pay better attention,’ said Gamache, still staring at him.
I won’t be weak, like him, thought Lemieux. And I won’t stop at Chief Inspector.
‘We’re going to have to cover more ground more quickly,’ said Gamache. ‘Inspector, I’d like you and Agent Lemieux to split up and interview everyone who witnessed the murder.’
‘You?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘I’ll be with Jeanne Chauvet.’
Beauvoir took his chief by the elbow and led him a step or two away from Lemieux.
‘I should come along,’ said Beauvoir.
‘To interview the psychic, Jean Guy? Why?’
‘Well.’ Beauvoir looked up at the old Hadley house then away. ‘It just might be better. That wasn’t simply a regular tarot card reading or Ouija board my mother and her friends used to do. Jeanne Chauvet’s a witch.’
‘And you think she’ll conjure evil spirits against me?’
Gamache wasn’t smiling, wasn’t mocking Beauvoir. He seemed to be genuinely interested to know.
‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I think they’re manufactured to serve a purpose.’
‘What purpose?’
‘My wife talks about angels. She wants to believe in guardian angels, because it makes her feel less afraid, less alone.’
‘And evil spirits, are they manufactured too?’
‘I think so. By parents and the church, so that we’ll be afraid and do as we’re told.’
‘So evil spirits create fear and angels calm it,’ said Gamache, thinking about it.
‘I think it’s all in our minds,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I think it’s what we want to believe. Madeleine Favreau believed in ghosts and it killed her. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have been so afraid and that ephedra wouldn’t have stopped her heart. You said as much yourself. She was scared to death. She was killed by her beliefs. By someone taking advantage of them. You believe in things I don’t. I’m afraid she’ll take advantage of that. Get inside your head.’
‘The psychic? You think she’ll crawl inside my head and use my beliefs against me?’
Beauvoir nodded and refused to drop his gaze, though he longed to. This was territory he hated. Things he literally couldn’t quite grasp.
‘I know you’re saying this because you care.’ Gamache held his gaze. ‘But my beliefs comfort, they don’t kill. They’re who I am, Jean Guy. They can’t be used against me because they are me.’
‘You believe in spirits.’ Beauvoir wasn’t going to let it go. ‘I know you don’t go to church, but you still believe in God. Suppose she said she’d conjure evil spirits, then where’d you be?’
‘I guess I’d have to call on the angels,’ Gamache smiled. ‘Look, Jean Guy, at some point in all our lives we’re going to be faced with exactly that question. What do you believe? At least I have my answer, and if it kills me, it kills me. But I won’t run away.’
‘I’m not asking you to run away, just to accept help. Let me come.’
Gamache wavered. ‘There’s too much to be done. You have your assignment.’
Beauvoir held Gamache’s gaze, then dropped it. He knew then what would kill Gamache. Not an evil spirit, not a ghoul or a ghost. But his own pride.
TWENTY-ONE
‘So, I hear you’re a witch.’
‘I prefer Wiccan. I expect you’re a Catholic.’
Gamache raised his brows. The woman in front of him was probably in her early forties though it was hard to tell. Gamache suspected she’d looked middle-aged since kindergarten. She wore a sensible skirt and flat shoes. Her sweater was of good quality, though out of date as well. He wondered where she got it. From her mother? From a second hand shop? All she needed was a pinafore and she’d look like something from the Beatrix Potter books he’d bought Florence. Her features were small and pointy and her eyes gray. He had the impression he was interviewing a woodland creature. One with a very sharp brain.
‘Lapsed,’ said Gamache. Was Beauvoir right? Was this woman trying to get into his head? Strangely enough that’s where Beauvoir seemed to think he kept his beliefs. They were actually nowhere near his head.
‘Wiccan?’ he asked.
‘Practicing,’ she nodded and gave him a small, but warm, smile.
The two were sitting in the living room of the B. & B., a fire in the hearth. It was going to be a mild day but a fire was still welcome. The room was elegant and simple, a surprise to anyone who met Gabri before meeting his living space. Gamache wondered which was genuine, the flamboyant man or his dignified and comfortable home.
‘We were looking for you yesterday. Do you mind telling me where you went?’
‘Not at all. But I have a question for you first. Was Madame Favreau murdered?’
‘Didn’t Gabri tell you?’
‘Well, yes he did. But he also told me he’d written The Producers only to have it stolen by Mel Brooks, and that Ruth is his father.’
Gamache laughed.
‘He must allow himself one truth a day, and I’m afraid his news about Madeleine Favreau was it. She was murdered.
’
Jeanne closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. ‘Ephedra?’
Damn Lemieux, he thought. ‘Two truths,’ he said.
‘What is ephedra?’
She asked it so naturally he wondered whether she was curious or cunning. If she really didn’t know then she was innocent of the crime.
‘My question first, please. Where did you go yesterday afternoon?’
‘I was just up the hill.’
‘At the old Hadley house?’
The revulsion in her face was instant, as though a curtain had suddenly been raised and he had a glimpse of what was back there.
‘No, not that place. I hope never again to go there.’ She looked hard at him, strip-mining his face for any indication he was going to ask her to do just that. Gamache thought it was a look dentists would recognize. Frightened patients pleading with just their eyes, ‘Don’t hurt me.’
Then the moment was gone. ‘I was at the other extreme. The little church.’
‘St Thomas’s?’
‘Yes. It’s beautiful. I felt the need for quiet, for a peaceful place to pray.’
She saw his confusion.
‘What? Witches don’t pray? Or we only pray to the fallen angels not the ones who hang around St Thomas’s?’
‘I know nothing about the Wiccan,’ said Gamache. ‘I’d like to hear.’
‘Will you come with me?’
‘Where to?’
‘Are you afraid?’ She wasn’t laughing at him.
He paused for a moment to think about that. He tried not to lie to suspects. Not because he was a moral or ethical man, but because he knew if found out it weakened his position. And Chief Inspector Gamache would never do that. Not for something as foolish as a lie.
‘I’m always a little afraid of the unknown,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m not afraid of you.’
‘You trust me?’
‘No.’ He smiled. ‘I trust myself. Besides, I have a gun and you probably don’t.’
‘Not my weapon of choice, it’s true. It’s such a lovely day it’s a shame to be inside. I’m only suggesting a walk. Perhaps we can go back to the chapel.’