The Cruelest Month: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

by Louise Penny

  Lemieux had intended to spy on Gamache. But the chief’s hearing was too good. Surprise was lost, but something else might be gained. Since Gamache was rattled by the house, why not rattle him a little more? He wondered how Brébeuf would react if he got rid of the Gamache problem by giving him a fatal heart attack. He’d tossed small stones and seen Gamache spin round. He’d moved a piece of rope so that something appeared to slither, and seen Gamache step back. And finally, he’d drawn his gun.

  But Gamache had called his name, almost as though he’d known it was him. And the advantage had been lost. Worse than that, Chief Inspector Gamache seemed to have expanded. He stood absolutely unwavering in front of Lemieux, radiating not rage nor even fear, but power. Authority.

  ‘I asked you a question, Agent Lemieux. Why did you draw your gun?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lemieux stammered, falling back on the time-tested recipe of contrition and confession. ‘I got scared, being here all alone.’

  ‘You knew I was here.’

  Gamache wasn’t crumbling before this wretched display.

  ‘And I was looking for you, sir. I heard something. Voices, and I knew you wouldn’t be talking to anyone so I thought maybe there was someone else. Maybe the person who broke the police tape. Maybe you needed help. But,’ Lemieux hung his head and shook it, ‘there’s no excuse. I could have killed you. Do you want my gun?’

  ‘I want the truth. Don’t lie to me, son.’

  ‘I’m not lying, sir, really. I know it sounds pathetic, but I just got scared.’

  And still Gamache was silent. Was this not going to work, Lemieux wondered?

  ‘Oh, God. I’m a total screw-up. First the ephedra thing and now this.’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ said Gamache, his voice still hard but not as hard as before.

  He’d won. What had Brébeuf said? ‘Everyone loves a sinner, but none more than Gamache. He believes he can save the drowning. Your job is to drown.’

  And so he had. He’d purposely left the ephedra clue up on Gabri’s computer, to be caught and forgiven, and now he’d been caught again. Drawing his gun had been stupid, but he’d managed to turn a mistake into an advantage. And Gamache, pathetic, weak Gamache, was actually forgiving him for drawing his gun. That was Gamache’s drug of choice, his weakness. He loved to forgive.

  ‘Did you find anything, sir?’

  ‘Nothing. This house isn’t ready to give up its secrets.’

  ‘Secrets? The house has secrets?’

  ‘Houses are like people, Agent Lemieux. They have secrets. I’ll tell you something I’ve learned.’

  Armand Gamache dropped his voice so that Agent Lemieux had to strain to hear.

  ‘Do you know what makes us sick, Agent Lemieux?’

  Lemieux shook his head. Then out of the darkness and stillness he heard the answer.

  ‘It’s our secrets that make us sick.’

  Behind him, a small creak broke the silence.

  THIRTY

  ‘What happened then?’ asked Lacoste. They were on their way back to the Incident Room. Once out of the canopy of trees they could see the storm cloud rising. It now blocked a quarter of the sky. Its progress was slow, but determined.

  ‘Pardon?’ Beauvoir asked, distracted by the sight of the cloud.

  ‘The Chief Inspector? He had the evidence against Arnot and the others, what’d he do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You must know. He told you all the other stuff. The story about the Cree woman never came out in court.’

  ‘No. They decided to keep that quiet, in case she became a target. You can’t tell anyone.’

  Lacoste was about to protest that anyone who might care was locked up, but then she remembered the morning’s newspaper article. Someone still cared.

  ‘I won’t.’

  Beauvoir nodded curtly and continued walking.

  ‘There’s more,’ Lacoste said, running to catch up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Agent Nichol.’

  ‘What about her?’

  Beauvoir knew he’d gone too far. Cautioned himself to stop. But still the words escaped, eager to find an accomplice, to find sympathetic company.

  ‘She was sent by Superintendent Francoeur to spy on the Chief Inspector.’

  The words themselves seemed to stink.

  ‘Merde,’ said Lacoste.

  ‘Merde,’ agreed Beauvoir.

  ‘No, really. Shit.’ Lacoste pointed to the ground. Sure enough, a huge pile of shit steamed by the side of the road. Beauvoir tried to twist out of the way but still managed to step in the side of it.

  ‘God, it’s disgusting.’ He lifted his foot, all soft Italian leather and softer, stinking shit. ‘Aren’t people supposed to pick up after their dogs?’

  He scraped the side of his shoe on the road, covering the leather with dirt as well as the shit.

  ‘It isn’t dog poop,’ said an authoritative voice.

  Beauvoir and Lacoste looked around but saw no one. Beauvoir peered into the forest. Had one of the trees stopped singing and actually spoken? Was it possible the very first words he heard from a tree were ‘It isn’t dog poop’? He turned to see Peter and Clara Morrow walking toward them. Guess not, thought Beauvoir, and wondered how long they’d been there and what they’d heard.

  Peter bent and examined the pile. Only country people, thought Beauvoir, were endlessly fascinated by shit. Country people and parents.

  ‘Bear,’ Peter said, straightening up. ‘We just walked by here minutes ago. You mean a bear was behind us?’

  Were they kidding, Beauvoir wondered? But the couple was straight-faced and as serious as he’d ever seen them. Peter Morrow held a tightly rolled newspaper.

  ‘Is the Chief Inspector around?’

  ‘No, sorry. Can I help?’

  ‘He’s bound to see it eventually,’ said Clara to Peter.

  Peter nodded and handed Beauvoir the paper.

  ‘We saw it this morning.’ Beauvoir offered it back.

  ‘Look again,’ said Peter. Beauvoir sighed and opened it up. The banner said Le Journal de Nous. Not La Journée, as he’d expected. And there in the very center was a large picture of the Chief Inspector and his son Daniel. They were in some sort of stone building. It looked like a crypt. And Gamache was pushing an envelope on Daniel. The caption read, Armand Gamache handing envelope to unknown man.

  Beauvoir scanned the story then had to go back and try to read more slowly. He was so upset he could barely take it in. The words blurred and bobbed and drowned in a gush of anger. Finally, gasping for air, he lowered the paper and as he did he saw Armand Gamache crossing the bridge, accompanied by Robert Lemieux. Their eyes met and Gamache smiled warmly, but when he saw the paper and the look on his young inspector’s face the smile faded.

  ‘Bonjour.’ Gamache shook hands with Peter and bowed slightly to Clara. ‘I see you’ve seen the latest.’ He nodded to the paper in Beauvoir’s hand.

  ‘Have you?’ Beauvoir asked.

  ‘No, but Reine-Marie read it to me.’

  ‘What’re you going to do?’ Beauvoir asked. It was as though the others had disappeared and all that existed for Beauvoir was the Chief Inspector, and the remarkable storm cloud rising behind him.

  ‘I’ll sit with it for a while.’ Gamache nodded to the others, turned and walked to the Incident Room.

  ‘Wait.’ Beauvoir ran to catch up. He stepped in front of Gamache just before he reached the door. ‘You can’t just let them say these things. It’s libel at the very least. My God, did Madame Gamache read it all to you? Listen to this.’ Beauvoir snapped the paper open and began reading. ‘At the very least the Sûreté du Québec owes Quebecers an explanation. How can a corrupt officer remain on the force? And in a position of great influence? It was clear during the Arnot investigation that Chief Inspector Gamache was himself involved and had a personal vendetta against his superior. But now he seems to have gone into business for himself. Who is the man he’s
slipping the envelope to, what’s in the envelope, and what is the man being hired to do?’

  Beauvoir crunched the paper in his hands and looked Gamache straight in the face. ‘This is your son. You’re handing an envelope to Daniel. There’s no reason for any of this shit. Come on. All you have to do is pick up the phone and call the editors. Explain what you’re doing.’

  ‘Why?’ Gamache’s voice was calm, his gaze clear and without anger. ‘So they can make up more lies? So they can know they’ve hurt me? No, Jean Guy. Just because I can answer an accusation doesn’t mean I must. Trust me.’

  ‘You’re always saying that as though you need to remind me to trust you.’ Now Beauvoir didn’t care who heard. ‘How many times do I have to prove it before you stop saying “trust me”?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ And Gamache looked stricken for the first time. ‘You’re right. I don’t doubt you, Jean Guy. Never have. I trust you.’

  ‘And I trust you,’ said Beauvoir, his voice calm now, his agitation lifted and caught in the gusts and taken from him. For a moment he imagined the word ‘trust’ replaced by another, but he knew ‘trust’ was enough. He looked at the big man and knew Gamache hadn’t put a foot wrong yet. Certainly Gamache wasn’t the one with shit all over his Italian leather boots.

  ‘Do what you must,’ he said. ‘I’ll support you.’

  ‘Thank you, Jean Guy. Right now I must call Daniel. It’s getting late in Paris.’

  ‘And Chief,’ Lacoste now felt it safe to approach, ‘the coroner wants a word. She said she’d meet you in the bistro at five.’

  Gamache looked at his watch. ‘Did you find anything in the room to explain the break-in?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Lacoste. ‘Did you find anything?’

  What should he say? He’d found sorrow and terror and truth? We’re only as sick as our secrets, he’d told Lemieux. Gamache had emerged from that cursed basement with a secret of his own.

  Gilles Sandon hugged a leg to him and began caressing it. Up and down his rough hand went, agonizingly slowly. With each pass his hand crept further up until finally he’d run out of leg.

  ‘You’re so smooth,’ he said, blowing on the leg and picking minute particles from it. ‘Wait until I oil you. Rich tung oil.’

  ‘Who’re you talking to?’

  Odile slumped against the doorway. The contents of her glass and Gilles’s workroom both swirled. Normally she turned her anger into wine and swallowed it, but lately it hadn’t worked so well.

  Gilles looked up, startled, as though caught in a humiliating and private act. The worn piece of fine sandpaper fluttered to the floor. He could smell the wine. Five o’clock. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Most people have a drink or two at five. After all, there was the fine Québécois tradition of the ‘cinq à sept’.

  ‘I was talking to the leg,’ he said, and for the first time the words sounded ridiculous.

  ‘Isn’t that sort of a silly thing to do?’

  He looked at the leg, destined to be part of a fine table. It had honestly never before occurred to him it was silly. He wasn’t a stupid man and knew most people didn’t talk to trees but he figured that was their problem.

  ‘I’ve been working on another poem. Wanna hear it?’

  Without waiting for an answer Odile rolled off the door jamb and walked slowly and with great care to the front counter of their store. She returned with her notebook.

  ‘Listen.

  ‘How prone is piebald man to mourn,

  And make ado of nothing much,

  To strew his rosy path with thorn,

  And rusty nails, yea, plenty such.

  ‘Wait.’ She fell against the doorway as he turned his back. ‘There’s more. And you can drop that fucking thing.’

  He looked down and realized he was strangling the leg, his fingers tight and white as though the blood had leached from him into the wood. After a moment’s hesitation he placed it carefully on the floor, making sure to put it on a bed of woodchips.

  ‘’Tis not for he the sparrow pipes,

  Nor blows the bullfrog in the rill,

  Ah, not for he the heron wipes,

  His stately nose upon his quill.’

  Odile lowered her book and gave Gilles a knowing look. Nodding a few times she closed her book and walked with great concentration back into the store. Gilles watched and wondered what she was trying to tell him. How was it he understood trees but not Odile?

  He suddenly felt uneasy as though ants were crawling inside his skin. Bringing the wooden leg to his face he inhaled deeply and was transported to the forest. The tender, watchful forest. Safe. But even there his thoughts ran him to earth.

  What did Odile know? Wasn’t a quill a type of pen? Was she planning to write something less abstruse about him? Was she warning him? If so, she had to be stopped.

  He tapped his palm rhythmically with the exquisite wooden leg as he thought.

  At his desk Armand Gamache smoothed the crumpled newspaper. Up until that moment he’d only had people read it to him and that had been shocking enough. But his heart gave a contraction as he looked at the picture. Daniel’s hand on the envelope he’d forced on him just yesterday morning. Daniel, beautiful Daniel, a big bear of a man. Couldn’t everyone see they were father and son? Were the editors deliberately blind? But Gamache knew the answer to that. Someone was blocking out their reason.

  He reached for the phone and dialed Daniel.

  Dr Sharon Harris pulled her car up to the kerb and was about to go into the bistro. Through its mullioned window she could see the Morrows and a few others she knew slightly. She could see the fire jumping in the grate and Gabri holding a tray of drinks and telling a story to an amused group of villagers. As she watched Olivier expertly took the tray from Gabri and delivered the drinks to another group. Gabri sat down, crossed his massive legs and continued the story. She thought she saw him take a sip from someone’s whiskey, but she wasn’t sure. She turned and looked at the village. Lights were beginning to appear and the sweet scent of log fires was in the air. The three massive pines on the village green threw long evening shadows now. She looked into the sky. More than night was closing in. She’d listened to the forecast in the car and even Environment Canada was surprised that such a mammoth system had suddenly appeared. But what did it contain? The forecasters didn’t know. Could be rain or sleet or even snow at this time of year.

  Since she didn’t see Chief Inspector Gamache in the bistro Dr Harris decided to sit on the bench on the green and get some air. As she bent to sit down something beneath the bench caught her eye. She picked it up, examined it, and smiled.

  Across the road Ruth Zardo’s door opened and the elderly woman came out. She stood there for a moment and Harris had the impression Ruth was talking to some invisible person. Then she clumped down the steps and at the bottom said a few more words into the air.

  Finally lost it, thought Dr Harris. Fried her brain with verse and worse.

  Ruth turned and did something that horrified Dr Harris, who knew the misanthrope slightly. She smiled and waved at the young doctor. Dr Harris waved back and wondered what malevolent scheme Ruth had hatched to make her so happy. Then she saw it.

  As Ruth limped across the road two tiny birds formed a very small tail behind her. One was spreading its wings and flapping, the other was limping a little and falling behind. Ruth stopped and waited, then started again, more slowly.

  ‘Quite a family,’ said Gamache, landing in the seat beside Dr Harris.

  ‘Look what I found.’

  Dr Harris opened her fist and there in the cradle of her palm sat a tiny egg. A robin’s egg blue, but not actually a robin’s egg. It was also green and pink in a pattern so intricate and delicate Gamache had to put on his half-moon glasses to appreciate it.

  ‘Where on earth did you find that?’

  ‘Right here, under the bench. Can you believe it? It’s wood, I think.’ She handed it to him. He brought it up to his face and stared at it until his eye
s crossed.

  ‘Beautiful. I wonder where it came from.’

  Dr Harris was shaking her head. ‘This place. How do you explain a village like Three Pines where poets take ducks for walks and art seems to fall from the skies?’

  On the mention of skies both of them looked at the storm cloud, now almost halfway up the sky.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect many Rembrandts from that,’ said Gamache.

  ‘No. More abstract than classic, I think.’

  Gamache laughed. He liked Dr Harris.

  ‘Poor Ruth. You know she smiled at me just now.’

  ‘Smiled? Do you think she’s dying?’

  ‘No, but I think the little one is.’

  Dr Harris pointed to the smaller of the ducks, struggling across the grass to the pond. The two sat on their bench and watched. Ruth went over to the straggler and walked very slowly beside it, the two limping along like mother and child.

  ‘What killed Madeleine Favreau, doctor?’

  ‘Ephedra. She had five or six times the recommended level of ephedra in her system.’

  Gamache nodded. ‘That’s what the toxicology said, of course. Could it have been given to her over dinner?’

  ‘Had to have been. It works fairly quickly. I don’t think it’d be a problem slipping it into any of the food.’

  ‘But there’s more, isn’t there,’ said Gamache. ‘Not everyone who dies from ephedra has a look of horror on their faces.’

  ‘True. You want to know what really killed her?’

  Gamache nodded.

  Sharon Harris looked up from his strong, calm face and nodded to the hillside.

  ‘That killed her. The old Hadley house.’

  ‘Come along, doctor. Houses don’t kill.’ Gamache tried to sound convincing.

  ‘Perhaps not, but fear does. Do you believe in ghosts, Chief Inspector?’ When he was silent she went on. ‘I’m a doctor, a scientist, but I’ve been in homes that scare the hell out of me. I’ve been invited to parties in perfectly fine places. New houses even, and felt a dread. Felt a presence.’