by Louise Penny
The day had dawned overcast and a little drizzly. A normal day in April. The snow and hail had melted by morning and the only signs of the storm were twigs blown down and flowers flattened.
‘I know you can do it.’ Peter sat beside her. Clara looked exhausted. ‘But maybe you need a little break. Take your mind off the painting.’
‘Are you nuts?’ She looked up. Her deep blue eyes were bloodshot and he wondered if she’d been crying. ‘This is my big chance. I don’t have any time left.’
‘But if you go into your studio now you might mess it up even more.’
‘Even more?’
‘I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.’
‘God, what’m I going to do?’ She wiped her tired eyes with her hand. She’d been awake most of the night, at first lying in bed trying to get back to sleep. When that hadn’t worked she’d obsessed about the painting. She no longer knew what she was doing with it.
Was she so upset by Madeleine’s death she couldn’t clear her mind enough to create? It was a convenient and comforting thought.
Peter took her small hands and noticed they were stained with blue oils. Had she not cleaned them from yesterday or had she been in the studio already this morning? Instinctively he brought his thumb over to the oil and smeared it. It was from this morning.
‘Look, why don’t we have a little dinner party? We could invite Gamache and a few others. Bet he’s ready for a home-cooked meal.’
As the words came out he was stunned by the cruelty of each and every one of them. That was exactly the last thing Clara should be doing. She shouldn’t be distracted, she needed to work through this fear, needed to be undisturbed in her studio. A dinner party, right now, would be disastrous.
Was he nuts, Clara wondered? The painting was a mess and Peter was suggesting she hold a party? But while she seemed to have lost her talent, her muse, her inspiration, her courage, one thing she hadn’t lost was her certainty that Peter wanted the best for her.
‘Good idea.’ She tried to smile. Panic, she was discovering, was exhausting. She looked at the clock on the stove. Seven thirty. Picking up her coffee and calling to Lucy their golden retriever she put on a coat, rubber boots and a hat and went out.
The air smelled fresh and clean or if not clean, at least natural. Dirt. It smelled of fresh leaves and wood and dirt. And water. And wood smoke. The day smelled wonderful but looked like a slaughter. All the young tulips and daffodils had been flattened by the storm. Bending down she lifted one, hoping it would get the idea, but it flopped back as soon as she let go.
Clara had never really taken to gardening. All her creative energies went into her art. Happily, Myrna loved gardening, and even more happily she had no garden herself.
In exchange for meals and movies Myrna had turned Clara and Peter’s modest garden into lovely perennial beds of roses and peony, delphiniums and foxglove. But in late April only the spring bulbs dared to bloom, and look what happened to them.
Armand Gamache had awoken to a slight knocking on his door. His bedside clock said 6:10. A dull light was coming into his comfortable room. He listened and there again was the tapping. Creeping out of bed he slipped on his dressing gown and opened the door. There was Gabri, his thick dark hair standing up on one side like Gumby. He was unshaven and wore a shabby dressing gown and fluffy slippers. It seemed the more elegant and sophisticated Olivier became the more disheveled Gabri grew. The universe in balance.
Olivier must be particularly splendid today, thought Gamache.
‘Désolé,’ whispered Gabri. He lifted his hand and Gamache saw a newspaper. His heart dropped.
‘This just arrived. I thought you’d like to see it before anyone else.’
‘Anyone?’
‘Well, I saw it. And Olivier. But no one else.’
‘You’re very kind, Gabri. Merci.’
‘I’ll make coffee. Come down when you’re ready. At least the storm’s over.’
‘You think?’ said Gamache and smiled. He shut the door, put the paper on the bed then showered and shaved. Refreshed he stared down at the paper, a splotch of black and grey against the white sheets. He quickly turned the pages before his courage flagged.
And there it was. Worse than he’d expected.
His jaw clamped shut, his back teeth clenching and unclenching. He could feel himself breathing heavily as he stared at the photograph. His daughter Annie. Annie and a man. Kissing.
‘Anne Marie Gamache with her lover, Maître Paul Miron of the public prosecutor’s office.’
Gamache closed his eyes. When he opened them the photograph was still there.
He read the piece, twice. Forcing himself to go slowly. To chew, swallow and digest the repugnant words. Then he sat quietly and thought.
Minutes later he called Reine-Marie, waking her up.
‘Bonjour, Armand. What time is it?’
‘Almost seven. Sleep well?’
‘Not really. I did a bit of tossing. You?’
‘Same,’ he admitted.
‘I have some bad news. Henri ate your favorite slippers, well one anyway.’
‘You’re kidding. He’s never done it before. I wonder why he’d suddenly do that.’
‘He misses you, as do I. He loves not wisely but too well.’
‘You didn’t eat my other slipper, did you?’
‘Just a little nibble round the edges. Barely noticeable.’
There was a pause then Reine-Marie said, ‘What is it?’
‘Another article.’
He could see her in their wooden bed with its simple duvet and feather pillows and clean white sheets. She’d have two pillows behind her back and the sheets up around her chest, covering her naked body. Not out of shame or bashfulness, but to keep warm.
‘Is it very bad?’
‘Bad enough. It’s about Annie.’ He thought he heard a sharp intake. ‘It shows her kissing a man they identify as Maître Paul Miron. A Crown Prosecutor. Married.’
‘As is she,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Oh, poor David. Poor Annie. It’s not true, of course. Annie would never do that to David. To anyone. Never.’
‘I agree. The gist is that I got out of being charged with murder along with Arnot because I had Annie sleep with the prosecutor.’
‘Armand! Mais, c’est épouvantable. How can they? I don’t understand how anyone can do this.’
Gamache closed his eyes and felt a hole open in his chest, where Reine-Marie should be. He wished with all his heart he was with her. Could hold her to him, could wrap his strong arms around her. And she could hold him.
‘Armand, what’re we going to do?’
‘Nothing. We stand firm. I’ll call Annie and talk to her. I spoke to Daniel last night. He seems all right.’
‘What do these people want?’
‘They want me to resign.’
‘Why?’
‘Revenge for Arnot. I’ve become a symbol of the shame that was brought on the Sûreté.’
‘No, that’s not it, Armand. I think you’ve become too powerful.’ After he hung up he called his daughter and woke her up too. She slipped off into another room to talk, then heard David stirring.
‘Dad, I have to talk to David. I’ll call you later.’
‘Annie, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault. God, he’s heading downstairs to the paper. Gotta go.’
For a moment Armand Gamache imagined the scene in their home in the Plateau Mont-Royal quartier of Montreal. David rumpled and bewildered. So in love with Annie. Annie impetuous, ambitious, full of life. And so in love with David.
He made one more call. To his friend and superior, Michel Brébeuf.
‘Oui, allô,’ came the familiar voice.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘Not at all, Armand.’ The voice was pleasant and warm. ‘I was going to call you this morning. I saw the papers yesterday.’
‘Have you seen this morning’s?’
There was a pause then Gamache heard Mic
hel call, ‘Catherine, has the paper arrived? Oui? Could you bring it here? Just a moment, Armand.’
Gamache heard the rustle as Brébeuf turned the leaves of the paper. Then it stopped.
‘Mon Dieu. Armand, c’est terrible. C’est trop. Have you talked to Annie?’
She was Michel’s goddaughter and a particular favorite.
‘Just now. She hadn’t seen it. She’s talking to David right now. It isn’t true, of course.’
‘You’re kidding, because I believe it,’ said Brébeuf. ‘Of course it’s lies. We know Annie would never have an affair. Armand, this is getting dangerous. Someone’s going to believe this crap. Perhaps you should explain.’
‘To you?’
‘No, not to me, but to the reporters. That first picture was of you talking to Daniel. Why don’t you just call the editor and straighten him out? And I’m sure you have an explanation for the envelope. What was in it anyway?’
‘The one I gave to Daniel? Nothing significant.’
There was a pause. Finally Brébeuf spoke, seriously. ‘Armand, was it a crêpe?’
Gamache laughed. ‘How’d you guess, Michel? That’s exactly what it was. An old family crêpe my grand-mère made.’
Brébeuf laughed then grew silent. ‘If you don’t stop these insinuations they’ll just grow. Hold a news conference, tell everyone Daniel’s your son. Tell them what was in the envelope. Tell them about Annie. What’s the harm?’
What was the harm?
‘The lies will never end, Michel. You know that. It’s a monster with an endless supply of heads. Lop off one head and more appear, stronger and more vicious. If we respond they’ll know they have us. I won’t do it. And I won’t resign.’
‘You sound like a child.’
‘Children can be wise.’
‘Children are willful and selfish,’ Brébeuf snapped. There was silence. Michel Brébeuf forced himself to pause. To count to five. To give the impression of massive thought. Then he spoke.
‘You win, Armand. But will you let me work behind the scenes? I have some contacts at the papers.’
‘Thank you, Michel. I’d appreciate it.’
‘Good. Go to work, concentrate on the investigation. Keep your focus and don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of it.’
* * *
Armand Gamache dressed and headed downstairs, plunging deeper and deeper into the aroma of strong coffee. For a few minutes he sipped his coffee, ate a flaky croissant, and talked to Gabri. The disheveled man had toyed with the handle of his mug and told Gamache about coming out, about telling his family, about telling his co-workers at the investment house. And as he spoke Gamache realized Gabri knew how he was feeling. Naked, exposed, being made to feel shame for something not shameful. And in his oddly quiet way Gabri was saying he wasn’t alone. Thanking Gabri Gamache put on his rubber boots and waxed Barbour field coat and went for a walk. He had a lot to ponder and he knew that everything is solved by walking.
It was drizzling slightly, and all the joyous spring flowers were lying down, like young soldiers slaughtered on a battlefield. For twenty minutes he walked, his hands clasping each other behind his back. Round and round the quiet little village he went and watched as it came alive, as lights appeared at the windows, dogs were put out, fires were lit in grates. It was peaceful and calm.
‘Hello there,’ called Clara Morrow. She stood in her garden, a mug in her hand and a raincoat over her nightgown. ‘Just surveying the damage. Are you free for dinner tonight? We thought we might invite a few people over.’
‘Sounds wonderful, thank you. Would you join me?’ Gamache indicated his circular walk round the Commons.
‘Sure.’
‘How’s your art? I hear Denis Fortin’s coming to visit soon.’ Seeing her face he knew he’d stepped in something sticky and stinky. ‘Or shouldn’t I have said anything?’
‘No, no. It’s just that I’m struggling a little. Things that were so clear a few days ago are suddenly muddy and confused. You know?’
‘I know,’ he said ruefully.
She looked at him. She often felt foolish, ill constructed, next to others. Beside Gamache she only ever felt whole.
‘What did you think of Madeleine Favreau?’
Clara paused to collect her thoughts. ‘I liked her. A lot. Didn’t really know her all that well. She’d just joined the ACW. Lucky Hazel.’
‘How so?’
‘Hazel was supposed to take over from Gabri this September as president, but then Madeleine said she’d do it.’
‘Didn’t that upset Hazel?’
‘You’ve clearly never been an Anglican Church Woman.’
‘I’m not Anglican.’
‘It’s great fun. We hold church socials and teas and twice a year we have a sale of goods. But it’s hell to organize.’
‘So that’s hell,’ smiled Gamache. ‘Only mortal sinners run ACWs?’
‘Absolutely. Our punishment is to spend eternity begging for volunteers.’
‘So Hazel was happy to get out of it?’
‘Thrilled, I should think. Probably why she brought Madeleine into it in the first place. They were a good team, though quite different.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, Madeleine always made you feel good about yourself. She laughed a lot and listened well. She was a lot of fun. But if you were sick or in need, it was Hazel who’d show up.’
‘Was Madeleine superficial, do you think?’
Clara hesitated. ‘I think Madeleine was used to getting what she wanted. Not because she was greedy but just because it always happened.’
‘Did you know she had cancer?’
‘I did. Breast cancer.’
‘Do you know whether she was healthy?’
‘Madeleine?’ Clara laughed. ‘Healthier than you or me. She was in great shape.’
‘Had she changed at all in the last few weeks or months?’
‘Changed? I don’t think so. Seemed the same to me.’
Gamache nodded then continued. ‘We think the substance that killed her was slipped into her food at dinner. Did you see or hear anything at all strange?’
‘In that group? Anything normal would set off alarms. But you’re saying that someone at our dinner killed her? Gave her the ephedra?’
Gamache nodded.
Clara thought about it, replaying the dinner in her mind. The food arriving, being warmed up, prepared, set out. People sitting down. Passing round the various dishes.
No, it all seemed natural and normal. It was a terrible thought that one of them around that table had poisoned Madeleine, but not, it must be said, a surprise. If it was murder, one of them did it.
‘We all ate out of the same dishes, helping ourselves. Could the poison have been meant for someone else?’
‘No,’ said Gamache. ‘We’ve had the leftovers tested and there’s no ephedra in any of the dishes. Besides, you all helped yourselves, right? To have any control over who got the ephedra the murderer had to have slipped it to Madeleine directly. Shoved it into the food on her plate.’
Clara nodded. She could see the hand, see the action, but not the person. She thought of the people at her dinner. Monsieur Béliveau? Hazel and Sophie? Odile and Gilles? True, Odile murdered verse, but surely nothing else.
Ruth?
Peter always said Ruth was the only person he knew capable of murder. Had she done it? But she hadn’t even been at the séance. But, maybe she didn’t have to be.
‘Did the séance have anything to do with it?’ she asked.
‘We think it was one ingredient. As was the ephedra.’
Clara sipped her now cool coffee as they walked. ‘What I don’t understand is why the murderer decided to kill Madeleine that night.’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Gamache.
‘Why give her ephedra in the middle of a dinner party? If the murderer needed a séance why not do it Friday night?’
It was a question that hounded Gamache. Why wait until Su
nday? Why not kill her Friday night?
‘Maybe he tried,’ he said. ‘Did anything odd happen that Friday night?’
‘More odd than contacting dead people? Not that I remember.’
‘Who did Madeleine have dinner with?’
‘Hazel, I guess. No, wait, Madeleine didn’t go home for dinner. She stayed here.’
‘Had dinner at the bistro?’
‘No, with Monsieur Béliveau.’ She looked over at his home, a large rambling clapboard house facing the green. ‘I like him. Most people do.’
‘Most, but not all?’
‘Don’t you let anything pass?’ she laughed.
‘When I miss things or let them pass they gather in a heap then rise up and take a life. So, I try not to.’ He smiled.
‘I guess not. The only person I’ve ever seen actually cut Monsieur Béliveau was Gilles Sandon. But then Gilles’s quite a character. Do you know him?’
‘He works in the woods, doesn’t he?’
‘Makes amazing furniture, but I think there’s a reason he works with trees and not people.’
‘How does Monsieur Béliveau feel about him?’
‘Oh, I don’t think he even notices the slights. He’s such a gentle man and kind. He only went to the séance to keep Mad company, you know. I could tell he didn’t like it at all. Probably because of his dead wife.’
‘Afraid she’d come back?’
‘Maybe,’ Clara laughed. ‘They were very close.’
‘Do you think he expected her to show up?’
‘Ginette, his dead wife? None of us expected anything. Not that first night at the bistro, anyway. It was a lark. But still, I think it upset him. He didn’t sleep well that night, he said.’
‘The next séance was different,’ said Gamache.
‘We were crazy to go there.’ She had her back to the old Hadley house, but she could feel it staring at her.
Gamache turned, feeling a chill born from the inside and growing to meet the cold damp air on his skin. It was the menace on the hill, poised, waiting for the right moment to swoop down on them. But no, Gamache thought. The old Hadley house wouldn’t swoop. It would creep. Slowly. Almost unnoticed until you woke up one morning swallowed by its despair and sorrow.
‘As we were walking up the hill that night,’ said Clara, ‘something kind of strange happened. We started off all bunched up, talking, but as we got closer we stopped talking and drifted apart. I think that house creates isolation. I was almost the last. Madeleine was walking behind me.’