The Cruelest Month: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

by Louise Penny

  ‘That’s when you left,’ said Beauvoir. ‘You headed back to Montreal. Next thing I knew Pierre Arnot and the two others were all over the newspapers.’

  Ironic really, thought Gamache, and tried not to look at his watch again.

  Gamache had driven to the Abitibi and stopped the suicide. All the way back the other two officers, drunk and hysterical with relief, wept. But not Arnot. He sat bolt upright between them and stared into the rearview mirror, at Gamache. Gamache had known as soon as he’d entered the cabin that Arnot had had no intention of committing suicide. The others, yes. But not Arnot. For four hours through a snowstorm, Gamache endured the stare.

  The media had hailed him a hero but Armand Gamache knew he was no hero. A hero wouldn’t have hesitated. A hero wouldn’t have run away.

  ‘What was the reaction when you showed up with Arnot and the others?’ Beauvoir asked.

  ‘As cordial as you’d expect,’ said Gamache, smiling. ‘The council was in a rage. I’d gone against their wishes. They accused me of being disloyal, and I was.’

  ‘Depends what you need to be loyal to. Why’d you do it?’

  ‘Stop the suicides? The mothers deserved more than silence,’ said Gamache after a moment. ‘The Cree woman I met and the others deserved a public apology, an explanation, a pledge it won’t happen again. Someone had to step forward and accept blame for what happened to their children.’

  Like most officers in the Sûreté Beauvoir had been sickened and ashamed when he’d heard what Arnot had done. But Armand Gamache had redeemed them, proved not all Sûreté officers were vile. The vast majority of officers of all ranks had aligned themselves firmly and without question behind him. As had most newspapers.

  But not all.

  Some accused Gamache of collusion, of having a vendetta against Arnot. They even insinuated that he was one of the murderers and was framing the popular Arnot.

  And now that accusation was back.

  ‘How many Arnot supporters are left in the Sûreté?’ Beauvoir asked, his voice businesslike. This wasn’t idle chit-chat. He was gathering tactical information.

  ‘I don’t want you involved.’

  ‘Well, fuck you.’

  Jean Guy Beauvoir had never spoken to the chief like that and they were both stunned by the words and the force behind them.

  Beauvoir pulled the car to the side of the road. ‘How dare you. I’m so tired of this, of being treated like a child. I know you outrank me. I know you’re older and wiser. There, happy? But it’s time you let me stand next to you. Stop shoving me behind you. Stop it.’

  He whacked his palms on the steering wheel with such force he almost broke it, and could feel the bruising at the bone. To his horror tears sprang to his eyes. It’s the palms, only the palms, he told himself.

  But the cage deep down was empty. He hadn’t buried it well enough or deep enough. His love for Gamache tore through him and threatened to rip him apart.

  ‘Get out,’ Gamache said. Beauvoir fumbled with the seatbelt release then finally managed to tumble onto the dirt road. It was deserted. The rain had stopped and the sun was struggling out, much as Beauvoir had.

  Gamache was standing solid beside him.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Beauvoir screamed with all his might. All he wanted to do was howl. To ball up his fists and hit something or someone and howl. Instead he sobbed. And flailed around, blind to the world. He didn’t know how long it took, but eventually his senses came back. First he saw some light, then heard some birds, then smelled the forest after the rain. Slowly he came to himself, as though coming into the world again. And standing there was Gamache. He hadn’t left. Hadn’t tried to contain him, stop him. Soothe him. He’d just let Beauvoir howl and sob and lash out.

  ‘I just want…’ Beauvoir’s voice trailed off.

  ‘What do you want?’ Gamache asked quietly. The sun was behind him and all Beauvoir could see was his outline.

  ‘I want you to trust me.’

  ‘I think there’s more.’

  Beauvoir was wrung out, weak and exhausted. The two men stared at each other. The sun caught the drops of water clinging to the branches of the trees and they shone.

  Gamache very slowly walked to Beauvoir and put out his hand. Jean Guy stared at it, large and powerful. And as though watching someone else he saw his own hand rise up and softly land. His hand was slender, almost delicate inside the chief’s.

  ‘From the moment I saw you angry and bitter, assigned to that evidence room at the Trois-Rivières detachment, I knew,’ said Gamache. ‘Why do you think I took you on when no one else wanted you? Why do you think I made you my second in command? Yes, you’re a gifted investigator. You have a knack for finding murderers. But there was more. We have a connection, you and I. A connection I feel with all members of the team but you most strongly. You’re my successor, Jean Guy. The next in line. I love you like a son. And I need you.’

  Beauvoir’s nose and eyes burned and a sob escaped, rushing to join the others already caught in the wind as though the emotion was as natural as the trees.

  The two men embraced and Beauvoir whispered into Gamache’s ear, ‘I love you too.’

  Then they parted. Without embarrassment. They were father and son. And all Beauvoir’s envy of Daniel had departed, been let go.

  ‘You need to tell me everything.’

  Gamache still hesitated.

  ‘Ignorance won’t protect me.’

  Then Armand Gamache told him everything. Told him about Arnot, told him about Francoeur, told him about Nichol. Beauvoir listened, stunned.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Odile Montmagny was busy with a customer wondering about the difference between firm and soft tofu. While she tended to business Gamache and Beauvoir wandered around the shop, looking at the rows of organic food and bins of teas and herbs. At the back of the shop, they found Sandon’s furniture. Gamache had a love of antiques, especially Quebec pine. Modern design often left him baffled. But looking at Gilles’s tables and chairs and stools, his bowls and walking sticks, Gamache had the feeling he was looking at a remarkable fusion of old and new. The wood seemed destined to form these shapes, as though it had grown for hundreds of years in the forests of Quebec, waiting to be found by this man and put to this use. And yet the designs were anything but traditional. They were modern and bold.

  ‘Want one?’ Odile asked. Gamache could smell the sour wine, imperfectly masked under a breath mint. It was a repulsive combination and it was all he could do not to lean away.

  ‘I’d love one, but perhaps not today,’ he said. ‘We have a few more questions, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No problem. We’re quiet today. Quiet most days.’

  ‘Gives you a chance to write your poetry, I suppose.’

  She perked up. ‘You’ve heard of my poetry?’

  ‘I have, madame.’

  ‘Would you like to hear one?’

  Beauvoir tried to catch the chief’s eye, but Gamache seemed oblivious of Beauvoir’s ocular gymnastics.

  ‘I would consider it an honor, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Here, sit here.’ She practically shoved Gamache into one of Gilles’s chairs. He expected to hear a great cracking sound, breaking both the chair and his bank balance in one go. But nothing happened. The chair, the wood and his savings were solid.

  Odile returned with her worn notebook, the one Beauvoir had seen her slam shut on his previous visit.

  She cleared her throat and adjusted her shoulders, as a fighter might before the foe.

  ‘Over the moor at dusk there fled

  The dismal clouds, and we,

  Facing the rain, with might and main,

  Me and my love and me.

  ‘The seagull screamed, the reeds were bent,

  But hand in hand the three,

  We hurried on – going against the wind,

  Me and my love and me.

  ‘I call it “Me and My Love and Me”.’

  Gamache was too stun
ned to speak but Beauvoir found his voice.

  ‘That was wonderful. I could see the whole thing.’

  And he meant it. He was used to hearing Gamache’s obscure quotes, mostly of Ruth Zardo’s unintelligible stuff that didn’t even rhyme. This at least made sense. He could see the bird, hear it screaming, see the rain.

  ‘Would you like another one?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do have to ask some questions.’ Gamache patted the stool next to him. ‘Lovely thought as that is.’

  Odile sat and wavered a little, trying to stay upright.

  ‘What did you think of Madeleine Favreau?’

  ‘She was all right. Came in here sometimes, but I didn’t know her well. I’m sorry she’s dead. Any idea who did it?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Odile thought.

  ‘I think it was that friend of hers. Hazel. Always so nice. Too nice. Drive you nuts. Definitely a suspect. Though, actually, maybe she’s more likely to be murdered. Are you sure the right person was killed?’

  ‘You had words with Madeleine as you all walked to the old Hadley house.’

  ‘Did I?’ Odile’s skills as a liar rivaled her skills as a poet.

  ‘You did. You were overheard.’

  ‘Oh, we talked about this and that.’

  ‘You argued, madame,’ said Gamache, firmly but quietly. He could see Odile in profile, her jawline weak and soft.

  ‘No, we didn’t argue,’ she said. Gamache knew all he needed to do was wait, and hope another customer didn’t come in.

  ‘She was trying to take Gilles,’ said Odile in a fetid explosion, her sour breath hitting Gamache as though the words had been trapped inside too long. ‘I know that’s what she wanted. Always smiling at him, always touching him.’ She mimicked Madeleine’s actions by pawing Gamache’s arm. ‘She just wanted him to pay attention to her, and he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Gamache asked.

  ‘Of course it’s true. He loves me.’ The last word was almost inaudible. Her mouth hung open, some long spittle drooling out. Her nose ran and tears had sprung to her eyes. Her face had dissolved as though in acid.

  Did Madeleine try to take Gilles from Odile? Gamache wondered. If so there were two motives for murder. Odile to kill her rival. And Monsieur Béliveau out of jealousy. What had Clara said? Madeleine always got what she wanted. But what had she wanted? Whom had she wanted? Gilles or Monsieur Béliveau? Or neither?

  ‘What did you argue about that night?’ Gamache pressed.

  ‘I asked her to stop. All right? Satisfied? I begged her to stay away from Gilles. She could have any man. She was gorgeous and smart. Everyone wanted to be with her. Who wouldn’t? But me? I know what people think of me. I’m stupid and dull and can only do figures. I’ve loved Gilles all my life and he finally chose me. Me. And no one was going to take him away. I begged her to let me have him.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She denied the whole thing. Let me make a fool of myself, humiliate myself, then didn’t even have the courage to admit what a slut she was.’

  As they left Gamache shook her hand, feeling it wet and slimy. But that was how grief often felt. Beauvoir managed to get away without the handshake.

  They found Gilles Sandon deep in the woods. They’d followed the chopping sound and cresting a small hill and climbing over a dead and decayed log they’d seen the huge man with his axe working on a downed tree. They watched for a moment the powerful and graceful movements as his massive arms raised the ancient tool and brought it down on the wood. Then he stopped, paused and turned round to look directly at them. All three stared at each other, then Sandon waved.

  ‘You’re back,’ he called to Beauvoir.

  ‘And brought the boss.’

  Sandon strode over to them, his feet crackling twigs underfoot.

  ‘No bosses out here,’ he said to Beauvoir, then turned to size Gamache up. ‘You’re the one in the papers.’

  ‘I am,’ said Gamache, with ease.

  ‘You don’t look like a murderer.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to believe that?’

  ‘You’ll believe what you choose. I don’t care.’

  Sandon grunted then finally indicated a stump as though it was a silk-upholstered chair.

  ‘You were a lumberjack once, I believe,’ said Gamache, sitting on the stump.

  ‘In the dark days, yes. I’m not ashamed of it any more. I didn’t know any better.’

  But he looked ashamed.

  ‘What didn’t you know?’ asked Beauvoir.

  ‘I told you. That trees are alive. I mean, we all know they’re living, but don’t really think of them as alive, you know? But they are. You can’t kill something that’s alive. It’s not right.’

  ‘How did you find out?’ Gamache asked.

  Sandon reached into his pocket and brought out a dirty hanky. He rubbed the blade of his axe and cleaned it as he spoke.

  ‘I was working as a logger for one of the mills around here. Went into the forest every day with my team. Cut down trees, hooked them to tractors and dragged them to the logging road to be picked up. Back-breaking work, but I liked it. Outside, fresh air. No bosses.’

  He looked suspiciously at Gamache, his weathered face covered by a red and graying beard, his eyes keen but distant.

  ‘One day I walked into the woods with my axe and I heard a whimpering. Sounded like a baby. It was this time of year. Best time for cutting trees. But it’s also the time when animals have babies. The crew was just arriving and the whimpering grew louder. Then I heard a scream. I shouted to the guys to stop, to be quiet and listen. The whimpering had turned into a cry. It was all around. And I could feel it too. I’d always felt at home in the forest, but suddenly I was afraid.

  ‘“Don’t hear nothin’,” said one of the guys and hit the tree again. And again there was a scream. You can figure the rest. Something had changed overnight. I’d changed. I could hear the trees. I think I could always hear their happiness. I think that’s why I felt so happy myself in the forest. But now I could hear their terror too.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What could I do? What would you do? I had to stop it. Had to stop the killing. Can you imagine cutting down a forest that was screaming at you?’

  Beauvoir could, especially if the screaming went on all day.

  ‘But mostly trees are quiet. Just want to be left alone,’ Gilles continued. ‘Funny how I learned freedom from creatures that are rooted in place.’

  Gamache thought that made perfect sense.

  ‘I was fired, but I would’ve quit anyway. I’d walked into the forest that day a logger and I walked out something else entirely. The world was never the same. Couldn’t be. My wife tried to understand but couldn’t. She finally left with the kids. Went back to Charlevoix. Don’t blame her. Relief really. She kept trying to tell me trees don’t talk and they don’t sing and they sure as hell don’t scream. But they do. We lived in different worlds.’

  ‘Does Odile live in your world?’ Beauvoir asked.

  ‘No,’ Gilles admitted. ‘I actually haven’t met anyone who does. But she accepts it. Doesn’t try to change me or convince me I’m wrong. She takes me as I am.’

  ‘And Madeleine?’

  ‘She was like something beautiful and exotic. Like walking through the forest here and coming across a palm tree. It takes your attention.’

  ‘Did you have an affair with her?’ Beauvoir asked, more bluntly than Gamache would have liked, but it was his style.

  ‘I did not. It was enough to admire from afar. I might talk to trees, but I’m not crazy. She wasn’t interested in me. And I wasn’t interested in her, not really. Fantasy, maybe, but not in the real world.’

  Beauvoir wondered what exactly Sandon considered the ‘real’ world.

  ‘Why don’t you like Monsieur Béliveau?’ asked Gamache. It took Sandon a moment to tear his mind away from Madeleine and focus on the austere g
rocer. He looked down at his massive hands and picked at a callus.

  ‘There was a magnificent oak on his land. It’d been hit by lightning and a huge limb was hanging loose. I could hear it crying so I asked if I could remove the limb, help the tree. He refused.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Beauvoir.

  Gilles looked at them. ‘Said I’d kill the whole tree by taking off the branch. That was a risk, I admitted, but told him the tree was in pain and it would be more merciful for it to either live healthy or die quickly.’

  ‘But he didn’t believe you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Took four years for that tree to die. I could hear it crying for help. I begged Béliveau but he wouldn’t hear of it. Thought the tree was getting better.’

  ‘He didn’t know,’ said Gamache. ‘He was afraid.’

  Gilles shrugged, dismissive.

  ‘And the fact he was seeing Madeleine wasn’t part of it?’ asked Gamache.

  ‘He should have protected her. He should have protected the tree. He looks so gentle but he’s a bad one.’

  What had Monsieur Béliveau called himself? Gamache tried to remember. The thing that brings death. That was it. First his wife, then Madeleine, then the bird. And the tree. Things died around Monsieur Béliveau.

  The men were silent, inhaling the sweet, musty aroma of moist pines and autumn leaves and new buds.

  ‘Now I come out here and find trees already dead and turn them into furniture.’

  ‘Give them new life,’ said Gamache.

  Sandon looked at him. ‘I don’t suppose you hear the trees?’

  Gamache cocked his head, listening, then shook it. Sandon nodded.

  ‘Are there any ginkgo trees around?’ Gamache asked.