by Louise Penny
‘In case?’ he smiled, teasing, and trying to get her to the door. ‘I do.’ Isabelle Lacoste stepped into the dark hallway with its worn carpet and smell of mold and decay. As soon as his back was turned she ran down the hallway, down the stairs almost tripping over her feet, and out the door, as though spewed from some gloomy womb into the world.
‘You knew Madeleine Favreau had breast cancer?’ Inspector Beauvoir asked.
‘Of course I knew,’ Hazel said, surprised.
‘But you didn’t tell us.’
‘I suppose I forgot. I never thought of her as a woman who’d had breast cancer and she didn’t either. Hardly ever spoke of it any more. Just got on with her life.’
‘It must have been a shock when she first discovered it. She’d have been in her early forties.’
‘True. Women are getting it younger and younger it seems. But I didn’t know her when she was first diagnosed. She looked me up when she was already in treatment. I think that happens a lot. Old friends become more important. We hadn’t kept in touch after high school but she suddenly called and came down. It was as though no time had passed. She was weak from the chemo but as lovely as ever. She looked like her eighteen-year-old self, only bald and that only made her more beautiful. It was strange. I sometimes wonder whether chemotherapy doesn’t take people almost to another world. So many seem so peaceful. Their faces become smooth, their eyes shine. Madeleine almost glowed.’
‘Sure she wasn’t having radiation?’ Nichol asked.
‘Agent Nichol,’ Beauvoir barked. He could feel the stone he’d found by the Bella Bella and put in his pocket yearning to fly. To smash bone, to grind into that head until it hit her tiny, atrophied brain. And replace it. And who would know the difference? ‘That was uncalled for.’
‘It was only a joke.’
‘It was cruel, Agent Nichol, and you know the difference. Apologize.’
Nichol turned to Hazel, her eyes hard. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right.’
Nichol knew she’d gone too far. But she’d been told to. To aggravate, to upset, to unsettle the team, that was her job.
For the sake of the Sûreté she was willing to do this. For her boss, whom she adored and loathed, she’d do this. Looking at Inspector Beauvoir’s handsome face, engorged and enraged, she knew she’d succeeded.
‘Madeleine went back to Montreal and finished her chemo,’ continued Hazel after an awkward silence. ‘But she came out every weekend after that. She wasn’t happy in her marriage. There weren’t any children, you know.’
‘Why was she unhappy?’
‘She said they just grew apart. She also thought it possible he couldn’t deal with a successful wife. She excelled at everything she did, you know. Always had. That was just Madeleine.’ Hazel looked to Beauvoir like a proud mother. He thought she’d be a good mother. Kind and caring. Supportive. And yet she’d raised that spoiled child upstairs. Some kids, he knew, were just ungrateful.
‘It must be hard,’ said Hazel.
‘What must be?’ Beauvoir had become lost in his own thoughts.
‘Being around someone who was always successful. Especially if you’re insecure. I think Mad’s husband must have been insecure, don’t you?’
‘Do you know how we can find him?’
‘He’s still in Montreal. François Favreau’s his name. Nice man. I’ve met him a few times. I have his address and phone number if you like.’
Hazel got up from the kitchen table and went over to a chest of drawers. Opening the top drawer she rummaged through it, her back to him.
‘Why did you go to the second séance, Madame Smyth?’
‘Madeleine asked me to,’ Hazel said, moving papers around in the drawer.
‘She asked you to the first and you didn’t go. Why the second?’
‘Found it.’ Hazel turned round and handed an address book to Beauvoir who handed it to Nichol. ‘What did you ask, Inspector?’
‘The second séance, madame.’
‘Oh, yes. Well it was a combination of things, as I remember. Madeleine actually seemed to have a good time at the first. Said it was silly, but in an amusement park kind of way. You know, the way we used to scare ourselves with the roller coaster and the haunted house? It sounded like fun and I kind of regretted missing the first.’
‘And Sophie?’
‘Well that was a given from the start. A bit of excitement in this burg, as she calls it. Sophie was excited about it all day.’
Hazel’s animated face fell, slowly. Beauvoir could chart the memory of that night as it made its way across Hazel’s face until the memory of Madeleine alive became the memory of Madeleine dead.
‘Who would want to kill her?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘No one.’
‘Someone did.’ He tried to make it soft and gentle, as Gamache would, but even to his own ears the words sounded like an accusation.
‘Madeleine was,’ Hazel moved her hands gracefully in front of her, as though conducting or gently mining the air for words, ‘she was sunshine. Every life she came into she brightened. Not because she tried. I try.’ Hazel’s hand now pointed to the casserole regiment. ‘I run around trying to help people, without even being asked. And I know that can be annoying. Madeleine made people feel better just by spending time with them. It’s hard to explain.’
And yet, thought Beauvoir, you’re alive and she’s dead.
‘We think the ephedra was given to Madeleine at dinner. Did she complain about any of the food?’
Hazel thought then shook her head.
‘Did she complain about anything that night?’
‘Nothing. She seemed happy.’
‘I understand she was seeing Monsieur Béliveau. What do you think of him?’
‘Oh, I like him. His wife and I were friends, you know. She died almost three years ago. Madeleine and I sort of adopted him after that. Ginette’s death tore him up.’
‘He seems to have recovered well.’
‘Yes, yes he does,’ she said with perhaps a bit too much effort to appear blasé.
He wondered what was going on behind that placid, somewhat sad face. What did Hazel Smyth really think of Monsieur Béliveau?
TWENTY-EIGHT
Gamache hummed a little as he walked through the kitchen of the old Hadley house. The hum was neither loud enough to scare a ghost, nor tuneful enough to be comforting. But it was human and natural and company.
Then Gamache ran out of kitchen and comfort. He faced another closed door. As a homicide officer he’d grown wary of closed doors, both literal and figurative, though he knew answers lived behind closed doors.
But sometimes something else lurked there. Something old and rotted and twisted by time and necessity.
Gamache knew people were like homes. Some were cheerful and bright, some gloomy. Some could look good on the outside but feel wretched on the interior. And some of the least attractive homes, from the outside, were kindly and warm inside.
He also knew the first few rooms were for public consumption. It was only in going deeper that he’d find the reality. And finally, inevitably, there was the last room, the one we keep locked, and bolted and barred, even from ourselves. Especially from ourselves.
It was that room Gamache hunted in every murder investigation. There the secrets were kept. There the monsters waited.
‘What took you so long?’ Michel Brébeuf spoke into his phone, frustrated and angry. He didn’t like being kept waiting. And he sure as hell didn’t like it when junior officers ignored his calls. ‘You must have known it was me.’
‘I did, but I couldn’t answer. There’re other things happening.’
Robert Lemieux’s tone had stopped being obsequious. Since that last interview in Brébeuf’s office something had changed. The power had somehow shifted and Brébeuf couldn’t figure out how. Or why. Or what to do about it.
‘Don’t let it happen again.’
Brébeuf had meant it to be a warning, but
instead it had come out petulant and whiny. Lemieux solidified his position by ignoring the comment.
‘Where are you now?’ Brébeuf asked.
‘In the old Hadley house. Gamache is searching the rest of the house and I’m in the room where the murder happened.’
‘Is he close to solving the case?’
‘Are you kidding? A few minutes ago he was communing with a dead bird. The Chief Inspector’s a long way from figuring this out.’
‘Have you?’
‘Have I what?’
‘Figured out who murdered the woman.’
‘That’s not my job, remember?’
Superintendent Brébeuf noticed there was no longer any pretense about who was in charge. Even the ‘sir’s had disappeared. The likeable, malleable, ambitious but slightly stupid young officer had turned into something else.
‘How’s Agent Nichol doing?’
‘She’s a disaster. I don’t know why you wanted her here.’
‘She serves a purpose.’ Brébeuf felt his shoulders drop from where they’d crept up around his ears. He had one secret from Lemieux anyway. Yvette Nichol.
‘Look, you need to tell me why she’s here,’ said Lemieux, then after a pause, ‘Sir.’
Now Brébeuf was smiling. God bless Agent Nichol. Wretched, lost Agent Nichol.
‘Has the Chief Inspector seen the newspaper?’
There was a pause as Lemieux struggled with letting the Nichol thing go. ‘Yes. He talked about it at lunch.’
‘And?’
‘Didn’t seem to bother him. Even laughed.’
Gamache laughed, thought Brébeuf. He’d been clearly and personally attacked, and he’d laughed.
‘That’s all right. What I expected, actually.’
And it was. But he’d hoped for something else. In his daydreams he’d seen that familiar face stunned and hurt. Had even imagined Gamache phoning his best friend for support and advice. And what advice had Michel Brébeuf prepared and practiced?
‘Don’t let them win, Armand. Focus on the investigation and leave the rest to me.’
And Armand Gamache would relax, knowing his friend would protect him. He’d turn his attention fully to finding the killer, and not see what was creeping up behind him. Out of the long, dark shadow he himself created.
So far Gamache had peered into the attic, shining his light and scaring a few bats, and himself. He’d glanced around all the bedrooms and bathrooms and closets. He’d stridden purposefully through the cobwebbed living room with its heavy mantelpiece and moldings and into the dining room.
A strange thing happened in there. He could suddenly smell the appetizing aroma of a well-prepared dinner. It smelled of a Sunday roast, with warm gravy and potatoes and sweet parsnips. He could smell the caramelized onions and fresh, steaming bread, and even the red wine.
And he could hear laughter and conversation. He stood, mesmerized, in the dark dining room. Was the house trying to seduce him, he wondered? Make him lower his guard? Dangerous house that knew food would do that to him. But still the strange impression remained, of a dinner served long ago to people long dead and buried. People who’d been happy here, once. It was his imagination, he knew. Just imagination.
Gamache had left the dining room. If there was someone, or something, hiding in this house he knew where he’d find it.
The basement.
He reached out for the doorknob. It was ceramic and cold to the touch. The door creaked open.
‘You’re back.’ Agent Lacoste greeted Beauvoir with a wave, ignoring Nichol. ‘How’d it go?’
‘Brought this back.’ He tossed the yearbook onto the conference table then told Lacoste about his interviews with Hazel and Sophie.
‘What’d you think?’ Lacoste asked after reflecting on what she’d heard. ‘Did Sophie love Madeleine or hate her?’
‘Don’t know. It seems confused. Might be either.’
Lacoste nodded. ‘Lots of girls get crushes on older women. Teachers, writers, athletes. I had a crush on Helen Keller.’
Beauvoir had never heard of Helen Keller, but the idea of Lacoste in a steamy relationship with this Helen gave him pause as he took off his coat. He could see their glistening bodies, intertwined –
‘She was blind and deaf,’ said Lacoste, knowing him enough to guess his reaction. ‘And dead.’
That certainly changed the image in his mind. He blinked to blank it out.
‘What a catch.’
‘She was also brilliant.’
‘But dead.’
‘True. It crippled the relationship, I’m afraid. But I still adore her. Amazing woman. She said, “Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence.”’ Lacoste remembered herself. ‘What were we talking about?’
‘Crushes,’ said Nichol and could have kicked herself. She wanted them to forget she was there.
Beauvoir and Lacoste turned to look at her, surprised she was there and surprised she’d said something helpful.
‘So you really had a crush on Helen Keller?’ said Nichol. ‘She was nuts, you know. I saw the movie.’
Lacoste shot her a look of complete dismissal. Not even disdain. She made Nichol disappear.
Darkness and silence, thought Nichol. It’s not always wonderful.
She watched as Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste turned their backs to her and walked away.
‘You say it’s natural for a girl Sophie’s age to be confused?’ Beauvoir asked Lacoste.
‘Lots are. Emotions are all over the place. It’d be normal for her to love Madeleine Favreau and then hate her. Then adore her again. Look at the relationships most girls have with their mothers. I called the lab,’ said Lacoste. ‘The report from the break-in won’t be ready until the morning but the coroner emailed her preliminary report and said she’d drop by on her way home. Wants to meet the chief in the bistro in about an hour.’
‘Where is he?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘Still at the old Hadley house.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. Lemieux’s there too. I need to talk to you about something.’ She shot a look at Nichol, now sitting at her desk, staring at her screen. Playing free cell, Lacoste guessed.
‘Why don’t we walk? Get some air before the storm,’ said Beauvoir.
‘What storm?’
She’d followed him to the door. He opened it and nodded.
Lacoste could only see blue sky and the odd cloud. It was a beautiful day. She looked at him in profile, staring at the sky as well, his face grim. Lacoste looked more closely. And there, just above the dark pine forest on the ridge of the hill, behind the old Hadley house, she saw it.
A black slash rising, as though the sky was a dome, cheerful and bright, and artificial. And someone was opening that dome.
‘What is that?’
‘Just a storm. They look more dramatic in the country. In the city with the buildings we can’t see all that.’ He waved casually toward the slash as though all storms looked like something wicked approaching.
Beauvoir put his coat back on, and once out the door turned to walk over the stone bridge into Three Pines but Lacoste hesitated.
‘Do you mind if we walk this way?’ She pointed in the opposite direction, away from the village. He looked and saw an attractive dirt road winding into the woods. The mature trees arched overhead, almost touching. In the summer it would be gently shaded but now, in early spring, the branches held only buds, like tiny green flares, and the sun shot through easily. They walked in silence into a world of sweet aromas and birdsong. Beauvoir remembered Gilles Sandon’s claim. That trees spoke. And maybe, sometimes, they sang.
Finally Lacoste was certain no one, especially Nichol, could overhear.
‘Tell me about the Arnot case.’
Gamache looked into the darkness and silence. He’d been in the basement once before. He’d opened this same door in the middle of a fierce storm, in the dark, desperate to find a kidnapped woman. And he’d stepped into a void. It was like
every nightmare coming true. He’d crossed a threshold into nothingness. No light, no stairs.
And he’d fallen. As had the others with him. Into a wounded and bloody heap on the floor below.
The old Hadley house protected itself. It seemed to tolerate, with ill grace, minor intrusions. But it grew more and more malevolent the deeper you went. Instinctively his hand went into his pants pocket, then came out again, empty.
But he remembered the Bible in his jacket and felt a little better. Though he didn’t himself go to church, he knew the power of belief. And symbols. But then he thought about the other book he’d found and brought with him from the murder scene and whatever comfort he’d felt evaporated, seemed to be pulled from him and disappear into the void in front of him.
He shone the flashlight down the stairs. At least this time there were stairs. Putting his large foot tentatively on the first rung he felt it take his weight. Then he took a deep breath, and started down.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Beauvoir.
‘I need to know about the Arnot case,’ said Lacoste.
‘Why?’ He stopped in the middle of the country road and turned to look at her. She faced him squarely.
‘I’m no fool. Something’s going on and I want to know.’
‘You must have followed it on TV or in the papers,’ said Beauvoir.
‘I did. And in police college it was all anyone was talking about.’
Beauvoir’s mind went back to that dark time, when the Sûreté was rent. When the loyal and cohesive organization started making war on itself. It put its wagons in a circle and shot inwards. It was horrible. Every officer knew the strength of the Sûreté lay in loyalty. Their very lives depended on it. But the Arnot case changed everything.
On one side stood Superintendent Arnot and his two co-defendants, charged with murder. And on the other, Chief Inspector Gamache. To say the Sûreté was split in half would be wrong. Every officer Beauvoir knew was appalled by Arnot, absolutely sickened. But many were also appalled by what Gamache did.
‘So you know it all,’ said Beauvoir.
‘I don’t know it all, and you know that. What’s wrong? Why are you freezing me out of this? I know there’s something going on. The Arnot case isn’t dead, is it?’