A Fatal Grace

by Louise Penny

  Instead of going straight back to Three Pines, Gamache parked the car at the Legion and walked in. It wasn’t locked. Most places weren’t. He wandered around the hall, his boots echoing slightly in the large, empty room. One wall was opened up to form a cafeteria-style pass-through from the kitchen. He imagined the bustle of the Boxing Day breakfast, the shouted greetings, the calls for more tea or coffee. Beatrice Mayer offering her noxious brew.

  Now, why was she called Mother? Clara had seemed to think he could figure it out without even meeting her. Beatrice Mayer? Mother Bea? He shook his head, but knew he’d get it, eventually. It was the sort of little puzzle he enjoyed.

  He went back to his imagination, joining these people for Boxing Day breakfast. The place warm and cheery and festooned with the tackiest Christmas decorations imaginable. He didn’t have to spend energy imagining them. They were still up. The plastic and crepe paper stars and snowflakes. The fake tree, missing at least half its plastic and wire branches. The paper bells and crayoned green and blue snowmen made by the excited and exhausted, and not overly gifted, daycare children. The upright piano in the corner almost certainly had pounded out carols. The room must have been full of the aroma of pancakes and maple syrup, drawn from trees surrounding the town. Eggs and cured Canadian back bacon.

  And CC and her family? Where had they sat? Had anyone joined her for her final meal? Had any of them known it was her final meal?

  One of them had. Someone had sat in this very room, eating and drinking and laughing and singing Christmas carols on Boxing Day, and planned a murder.

  Outside Gamache paused to get his bearings, then, checking his watch, he set out for Lac Brume. He’d always liked Williamsburg. It was quite different from St-Rémy, which was more French while Williamsburg was traditionally more English, though this was changing as the two languages and cultures mixed. As he walked he noticed the lovely homes and shops, all covered in pure white snow. It was quiet: that peace and calm that came in winter as though the earth was resting. Cars barely made any noise on the cushion of snow. People walked silently along the sidewalks, their steps making not a sound. Everything was muffled and mute. It was very, very peaceful.

  Four and a half minutes it had taken him to get from the Legion to the lake. He’d not hurried, but he had long legs and he knew most people would take slightly longer. But it was a pretty good average.

  He stood at the side of the road looking down over the lake, empty and obscured now by the snow. The curling rink was almost invisible and the only real evidence anything had happened here were the stands, empty and lonely as though waiting for company that would never come.

  What to do about Yvette Nichol? The peace of the place gave him a moment to mull the problem. And problem she was. He knew that now. He’d been fooled by her once, but Armand Gamache wasn’t a man to be fooled twice.

  She was there for a reason, and the reason wasn’t necessarily CC de Poitier’s murder.

  Inspector Beauvoir drove out of Three Pines and turned toward St-Rémy. After a few minutes down wooded and snowy back roads he turned into a driveway and up to a rambling wooden house. He’d brought an agent with him, just in case. Now he knocked on the door and stood loose-limbed, trying to give the impression he was relaxed, maybe even distracted. He wasn’t. He was ready to give chase at any moment. Actually hoped chase would be necessary. Sitting and talking was Chief Inspector Gamache’s territory. Running was his.

  ‘Oui?’ A disheveled middle-aged man stood on the threshold.

  ‘Monsieur Petrov? Saul Petrov?’

  ‘Oui, c’est moi.’

  ‘I’m here about the murder of CC de Poitiers. I understand you knew her?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you. What took so long? I have some pictures that might interest you.’

  Gamache shrugged out of his huge coat, readjusting his jacket and sweater which had bunched up underneath. Like everyone else in winter, he looked as though someone had put a mouse down his back. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, then walked into the small private room, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Armand. Did you get my present?’

  ‘If you mean Agent Nichol, I did, Superintendent Francoeur. Merci.’ Gamache spoke jovially into the phone.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Francoeur’s voice was deep and smooth and intelligent. No hint of the cunning, the devious, the cruel man who lived in that head.

  ‘I want to know why you sent her.’

  ‘It seemed to me you were too hasty in your judgment, Chief Inspector. Agent Nichol’s worked here in narcotics for a year and we’re very pleased with her.’

  ‘Then why send her to me?’

  ‘Are you questioning my judgment?’

  ‘No, sir. You know I have no need to wonder why you do anything.’

  Gamache knew he’d made a direct hit. Venom poured down the line and filled the great, bare silence.

  ‘Why have you called, Gamache?’ snarled the voice, all pretense dropped.

  ‘I wanted to thank you, sir, for sending Agent Nichol. Joyeux Noël.’

  He hung up then, but he’d already heard the line go dead in his hand. Gamache had what he needed.

  He knew he was being frozen out of decision-making at the highest level of the Sûreté du Québec, a level he had once enjoyed. Officially he was still head of homicide and a senior officer in the force. But privately things had changed. Since the Arnot case.

  But it was only recently he’d come to appreciate how much had changed. He had had no more requests for Beauvoir to lead other investigations. Agent Isabelle Lacoste had been reassigned more than once since the Arnot case to minor jobs in minor departments, as had other members of his homicide squad. Gamache hadn’t thought anything of it, assuming the temporary transfers had been made because they were necessary. It had never occurred to him his people were being punished for something he himself had done.

  Until his own boss and friend, Superintendent Michel Brébeuf, had invited Reine-Marie and him for dinner a few weeks ago and had taken him aside after the meal.

  ‘Ça va, Armand?’

  ‘Oui, merci, Michel. Kids are a worry. Never listen. Young Luc has quit his job and wants to travel the world with Sophie and the kids. Annie is working too hard, defending poor besieged Alcoha from all those unfair charges. Imagine believing a corporation would knowingly pollute?’ Gamache grinned.

  ‘Shocking.’ Brébeuf offered him a cognac and a cigar. Gamache accepted the drink but refused the smoke. They sat in Brébeuf’s study in companionable silence, listening to Radio Canada and the murmur of the women laughing and getting caught up.

  ‘What did you want to say to me?’ Gamache had turned in his chair and was looking directly at Brébeuf.

  ‘One day you’re going to be wrong, Armand,’ smiled his friend, often at a loss to know how Gamache could guess what he was thinking. But he couldn’t divine everything.

  ‘According to you, Michel, I have been wrong, and spectacularly. That day has been and gone.’

  ‘No. Not gone.’

  There it was. And as the silence settled once more over the two friends like a snowfall Gamache could suddenly see the depth of the problem. And that he’d unwittingly taken Beauvoir and the others with him. And now they were being buried beneath layers of lies and loathing.

  ‘The Arnot case isn’t over, is it?’ Gamache held Brébeuf’s unblinking eyes. He knew then the courage his friend had shown in telling him this.

  ‘Be careful, Armand. This is more serious than even you know.’

  ‘I believe you’re right,’ Gamache admitted.

  And now Superintendent Francoeur had sent Agent Nichol back. Of course, it could mean nothing. Probably only meant she’d annoyed them so much Francoeur had decided to get his little revenge by sending Nichol to him. Yes, that was the most likely explanation. A malicious little joke, nothing more.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘Success,’ Beauvoir said, striding into t

he warm situation room and shedding his heavy coat. He tossed his tuque onto his desk and his mitts soon followed. ‘You were right. The photographer has the pictures.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Gamache, clapping him. ‘Let’s see.’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t have them on him,’ said Beauvoir, as though that was really too much to expect.

  ‘Where are they?’ asked Gamache, his voice somewhat less thrilled.

  ‘He mailed the film to the lab he uses in St-Lambert. They went by priority post so they should arrive by tomorrow.’

  ‘At the lab.’

  ‘Précisément.’ Beauvoir could sense a little less enthusiasm than he would have wanted. ‘But he says he took hundreds of pictures at the breakfast and the curling.’

  Beauvoir looked around. Isabelle Lacoste was engrossed in her computer and Agent Yvette Nichol sat off at the other end of the table by herself, as though on an island, watching the mainland that was Gamache.

  ‘Did he see anything?’ Gamache asked.

  ‘I asked. He claims that as a photographer he’s so focused on taking the pictures he’s not actually paying attention to what’s happening, so he was as surprised as anyone when CC keeled over. But he did say his assignment was to photograph CC, and only her, so his camera was trained on her the whole time.’

  ‘Then he must have seen something,’ said Gamache.

  ‘He might have,’ conceded Beauvoir, ‘but maybe he didn’t know what he was seeing. Had she been stabbed or bludgeoned or strangled he probably would have reacted, but this was less obvious. All CC did was get up and touch the chair in front of her. Nothing strange in that, certainly nothing threatening.’

  It was true.

  ‘Why did she do it?’ Gamache asked. ‘It’s true what you say, though: it certainly wouldn’t attract any attention, but it’s still an odd thing to do. And we only have Petrov’s word that he was busy photographing his client and not busy electrocuting her.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Beauvoir, warming his hands by the woodstove and reaching for the coffee pot. ‘He seemed eager enough to help. Maybe too eager.’ In Beauvoir’s world anyone helpful was immediately suspect.

  Émilie Longpré set the table for three, folding and smoothing the cloth napkins more than they needed. There was something comforting in the repetitive gesture. Mother hadn’t arrived yet, but she’d be there soon. According to the clock on the kitchen wall Mother’s noon meditation class would be over soon.

  Kaye was having a nap but Em couldn’t rest. Where normally she’d be sitting quietly with a cup of tea reading that day’s La Presse, instead she found herself wiping the tops of cookbooks and watering plants that were already soaked, anything to distract her racing mind.

  She occupied herself with the pea soup, stirring the ham bone in the large pot, making sure the flavors combined. Henri was sitting patiently at her feet, staring up at Em with his intense brown eyes as though willpower alone could force the bone to levitate out of the pot and into his eager mouth. His tail wagged as Em bustled around the kitchen and he made sure he got in her way whenever possible.

  The corn bread was ready to be put into the oven and by the time it was baked Mother would be there.

  And sure enough, half an hour later Mother’s car pulled into Em’s drive and Mother waddled out, walking without hesitation on the slippery path. Her center of gravity was so low Kaye often remarked that she couldn’t fall down even if she wanted to. Nor, according to Kaye, could Mother drown. Kaye, for some reason Em couldn’t figure out, never tired of analyzing the ways Bea might meet her maker. Mother Bea returned the favor by endlessly explaining that she at least would meet Him.

  Now the three old friends helped themselves to bowls of soup and slices of fresh, warm bread, the butter melting into it. They sat at the comfortable kitchen table. Henri, ordered out of the room, curled up under the table and prayed for crumbs.

  Ten minutes later, when Gamache arrived, the food was still in front of each of them, cold and untouched. Had Gamache thought to sneak up to the side window and look in he would have seen the three friends holding hands, encircling the table in a prayer apparently without end.

  ‘Don’t worry about the snow, Chief Inspector,’ Em said, after Gamache looked behind him at their snowy boot prints on the stone floor of her mudroom. ‘Henri and I track it through the house all the time.’ She nodded to a German shepherd puppy about six months old who looked as though he was going to explode with excitement. Instead his tail wagged furiously and his bottom, while still technically on the floor, moved with such ferocity Gamache thought he might be able to create fire with it.

  Introductions were made, boots removed, and apologies offered for interrupting their lunch. The kitchen smelled of homemade French Canadian pea soup and fresh-baked bread.

  ‘Namaste,’ said Mother, putting her hands together and bowing slightly to the men.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Kaye. ‘Not that again.’

  ‘Namaste?’ Gamache asked. Beauvoir hadn’t asked because she was old, she was anglaise and she was wearing a purple caftan. People like that said ridiculous things all the time.

  The chief bowed back, solemnly. Beauvoir pretended he hadn’t seen.

  ‘It’s an ancient and venerable greeting,’ said Beatrice Mayer, smoothing her wild red hair and shooting a concerned look at Kaye, who simply ignored her.

  ‘May I?’ The chief pointed to Henri.

  ‘At your peril, monsieur. He might lick you to death,’ warned Em.

  ‘Drown in drool is more like it,’ said Kaye, turning to walk back into the body of the house.

  Gamache knelt down and rubbed Henri’s ears, which stood up from his head like two sails. The dog immediately lay on his back and presented his tummy to be rubbed, which Gamache did.

  Em led the way through the kitchen and into the living room. The house was inviting and comfortable and had the feel of Grandma’s cottage, as though nothing bad could happen here. Even Beauvoir felt relaxed and at home. Gamache suspected everyone felt at home in this place. And with this woman.

  Now Émilie Longpré excused herself and returned a moment later with two bowls of soup.

  ‘You look hungry,’ she said simply and disappeared again into the kitchen. Before the men could protest they found themselves sitting before the hearth, two steaming bowls of soup and a basket of corn bread in front of them on tray tables. Gamache knew he was being a bit disingenuous. He certainly could have spoken up sooner to stop the three elderly women from waiting on them, but Émilie Longpré was right. They were hungry.

  Now the Sûreté homicide investigators ate and listened while the elderly trio answered their questions.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened yesterday?’ Beauvoir asked Kaye. ‘I understand there was a curling match.’

  ‘Mother had just cleared the house,’ began Kaye and Beauvoir immediately regretted his decision to start with her. Nothing in that sentence made sense.

  Mother had just cleared the house. Rien, no sense at all. Another wacky Anglo. This one, though, was not a complete surprise. He could see her rolling out of the nuthouse for miles. Now she sat in front of him, nearly submerged under layers of thick sweaters and blankets. She looked like a laundry hamper. With a head. A very small, very worn head. All ten hairs on her tiny wizened scalp were standing straight up from the winter static in the house.

  She looked like a Muppet with strings.

  ‘Désolé, mais qu’est-ce que vous avez dit?’ he tried again, in French.

  ‘Mother. Had. Just. Cleared. The. House.’ The old woman spoke very distinctly in a voice surprisingly strong.

  Gamache, taking everything in, noticed Émilie and Beatrice exchanging smiles. Not maliciously but as a kind of familiar joke as though they’d lived with this all their lives.

  ‘Are we talking about the same thing, madame? Curling?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Kaye laughed. It was a nice laugh, Beauvoir realized. It changed her face from suspicious and pinched to very pleasant. ‘Yes, believe it or not I’m talking about the match. Mother is her.’ She pointed a gnarled finger at her friend in the caftan. For some reason it didn’t surprise him. He’d taken an immediate dislike to ‘Mother,’ and this was one more reason. Mother. Who insisted on being called Mother? Unless she was a Mother Superior, and, looking at her, Beauvoir doubted it.

  She was trouble, he knew. He could sense it, though he’d never use those words and certainly never in front of Gamache.

  ‘What does that mean, madame?’ Beauvoir turned back to Kaye, and took a bite of corn bread, trying not to let the butter dribble down his chin.

  ‘“Clearing the house” is a curling term,’ said Kaye. ‘Em can explain better. She was the skip. That’s the captain of the team.’

  Beauvoir turned to Madame Longpré. Her blue eyes were thoughtful and lively and perhaps a little tired. Her hair was dyed to a subtle light brown and styled beautifully to her face. She looked contained and kind and she reminded him of Reine-Marie Gamache. He looked briefly at the chief who was listening with his usual calm concentration. When he looked at Madame Longpré did the chief see his wife in thirty years?

  ‘Have you ever curled, Inspector?’ Em asked Beauvoir.

  Beauvoir was surprised, even offended, by the question. Curl? He played center on the Sûreté hockey team. At thirty-six he creamed men ten years his junior. Curl? He felt embarrassed even thinking the word.

  ‘I can see you probably don’t,’ Em continued. ‘Shame really. It’s a marvelous sport.’

  ‘Sport, madame?’

  ‘Mais oui. Very difficult. It requires balance and a keen hand-eye co-ordination. You might want to try.’

  ‘Would you show us?’ It was the first time Gamache had spoken since they’d sat down. Now he looked at Em warmly and she smiled back, inclining her head.

  ‘How is tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Gamache.

  ‘Can you describe what was happening up to and including when you realized something was wrong?’ Beauvoir turned back to Émilie. Might as well try the sane one.

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