A Fatal Grace

SEVENTEEN

‘Success,’ Beauvoir said, striding into the 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.

‘We’d been curling for almost an hour. It was a funspiel, so it was shorter than regular games, and being outside we didn’t want everyone to get too cold.’

‘Didn’t work. It was freezing. Coldest I remember,’ said Kaye.

‘We were losing, as usual,’ Em continued. ‘At some point I realized the other team had put a whole lot of rocks in the house.’

Seeing Beauvoir’s expression she explained. ‘The house is the bull’s-eye, those red rings painted on the ice. That’s where you want your rocks to end up. The other team had done a good job and the house was full of their stones. So I asked Mother to do what’s called “clearing the house”.’

‘I wind up and toss my stone down the ice.’ Mother stood up and moved her right arm out in front of her, then swung it behind her, then in one fast movement brought it down and out in front again, pantomiming a pendulum swinging. ‘The stone shoots down the ice and hits as many of the rocks out of the house as possible.’

‘It sounds like doing the break in pool,’ said Beauvoir and realized by their faces that made about as much sense to them as ‘clearing the house’ had to him.

‘It’s a lot of fun,’ said Mother.

‘In fact,’ added Em, ‘it’s so much fun it’s become a tradition at the Boxing Day funspiel. I’m convinced most people go just to see Mother clear the house.’

‘It’s very dramatic, rocks banging everywhere,’ said Mother.

‘Noisy,’ said Kaye.

‘It normally signals the end of the match. After that we give up,’ said Em. ‘Then we all go back to the Legion for a hot buttered rum.’

‘Except yesterday,’ said Beauvoir. ‘What happened yesterday?’

‘I didn’t know there was any problem until everyone started running toward where Kaye and CC de Poitiers were,’ said Mother.

‘Neither did I,’ said Em. ‘I was watching Mother’s stone. Everyone was. Then there was a huge cheer, but that suddenly stopped. I thought—’

‘What did you think, madame?’ Gamache asked, seeing her stricken face.

‘She thought I’d keeled over,’ said Kaye. ‘Didn’t you?’

Em nodded.

‘No such luck. She’ll outlive us all,’ said Mother. ‘She’s a hundred and forty-five years old already.’

‘That’s my IQ,’ said Kaye. ‘I’m actually ninety-two. Mother’s seventy-eight. You don’t meet many people whose age is greater than their IQ.’

‘When did you realize something had happened?’ Beauvoir asked Kaye, casually, trying not to show that this was the key question. Sitting in front of them was really the only witness to the crime.

Kaye thought about it for a moment, her small, wrinkled face looking like a Mrs Potato Head that had been left too long in the sun.

‘That woman who died, CC? She was sitting in Em’s chair. We always brought our own lawn chairs and put them under the heat lamp. People were very kind and allowed us the warmest seats. Except that horrible woman—’

‘Kaye,’ said Émilie, a reproach in her voice.

‘She was and we all know it. Always bossing people about, moving things, straightening things. I’d put the salt and pepper on the tables for the Legion breakfast and she went around moving them. And complained about the tea.’

‘That was my tea,’ said Mother. ‘She’d never had natural, organic, herbal tisane even though she pretended to have been in India.’

‘Please,’ said Émilie. ‘The poor woman’s dead.’

‘CC and I were sitting side by side, about five feet apart. As I said, it was quite cold and I was wearing a lot of clothing. I think I might have dozed off. The next thing I know CC’s standing at Mother’s chair gripping the back of it as though she’s going to pick it up and throw it. But she’s kind of trembling. Everyone around is cheering and clapping but then I realized CC wasn’t cheering at all, but screaming. Then she lets go of the chair and falls down.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I got up to see what had happened, of course. She was lying on her back and there was a strange smell. I think I must have called out because the next thing I knew there were all these people around. Then Ruth Zardo took over. Bossy woman. Writes horrible poetry. Nothing rhymes. Give me a good bit of Wordsworth any time.’

‘Why did she get out of her chair?’ Beauvoir asked hastily before Kaye or Gamache or both started quoting.

‘How should I know?’

‘Did you see anyone else around the chairs? Anyone bending over them, say? Or maybe spilling a drink?’

‘Nobody,’ said Kaye, firmly.

‘Did Madame de Poitiers speak to you at all?’ Gamache asked.

Kaye hesitated. ‘She seemed disturbed by Mother’s chair. There was something about it that was upsetting her, I think.’

‘What?’ Mother said. ‘You never told me that. What could possibly upset her about my chair, except the fact it was mine? She was out to get me, that woman. And now she died holding my chair.’

Mother’s face matched her caftan and her bitter voice filled the calm and tranquil room. She seemed to realize how she sounded and regained herself.

‘What do you mean, madame?’ asked Gamache.

‘About what?’

‘You said Madame de Poitiers was out to get you. What did you mean by that?’

Mother looked at Émilie and Kaye, as though suddenly lost and frightened.

‘She means,’ said Kaye, jumping in to save her friend, ‘that CC de Poitiers was a stupid, vapid, vindictive woman. And she got what she deserved.’

Agent Robert Lemieux was deep in the bowels of Sûreté headquarters in Montreal, a building he’d seen in recruitment posters, but never actually visited. In recruitment posters he’d also seen a whole lot of happy Québecois gathered respectfully round a Sûreté officer in uniform. That was something else he’d never seen in real life.

He’d found the door, closed, and the name Chief Inspector Gamache had given him stenciled onto the frosted glass.

He knocked and adjusted the leather of his satchel over his shoulder.

‘Venez,’ the voice barked. A thin, balding man looked up from his slanting desk. A pool of light from a small lamp shining on it was the only light in the room. Lemieux had no idea whether the room was tiny or cavernous, though he could guess. He felt claustrophobic.

‘You Lemieux?’

‘Yes sir. Chief Inspector Gamache sent me.’ He took a step further into the room with its formaldehyde smell and intense occupant.

‘I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t be seeing you. I’m busy. Give me what you’ve got.’

Lemieux dug into his satchel and pulled out the photograph of Elle’s dirty hand.

‘So?’

‘Well, here, you see?’ Lemieux waved an index finger over the middle of the hand.

‘You mean these bloodstains?’

Lemieux nodded, trying to look authoritative and praying to God this curt man didn’t ask him why.

‘I see what he means. Extraordinary. Right, tell the Chief Inspector he’ll get it when he gets it. Now go away.’

Agent Lemieux did.

‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Beauvoir as the two men walked through the gathering snow back to the Incident Room.

‘What struck you as interesting?’ Gamache asked, his hands behind his back as he walked.

‘Mother. She’s hiding something.’

‘Perhaps. But could she be the murderer? She was curling the whole time.’

‘But she might have wired up the chair before the curling began.’

‘True. And she might have spilled windshield washer fluid. But how did she get CC to touch the chair before anyone else? There were children running around. Any of them might have grabbed the chair. Kaye might have.’

‘Those two fought the whole time we were there. Maybe Madame Thompson was supposed to get electrocuted. Maybe Mother killed the wrong person.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Gamache. ‘But I don’t think Madame Mayer would risk other lives.’

‘So the curlers are out?’ Beauvoir asked, disappointed.

‘I think so, but when we meet Madame Longpré tomorrow at the lake we’ll have a better idea.’

Beauvoir sighed.

He was frankly astonished the entire community hadn’t died of boredom. Just talking about curling was sucking the will to live right out of him. It was like some Anglo joke, an excuse to wear plaid and yell. Most Anglos, he’d noticed, didn’t like to raise their voices. Francophones were constantly gesturing and shouting and hugging. Beauvoir wasn’t sure why Anglos even had arms, except perhaps to carry all their money. Curling at least gave them an excuse to vent. He’d watched the Briar once on CBC television, for a moment. All he remembered was a bunch of men holding brooms and staring at a rock while one of them screamed.

‘How could someone have electrocuted CC de Poitiers and no one notice?’ Beauvoir asked as they entered the warm Incident Room, stomping their boots to get the worst of the snow off.

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Gamache, walking right past Agent Nichol, who was trying to catch his eye. She’d been sitting at an empty desk when he’d left and she was still there.

Shaking his coat off Gamache hung it up. Beside him Beauvoir was fastidiously brushing the small drift from the shoulders of his own coat.

‘Glad I don’t have to shovel this.’

‘Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable,’ said Gamache. Seeing Beauvoir’s puzzled expression he added, ‘Emerson.’

‘Lake and Palmer?’

‘Ralph and Waldo.’

Gamache walked back to his desk, knowing his mind should be on the case, but finding it lingering on Nichol, wondering whether they were both in too deep.

Emerson, Ralph and Waldo? What was that? thought Beauvoir. Some obscure hippy group from the ’60s probably. The lyrics didn’t even make sense.

While Beauvoir hummed ‘Lucky Man,’ Gamache downloaded his messages, read for half an hour, listened to reports, then put his coat, tuque and gloves back on and took himself off.

Round and round the village green he walked, through the falling snow. He passed people on snowshoes and others gliding along on cross-country skis. He waved at villagers shoveling their paths and driveways. Billy Williams came by, driving a snowplow, throwing cascades of snow off the road and onto people’s lawns. No one seemed to mind. What’s another foot?

But mostly Gamache thought.