The Cruelest Month

THIRTEEN

‘And then she died,’ said Gabri. Olivier came up behind and placed his hands on Gabri’s shoulders. Gabri screamed.

‘Tabernacle. Are you trying to kill me?’

The spell was broken. The room brightened again and Gamache noticed that a huge tray of sandwiches had appeared on the coffee table.

‘What happened then?’ Gamache asked, taking an open-faced melted goat cheese and arugula sandwich on a warm baguette.

‘Monsieur Béliveau carried her downstairs while Gilles ran for his car,’ said Myrna, helping herself to a grilled chicken and mango sandwich on a croissant.

‘Gilles?’ asked Gamache.

‘Sandon. Works in the woods. He and his partner Odile were there too.’

Gamache remembered them from the list of witnesses in his pocket.

‘Gilles drove. Hazel and Sophie went with them,’ said Clara. ‘The rest of us took Hazel’s car.’

‘God, Hazel,’ said Myrna. ‘Has anyone spoken to her today?’

‘I called,’ said Clara, looking at the platter, but not really hungry. ‘Spoke to Sophie. Hazel was too upset to speak.’

‘Hazel and Madeleine were close?’ Gamache asked.

‘Best friends,’ said Olivier. ‘Since high school. They lived together.’

‘Not as lovers,’ said Gabri. ‘Well, not as far as I know.’

‘Don’t be absurd, of course they’re not lovers,’ said Myrna. ‘Men. They think if two grown women live together and show affection they’re lesbians.’

‘It’s true,’ said Gabri, ‘everyone makes that assumption about us.’ He patted Olivier’s knee. ‘But we forgive you.’

‘Was Madeleine Favreau ever heavy?’

Gamache’s question was so unexpected he was met with blank stares, as though he’d spoken Russian.

‘Fat, you mean?’ Gabri asked. ‘I don’t think so.’

The others shook their heads.

‘But she hadn’t lived here all that long, you know,’ said Peter. ‘What would you say? Five years?’

‘About that,’ Clara agreed. ‘But she fit in immediately. Joined the Anglican Church Women with Hazel—’

Gabri groaned. ‘Merde. She was supposed to take over this summer. Now what am I supposed to do?’

He was screwed, though not, he had to admit, quite as much as Madeleine herself.

‘Pauvre Gabri,’ said Olivier. ‘A personal tragedy.’

‘Well, you try running the ACW. Talk about murder,’ he said to Gamache. ‘Maybe Hazel’ll do it? You think?’

‘No I don’t “tink”,’ said Olivier. ‘And you’d better not ask her now.’

‘Is it possible someone else was in that house?’ Gamache asked. ‘Most of you heard sounds.’

Clara, Myrna and Gabri were quiet then, remembering the ungodly noises.

‘What do you believe, Clara?’ Gamache asked.

What do I believe? she asked herself. That the devil killed Madeleine? That evil lives in that house, possibly even put there by us? Perhaps the psychic was right and every unkind, every malevolent thought they’d ever had had been expelled from their idyllic village and eaten by that monstrosity. And it was ravenous. Maybe bitter thoughts were addictive. Once tasted you wanted more.

But had everyone really let go of all their bitter thoughts? Was it possible someone was holding on to theirs, hoarding them? Devouring them, swallowing them until they were bloated with bitterness and had become a walking, breathing version of the house on the hill?

Was there a human version of that wretched place, walking among them?

What do I believe? she asked herself again. She had no answer.

After a moment Gamache got up. ‘Where can I find Madame Chauvet, the medium?’ He reached into his pocket to pay for the sandwiches and drinks.

‘She’s staying at the B. & B.,’ said Olivier. ‘Should I get her?’

‘No, we’ll walk over. Merci, patron.’

‘I didn’t go,’ Olivier whispered to Gamache as he handed him his change at the till on the long wooden bar, ‘because I was too afraid.’

‘I don’t blame you. There’s something about that house.’

‘And that woman.’

‘Madeleine Favreau?’ Gamache found himself whispering now.

‘No. Jeanne Chauvet, the psychic. Do you know what she said to Gabri as soon as she arrived?’

Gamache waited.

‘She said, “You won’t get laid here.”’

Gamache absorbed the unlikely words.

‘Are you sure? It seems a strange thing for a psychic to worry about. It’s not—’

‘True? Of course not. In fact – well, never mind.’

Gamache walked out the door into the splendid day with Olivier’s last whispered warning in his ears.

‘She’s a witch, you know.’

The three Sûreté officers walked along the road that circled the village green.

‘I’m confused,’ Agent Lemieux said, running a little to keep up with Gamache’s strides. ‘Was it murder?’

‘I’m confused too, young man,’ said Gamache, stopping to look at him. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t call you out.’

Lemieux was taken aback by the question. He’d expected the Chief Inspector to be delighted, thanking him even. Instead Gamache was looking at him with patience and slight puzzlement.

‘He’s visiting his parents not far from here, for Easter,’ said Beauvoir. ‘A friend on the local Sûreté told him about the case.’

‘I came on my own. I’m sorry, have I done something wrong?’

‘No, nothing wrong. I just want to keep the investigation as discreet as possible, until we know whether it’s murder.’ Gamache smiled. His people needed to be self-starters, though perhaps not quite as eager as this one. But he’d grow out of it soon enough, and Gamache wasn’t sure if that would be a good day.

‘So we don’t know for sure?’ asked Lemieux, hurrying to catch up as Gamache resumed walking toward the large brick house on the corner.

‘I don’t want anyone to know yet, but she had ephedra in her blood,’ explained Gamache. ‘Heard of it?’

Lemieux shook his head.

‘I’m surprised. You like sports, n’est-ce pas?’

The young agent nodded. It was one of the things that had bonded him to Beauvoir. Their love of the Montreal Canadiens hockey team. The Habs.

‘Ever heard of Terry Harris?’

‘The running back?’

‘Or Seamus Regan?’

‘The outfielder? Played for the Lions? They both died. I remember reading about it in Allô Sport.’

‘They took ephedra. It’s used in diet pills.’

‘That’s it. Harris collapsed during practice and Regan was actually playing. I was watching on TV. It was a hot day and everyone thought it was heat stroke. But it wasn’t?’

‘They were told by their coaches to lose weight fast, so they were taking diet pills.’

‘That was a couple of years ago,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Ephedra’s banned now, isn’t it?’

‘As far as I know, but I might be wrong. Can you check it out?’ Gamache asked Lemieux.

‘Absolutely.’

Gamache smiled as he walked to the attractive B. & B. He liked Lemieux’s enthusiasm. It was one of the reasons he’d asked the young man to join the team. Lemieux had been with the Cowansville detachment when Gamache was last down investigating a murder and had impressed him.

The victim in that case had lived in the old Hadley house.

They stepped onto the sweeping veranda of the B. & B. The three-story brick building had once been a stop on the stage coach route between Williamsburg and St-Rémy and sat on what was now called the Old Stage Road. Olivier had once told him that Gabri had made him buy it so he could tell friends he was ‘on the stage’.

Stepping inside he was met with wood floors, rich Indian rugs, and genteel faded fabrics. It felt like an old country house and invited relaxation.

But he wasn’t there to relax. He was there to find out what had killed Madeleine Favreau. Was it a simple heart attack brought on by excitement or fear? Had she taken the ephedra herself? Or was something more sinister at work, hidden behind the pleasant facade of Three Pines?

Olivier said Jeanne Chauvet was in the small bedroom on the main floor.

‘Stay here,’ Gamache ordered Lemieux while he and Beauvoir walked down the short corridor.

‘Think she might overpower us?’ Beauvoir whispered with a smile.

‘I think she might,’ said Gamache, seriously, and knocked on the door.