The Cruelest Month

THIRTY-FIVE

‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ said Olivier as he set out the napkins and bowls at the old railway station. Putting the soup tureen on the filing cabinet under the list of murder suspects he was happy to see his name wasn’t there, and happier still to see Gabri’s was. Wait until he told him. Freak him out completely.

A steaming chicken stew with dumplings was placed in the middle of the conference table.

The Chief Inspector had stopped by the bistro to ask Olivier to bring them lunch.

‘How’s Monsieur Béliveau?’ Olivier had asked. He’d seen Gamache walk along the Common from his home.

‘He’s been better, I imagine,’ Gamache had said.

‘And worse. I remember how sad he was after Ginette died. Thank God for Hazel and Madeleine. Brought him out of himself. Invited him to everything, especially important days like Christmas. Saved his life.’

As he’d walked back to the Incident Room Gamache wondered whether Béliveau would thank them for that. He also thought of Hazel, alone now herself, and wondered whether eventually the two would gravitate together.

Once back at the old railway station Gamache was met by Beauvoir, just back from searching Hazel’s home. Within minutes Agent Lacoste arrived from Montreal and they gathered around the conference table. The meeting was in full swing when Olivier came with lunch.

He took his time, but still they didn’t say a word. Inspector Beauvoir ushered him to the door and closed it firmly behind him. Olivier leaned in to the cold metal for a moment but heard nothing.

There was, in fact, nothing to be heard, except serving spoons on porcelain as red lentil and curried apple soup and rich, chunky stew were served up. Soft drinks were popped open and Beauvoir had a beer.

‘Reports,’ said Gamache.

‘We found the ephedra,’ said Beauvoir, putting the medicine bottle on the table. ‘We took fingerprints and transmitted them to Montreal.’ He’d already reported to Gamache, but now the rest of the team heard about the search and the discovery.

‘Sophie Smyth denies the stuff’s hers,’ said Beauvoir, ‘but she would. She’s admitted strong, maybe obsessive feelings for Madeleine. And she’s a liar. I wasn’t sure about her injured leg, but when she had to she sure ran on that ankle fast enough. You should have seen her mother’s face.’

‘Angry about the faked ankle?’ asked Lemieux.

‘You can’t really be that stupid,’ said Nichol and Lemieux shot her a look of unmistakable loathing.

‘Agent Nichol, I’m warning you,’ said Gamache.

‘No really,’ said Nichol. ‘How are you possible?’ she asked Lemieux, who was gripping the table. ‘Hazel Smyth was stunned to see the ephedra bottle in her daughter’s possession,’ Nichol said very slowly into Lemieux’s face. ‘This is a murder investigation. Not a doctor’s office. Who the fuck cares about her ankle, except a moron.’

‘That’s it. Come with me.’ Gamache walked across the room to the door, taking the medicine bottle with him. Nichol caught Lemieux’s eyes and jerked her head in Gamache’s direction.

‘He means you, asshole.’

Lemieux made to get up.

‘Agent Nichol,’ Gamache called, his voice cold and carrying.

Nichol smirked at Lemieux and shook her head as she got up, mumbling ‘Fucking loser’ as she walked by.

‘What’s wrong, sir?’ she asked at the door. Her cockiness had vanished with her audience. It was just the two of them now.

‘You’re going too far. You have to leave.’

‘You’re firing me?’

‘Not yet. I’m sending you to Kingston, to ask questions about Sophie Smyth at Queens University.’

‘Kingston? But that’s half a day away. I won’t get there ’til dark.’

‘Later than that. You need to drop this at the lab on your way through Montreal. I want the results tomorrow morning.’

Nichol stared at him then finally spoke, her voice low. ‘I think you’re making a mistake, sir.’

Gamache met her eyes. His voice when he spoke was calm, steady, but still Nichol stepped back a half-pace from his intensity. ‘I know what I’m doing. You need to leave. Now.’

From the door he watched her go. Never full of grace, Agent Nichol slouched across the bridge, kicking a stone as she went.

Gamache returned to the meeting. The place seemed lighter without Agent Nichol. Gamache was happy to see Lemieux looking more relaxed.

Olivier had also brought a platter of brownies and date squares for dessert. Over coffee and dessert they heard about Monsieur Béliveau.

‘He went there to die?’ said Agent Lacoste, putting her brownie down. ‘That’s so sad.’

Sad. There was that word again, thought Gamache. Poor, sad Monsieur Béliveau. But unexpectedly what came to mind wasn’t the tired old grocer but the baby bird. Its shriek magnified by fear. Killed because it wanted company.

Then it was Lacoste’s turn to report on her trip to Montreal.

‘The school secretary gave me these.’ She put two dossiers on the conference table. ‘Madeleine and Hazel’s school records. I haven’t gone through them yet. Madeleine seems to have been a bit of a legend in that school.’

Beauvoir reached for the dossiers while Lacoste ducked under the table again and came up holding a stack of yearbooks.

‘I tried to get out of it, but she also gave me these.’ She put the year-books on the table and reached for her brownie again. It was rich and homemade and instead of icing on the top it had a thick layer of fluffy marshmallow, grilled under the broiler.

‘You spoke to Madeleine’s former husband?’ Gamache asked.

‘François Favreau wasn’t much help. Madeleine was the one who asked for the divorce but he admits he forced her into it by behaving badly. He also admits he still loves her, but he said living with her was like living too close to the sun. It was glorious, but painful.’

They sat in silence, eating and thinking. Lacoste thought about a woman killed for being brilliant, Lemieux about murdering Nichol, Beauvoir about Sophie who probably killed the woman she loved; and Armand Gamache thought about Icarus.

Jean Guy Beauvoir drove while Armand Gamache looked out the window and tried not to notice the potholes and ruts and chasms in the road. Entire towns could be thriving in some of them.

He brought his mind back to the case.

Sophie Smyth had the ephedra. She’d been at the second séance but not the first, which would explain why the murder had happened then. And she admitted to intense feelings for Madeleine. And there was one more thing. Something Clara had told him that morning that Gamache hadn’t paid attention to, but that further condemned Sophie. A question that nagged him was how the murderer put the ephedra in Madeleine’s food. Clara said Sophie had hurried to take the seat right next to Monsieur Béliveau. But that would also put her next to Madeleine. Sophie had deliberately seated herself between them.

Why?

Two possible reasons. She was so jealous of their relationship she wanted to come between them, literally. Or, she wanted to be able to give Madeleine the ephedra.

Or both.

She had motive and opportunity.

After lunch Gamache had ordered a patrol car to watch the Smyth house, but he wouldn’t act until he had proof the bottle belonged to Sophie. In the morning they’d make an arrest.

In the meantime there were answers to other questions he needed.

He looked at his watch.

‘The first editions of the paper will be out in an hour,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Monsieur Béliveau will keep one for us.’

‘Merci.’

‘I’m glad you sent Nichol away. Things will be easier.’

When Gamache didn’t answer Beauvoir continued. ‘You’ve never told me what happened when you realized what Arnot was doing. Some came out in court, of course. But I know there’s more.’

Gamache saw the countryside going by. The trees just coming alive. It was like witnessing the moment life began.

‘An emergency meeting of the senior council was called,’ said Gamache, his eyes no longer seeing the miracle of new life but seeing the cold conference room at Sûreté headquarters. The officers arriving. No one except Brébeuf and himself aware of why the meeting was called. Pierre Arnot smiling urbanely and laughing with Superintendent Francoeur as the two took swiveling chairs side by side.

‘I dimmed the lights and projected pictures on the wall. Pictures of boys from the school yearbooks. Then pictures of them dead. One after another. Then I read the witness reports, and the lab reports. Everyone was confused. Trying to figure out what I was getting at. Then one by one they grew quiet. Except Francoeur. And Arnot.’

He could see the blue eyes, cold like marbles. And he could sense the brain, active, rushing from fact to fact, desperate to refute them. At first Arnot had been relaxed, confident in his superiority, sure no one could ever get the better of him. But as the meeting progressed he grew restive, furtive.

Gamache had done his homework. Had worked on the case for almost a year, quietly, in his spare time and on holidays. Until every single escape route Arnot might try was locked and barred and blocked, and locked again.

Gamache knew he had only one shot, and that was this meeting. If Arnot walked free Gamache and many others, Brébeuf included, were doomed.

He’d marshaled his facts but he knew there was one potent weapon Arnot would use. Loyalty. Officers of the force would rather die than be disloyal, to each other and to the Sûreté. Arnot commanded great loyalty.

And Arnot had won.

Faced with the facts he’d admitted the crimes of incitement to murder and actual murder. But he’d prevailed upon the council, in recognition of his position and his years of service, to allow him and the two officers implicated with him to not be arrested. Not yet. They’d put their affairs in order, make things right for their families, say their goodbyes, and then go to Arnot’s hunting camp in the Abitibi region. And kill themselves.

Avoid the shame of a trial. Spare the Sûreté the public humiliation.

Gamache had argued ferociously against such folly. But he’d been defeated by a council afraid of Arnot and afraid of the public.

To Gamache’s astonishment Pierre Arnot had walked free. At least for a while. But a man like that can create a lot of grief in very little time.

‘And that’s when we took the case in Mutton Bay?’ asked Beauvoir.

‘As far from Montreal as we could get, yes,’ admitted Gamache. He’d sent Reine-Marie away and asked his friend Marc Brault with the Montreal police to assign officers to protect his children. Then he himself had taken a ski plane to Quebec City then on to Baie Comeau, then Natashquan, Harrington Harbour and finally the tiny fishing village of Mutton Bay. And there he’d looked for a murderer and found himself. In a dingy diner on the rocky shore of the village. It smelled of fish, both fresh and fried, and a ragged, craggy fisherman, as though made from the rocks themselves, sitting alone in a booth had looked over and given Gamache a smile of such unexpected radiance Gamache had immediately known what he had to do.

‘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.