A Fatal Grace (35 page)

‘Except, as you pointed out,’ said Nichol, ‘the chair was just fine to begin with. Someone must have shoved it off kilter.’

Gamache nodded. Was that what was on the roll of film Petrov burned? Did it show a villager casually wandering by and leaning on the chair? Did the villager then go to the generator and wait for CC to get up? And when she did all he had to do was attach the booster cables, and bang. Murder.

It was brilliant and almost elegant.

But who did it? Richard Lyon was the perfect suspect. He knew his wife would reach for the chair that had gone askew.

‘That photographer was hiding something,’ said Beauvoir.

‘I agree,’ said Gamache. ‘He burned a roll of film in his fireplace just before we arrived. I think it was of the murder.’

‘Why would he destroy it, though?’ asked Lemieux. ‘As he said, if he had a picture of the murderer it would prove his own innocence.’

‘What about if he planned to use it for blackmail?’ Nichol asked.

‘But why destroy it? You’d keep that film safe, wouldn’t you?’ said Lacoste and received a disconcertingly friendly smile.

Bitch, thought Nichol. She looked around and noticed Gamache watching her. Does he know? she wondered. He was standing there so smug and comfortable, surrounded by his team. And her on the outside, always on the outside. Well, that would change.

‘Why destroy pictures of CC being murdered?’ Gamache asked himself, sitting down and staring at the photographs. ‘Unless he’s trying to protect the murderer.’

‘Why would he do that? He doesn’t know anyone round here, does he?’ asked Lemieux.

‘Look into Saul Petrov’s background,’ Gamache said to Nichol. ‘Find out everything you can about him.’ He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes.

Walking to his desk he picked up the video and took it to the evidence room. The small box of items from CC’s garbage was on the floor. He took out the inventory sheet before placing
The Lion in Winter
back into its spot, then replaced the sheet, gazing at the familiar list. Cereal boxes, bits and pieces of food now tossed but inventoried, the video, a broken bracelet, a boot box and Christmas wrapping. It was a mundane list, except for the video. And the bracelet.

Gamache put on gloves and started rummaging through the box, like a mini-dumpster dive. After a minute the cardboard box was empty, save for a dirty little thing curled in the corner, like an unwanted puppy at the shelter. It was brown and filthy and broken. But what it wasn’t was a bracelet. Gamache put on his half-moon glasses and picked up the object, dangling it at arm’s length. He breathed in sharply then brought it closer to his face, peering at the small object hanging from the worn leather strap.

It wasn’t a bracelet, it was a necklace. With a pendant. A small, tarnished, dirty head. The face of a shrieking eagle.

Gamache knew CC, fastidious, obsessive CC, had never worn this filthy thing. But he knew who had.

Slowly Armand Gamache rose, the images and thoughts tumbling one on top of another. He walked the necklace back to his desk then brought out two documents: the drawing by the police artist and an autopsy photograph of Elle.

When he’d first seen the autopsy photographs of Elle he’d seen a smudging on her chest. It was circular and regular and a different color from the rest of the filth on her body. It was a kind of tarnish that came off impure metal when it reacted to sweat. As soon as he’d seen the autopsy photo he’d known Elle had worn a necklace. A cheap necklace but it must have been precious to her.

But there was other evidence she’d worn a necklace. There was a small dark bruise at the base of her neck, probably made when the leather strap was broken. And the cuts in her hand. He’d sent Agent Lemieux over to the Old Brewery Mission to ask whether anyone remembered Elle wearing a necklace. They did, though none had gotten close enough to be able to say what it was. He’d searched for it in the box of evidence but had found nothing. He’d known then that if he found the necklace he’d find her killer.

Well, he’d found the necklace. In Three Pines, one hundred kilometers away from the frozen Montreal street where Elle was found, and the necklace was taken. How had it ended up here?

Armand Gamache closed his eyes and the events played there, in the movie house of his mind. He could see Elle’s murderer struggling with her. The murderer had grabbed the necklace and broken the cord. Then Elle had grabbed it back, pressing it so violently into her palm as she was strangled that it cut into her hand, like a cookie cutter. Gamache had asked the Sûreté artist to connect the bloody dots and try to recreate what the necklace had looked like.

Now he looked at the drawing. The artist had made a stylized circle, with a bite taken out, and a kind of neck. It hadn’t made sense at the time, but now it did. The bite was the eagle’s mouth, open and screaming. The rest was its head and neck.

So Elle had died grasping her necklace. Why had Elle valued it so much she’d died holding it? And why had the murderer taken the time to pry it from her hand?

And then what? Gamache leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. Any sounds in the room, in the village, in Quebec, receded. He was in his own world now, with the murderer. Just the two of them. What had he done, and why?

He’d taken the pendant from Elle’s dead hand and brought it back home. And he’d put it in the garbage. CC’s garbage. Gamache could feel himself getting close. It was still murky, far from clear, but the headlights were shining bright now, cutting through the night. Before he got to who, Gamache needed to know why. Why hadn’t the murderer just fled? Why take the time to pry this necklace from Elle’s hand?

Because it was a screaming eagle. It was a tarnished, filthy, cheap version of what he’d seen on the screen earlier that evening. The emblem of Eleanor of Aquitaine, the logo for CC de Poitiers and the necklace of the beggar were the same.

The murderer had taken it because it proved something more terrible than who killed Elle. It proved that Elle and CC were connected. They shared more than a symbol.

Elle was CC’s mother.

‘Come on,’ said Beauvoir, holding out his gloved hand for the necklace. ‘Some dead vagrant was CC de Poitiers’s mother?’

Gamache was on the phone, dialing. ‘That’s right.’

‘I’m confused,’ said Beauvoir and Lemieux was glad he said it. Nichol, at her computer, stole looks over to the three men talking. She watched as Lacoste got up and joined the men.

‘
Oui, allô
,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Is Terry Moscher there? Yes, I’ll hold.’ He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘What are the chances the dead vagrant and CC both have the same emblem? A butterfly, maybe. A flower, I’d give you that. They’re pretty common. But that?’ He gestured to the pendant hanging from Beauvoir’s fist. ‘Who do you know who’d wear that for decoration?’

Beauvoir had to agree if he bought a necklace with an insane eagle on it for his wife she wouldn’t thank him. It was more than a coincidence, but did it make them mother and daughter?

‘Yes, hello, Monsieur Moscher? It’s Chief Inspector Gamache. I’m well, thank you, but I have a question for you. You mentioned that Elle signed the register the few times she stayed at the Old Brewery Mission. Would you mind finding the entry again? Yes, I’ll hold.’ He turned back to his team. ‘We’ll send the necklace to the lab to be tested.’

‘I’ll take it back with me,’ said Lacoste.

‘Good. We should get the results in less than a day. It’ll tell us about fingerprints, but there’s also blood on it. Yes, I’m still here.’ He turned back to the phone. ‘I see. Yes. Could you fax me a copy of the page right away? And I’ll send an agent over tonight to pick up the ledger.
Merci infiniment.
’

Gamache hung up, looking reflective.

‘What? What’d he say?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘I’ve been a fool. When I asked him the other night to check the register he confirmed that Elle had signed it. Or at least I thought that’s what he said and meant.’ The fax rang and started printing. They all watched as the paper took its excruciating time, inching out of the machine. Finally it was done and Beauvoir snatched up the paper, scanning the signatures.

TV Bob

Frenchie

Little Cindy

L

‘L,’ he said softly, handing the sheet to Gamache. ‘L, not Elle.’

‘Her name was L,’ said Gamache, taking the paper back to his desk and picking up the Li Bien ball. He turned it over until the signature was visible. L. Exactly the same as the ledger.

Whoever had made this exquisite work of art years ago had recently signed into the Old Brewery Mission in Montreal to escape the killing cold. She’d become a vagrant, a homeless bag lady. And finally, a body with a closed file in homicide. But now Gamache felt he’d at least brought her home. To Three Pines. L was CC’s mother. He was sure of it. But that meant something else. L was dead. CC was dead.

Someone was killing the women in that family.

THIRTY

Gamache and Beauvoir hurried into their coats and boots, Beauvoir remembering to press the remote start on his car keys, to at least give it a minute or so to warm up.

‘Just a moment.’ Gamache took off his tuque and returned to his desk, picking up his phone and dialing. ‘This is Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Sûreté du Québec. Is this the duty officer?’

Beauvoir was almost out the door when he turned back and signaled to Nichol to join them. She leaped from her desk.

‘No.’ Gamache covered the mouthpiece of the phone and turned to Nichol. ‘You stay here. Agent Lemieux, you come with us.’

Stunned, as though slapped, Nichol stood still and watched as Agent Lemieux hurried past, giving her a slight apologetic smile. She could have killed him.

Beauvoir looked at the chief for a moment, puzzled, then hurried into the cold. He thought he was prepared for the outside world, but he was wrong. The temperature had plummeted even further and now it burned his skin as he walked, then trotted and finally ran the few yards to his car. The vehicle was struggling to keep turning over, its fluids sluggish and near frozen. The windows were etched with frost and Beauvoir opened the groaning door and grabbed a couple of scrapers. Shavings of frost jumped from the blades as though he was a carpenter whittling a car. Lemieux joined him and the two men furiously scraped the windows. Tears obscured Beauvoir’s vision as the bitter cold found every inch of exposed flesh.

‘I called ahead. He’s expecting us,’ said Gamache, getting in and automatically buckling up even though they were going less than a kilometer. On any other night they’d walk. But not tonight.

Up ahead was their destination. Beauvoir had been so intent on getting the car going he hadn’t thought about where they were headed. Now, as he applied the brakes, the reality hit. The old Hadley house. Last time he was here he’d been coughing up blood. This place seemed to crave blood, and fear. Lemieux jumped out of the car and was halfway down the walk before Beauvoir could even stir himself. He felt a heaviness on his arm and looked at Gamache beside him.

‘It’s all right.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ snapped Beauvoir.

‘Of course not,’ said Gamache.

Finally the door opened and Lyon stepped back into the hall to let them in.

‘I’d like to see Crie, please.’ The Chief Inspector was cordial but firm.

‘She’s in the kitchen. We’re just sitting down to eat.’

Lyon’s eyes were blank, bewildered. It was as though, Beauvoir thought, he’d been hollowed out. He wondered what echoed round in Lyon’s head. He looked around. Last time he’d been there the electricity had been off and all he’d seen was what was visible by flashlight. It wasn’t much. Now he was surprised to see it looked like a regular home. But then, that was the real horror of these places and these people. They looked normal. They sucked you in, then slowly the door swung shut and you were trapped. With a monster. Within a monster.

Stop thinking that, his mind commanded. This is just a normal house. This is just a normal house.

‘She’s just through here.’

The men followed Lyon into the kitchen. Beauvoir was surprised to find it smelled good, like home cooking.