The Cruellest Month (39 page)

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.

   THIRTY-SIX   

O
dile Montmagny was busy with a customer wondering about the difference between firm and soft tofu. While she tended to business Gamache and Beauvoir wandered around the shop, looking at the rows of organic food and bins of teas and herbs. At the back of the shop, they found Sandon’s furniture. Gamache had a love of antiques, especially Quebec pine. Modern design often left him baffled. But looking at Gilles’s tables and chairs and stools, his bowls and walking sticks, Gamache had the feeling he was looking at a remarkable fusion of old and new. The wood seemed destined to form these shapes, as though it had grown for hundreds of years in the forests of Quebec, waiting to be found by this man and put to this use. And yet the designs were anything but traditional. They were modern and bold.

‘Want one?’ Odile asked. Gamache could smell the sour wine, imperfectly masked under a breath mint. It was a repulsive combination and it was all he could do not to lean away.

‘I’d love one, but perhaps not today,’ he said. ‘We have a few more questions, I’m afraid.’

‘No problem. We’re quiet today. Quiet most days.’

‘Gives you a chance to write your poetry, I suppose.’

She perked up. ‘You’ve heard of my poetry?’

‘I have, madame.’

‘Would you like to hear one?’

Beauvoir tried to catch the chief’s eye, but Gamache seemed oblivious of Beauvoir’s ocular gymnastics.

‘I would consider it an honor, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Here, sit here.’ She practically shoved Gamache into one of Gilles’s
chairs. He expected to hear a great cracking sound, breaking both the chair and his bank balance in one go. But nothing happened. The chair, the wood and his savings were solid.

Odile returned with her worn notebook, the one Beauvoir had seen her slam shut on his previous visit.

She cleared her throat and adjusted her shoulders, as a fighter might before the foe.

‘
Over the moor at dusk there fled

The dismal clouds, and we,

Facing the rain, with might and main,

Me and my love and me.

‘
The seagull screamed, the reeds were bent,

But hand in hand the three,

We hurried on – going against the wind,

Me and my love and me.

‘I call it “Me and My Love and Me”.’

Gamache was too stunned to speak but Beauvoir found his voice.

‘That was wonderful. I could see the whole thing.’

And he meant it. He was used to hearing Gamache’s obscure quotes, mostly of Ruth Zardo’s unintelligible stuff that didn’t even rhyme. This at least made sense. He could see the bird, hear it screaming, see the rain.

‘Would you like another one?’

‘I’m afraid I do have to ask some questions.’ Gamache patted the stool next to him. ‘Lovely thought as that is.’

Odile sat and wavered a little, trying to stay upright.

‘What did you think of Madeleine Favreau?’

‘She was all right. Came in here sometimes, but I didn’t know her well. I’m sorry she’s dead. Any idea who did it?’

‘Do you?’

Odile thought.

‘I think it was that friend of hers. Hazel. Always so nice. Too nice. Drive you nuts. Definitely a suspect. Though, actually, maybe she’s more likely to be murdered. Are you sure the right person was killed?’

‘You had words with Madeleine as you all walked to the old Hadley house.’

‘Did I?’ Odile’s skills as a liar rivaled her skills as a poet.

‘You did. You were overheard.’

‘Oh, we talked about this and that.’

‘You argued, madame,’ said Gamache, firmly but quietly. He could see Odile in profile, her jawline weak and soft.

‘No, we didn’t argue,’ she said. Gamache knew all he needed to do was wait, and hope another customer didn’t come in.

‘She was trying to take Gilles,’ said Odile in a fetid explosion, her sour breath hitting Gamache as though the words had been trapped inside too long. ‘I know that’s what she wanted. Always smiling at him, always touching him.’ She mimicked Madeleine’s actions by pawing Gamache’s arm. ‘She just wanted him to pay attention to her, and he wouldn’t.’

‘Is that true?’ Gamache asked.

‘Of course it’s true. He loves me.’ The last word was almost inaudible. Her mouth hung open, some long spittle drooling out. Her nose ran and tears had sprung to her eyes. Her face had dissolved as though in acid.

Did Madeleine try to take Gilles from Odile? Gamache wondered. If so there were two motives for murder. Odile to kill her rival. And Monsieur Béliveau out of jealousy. What had Clara said? Madeleine always got what she wanted. But what had she wanted? Whom had she wanted? Gilles or Monsieur Béliveau? Or neither?

‘What did you argue about that night?’ Gamache pressed.

‘I asked her to stop. All right? Satisfied? I begged her to stay away from Gilles. She could have any man. She was gorgeous and smart. Everyone wanted to be with her. Who wouldn’t? But me? I know what people think of me. I’m stupid and dull and can only do figures. I’ve loved Gilles all my life and he finally chose me. Me. And no one was going to take him away. I begged her to let me have him.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She denied the whole thing. Let me make a fool of myself, humiliate myself, then didn’t even have the courage to admit what a slut she was.’

As they left Gamache shook her hand, feeling it wet and slimy. But that was how grief often felt. Beauvoir managed to get away without the handshake.

They found Gilles Sandon deep in the woods. They’d followed the chopping sound and cresting a small hill and climbing over a dead and decayed log they’d seen the huge man with his axe working on a downed tree. They watched for a moment the powerful and graceful movements as his massive arms raised the ancient tool and brought it down on the wood. Then he stopped, paused and turned round to look directly at them. All three stared at each other, then Sandon waved.