Cruelest Month

by Louise Penny

  No, the answers lay in flesh and blood, not in a book and not in a report. And so often not even in things corporeal, but in something that couldn’t be held and contained and touched. The answers to his questions lay in the murky past and in the emotions hidden there.

  The paper in his hand would yield the facts but not the truth. For that he had to go to Three Pines. For that he’d have to go, yet again, into the old Hadley house.

  ‘Who will you take on your team?’ The question brought Gamache back to his friend’s office. Brébeuf had tried to sound casual but the oddity of his query couldn’t be hidden. Never before had he questioned Armand Gamache, his chief of homicide, about procedure and certainly not about anything as mundane as personnel assignments.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Brébeuf picked up a pen and tapped it rapidly on a stack of undone paperwork.

  ‘You know very well why I’m asking. You’re the one who brought her behavior to my attention. Are you going to assign Agent Yvette Nichol to this case?’

  There it was. The question that had hounded Gamache on the drive from Mont Royal. Should Nichol be on the team? Was it time? He’d actually sat in his Volvo in the near-empty car park of Sûreté headquarters, trying to decide. But still, he was surprised his friend had asked.

  ‘What’s your advice?’

  ‘Have you made up your mind or is there a chance I might influence you?’

  Gamache laughed. They knew each other too well.

  ‘I’ll tell you, Michel, I’ve just about decided. But you know how much I value your opinion.’

  ‘Voyons, what would you rather have right now? My opinion or a brioche?’

  ‘A brioche,’ admitted Gamache with a smile. ‘But so would you.’

  ‘C’est la vérité. Listen.’ Brébeuf got up and came round to the other side of the desk, sitting on it and leaning down to stare at the Chief Inspector. ‘To take her, well, c’est fou. It’s nuts. I know you. You want to save her, to rehabilitate her. To turn her into a good and loyal agent. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Michel Brébeuf wasn’t smiling any more.

  Gamache opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind. Instead he let his friend vent. And vent he did.

  ‘One day that ego of yours’ll kill you. That’s all it is, you know. You pretend it’s selfless, you pretend to be the great teacher, the wise and patient Armand Gamache, but you and I both know it’s ego. Pride. Be careful, my friend. She’s dangerous. You’ve said so yourself.’

  Gamache could feel his heat rising and had to take a few breaths to keep his calm. To not match anger with anger. He knew Michel Brébeuf was saying this because he was the Superintendent, but also because they were friends.

  ‘It’s time the Arnot case was ended,’ said Gamache firmly.

  And there it was. He’d said it out loud.

  Goddamned Arnot, rotting in prison but still haunting him.

  ‘I thought so,’ said Brébeuf, returning to his chair.

  ‘Why are you here, Michel?’

  ‘In my own office?’

  Gamache was silent, watching his friend. Finally Brébeuf leaned forward, putting his elbows on his wide desk as though he intended to crawl across and wrap himself around Gamache’s head.

  ‘I know what happened to you once in the old Hadley house. You were almost killed there—’

  ‘It wasn’t so bad.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Armand,’ Brébeuf warned. ‘I wanted to be the one to tell you about this case and see how you feel.’

  Gamache was silent, deeply touched.

  ‘There’s something about the place,’ he admitted after a moment. ‘You’ve never been there, have you?’

  Brébeuf shook his head.

  ‘There’s something in there. It’s like a hunger, some need that has to be met. I must sound crazy.’

  ‘I think there’s a need in you that’s equally destructive,’ said Brébeuf. ‘Your need to help people. Like Agent Nichol.’

  ‘I don’t want to help her. I want to expose her and her bosses. I believe she’s working for the faction that supports Arnot. I’ve already told you that.’

  ‘So fire her,’ snapped Brébeuf, exasperated. ‘The only reason I haven’t is because you asked me not to. As a personal favor. Listen, the Arnot case will never be over. It goes too deep into the system. Every officer in the Sûreté is involved in one way or another. Most support you, you know that. But the ones who don’t,’ Brébeuf now raised his palms in a simple, eloquent gesture of defeat, ‘they’re powerful and Nichol is their eyes and ears. As long as she’s near you you’re in danger. They’ll bring you down.’

  ‘It works both ways, Michel,’ said Gamache wearily. Talking about former Superintendent Arnot always drained him. It was, he’d thought, an old case. Long dead and buried. But now it was back. Risen. ‘As long as she’s close I can watch her, control what she sees and does.’

  ‘Foolish man.’ Brébeuf shook his head.

  ‘Prideful, stubborn, arrogant man,’ agreed Gamache, walking to the door.

  ‘You may have your Nichol,’ said Brébeuf, turning his back to look out the window.

  ‘Merci.’

  Gamache closed the door and walked to his own office to make some calls.

  Alone now Superintendent Brébeuf picked up the phone and made a call of his own.

  ‘It’s Superintendent Brébeuf. You’ll be getting a call soon from Chief Inspector Gamache’s office. No, he doesn’t suspect. He thinks the problem is Nichol.’

  Brébeuf took a few deep breaths. He’d gotten to the stage where just looking at Armand Gamache made him want to retch.

  Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir drove the Volvo over the Pont Champlain spanning the St Lawrence River and onto the Eastern Townships Autoroute, heading south toward the American border. Beauvoir had suggested the chief buy an MG when his last Volvo had finally died a year or so ago, but the chief for some reason thought he was joking.

  ‘So what’s the case?’

  ‘A woman was frightened to death last night in Three Pines,’ said Gamache, watching the countryside slip by.

  ‘Sacré. So what are we looking for? A ghost?’

  ‘Closer than you might think. It happened at a séance. At the old Hadley house.’

  Gamache turned to watch his young inspector’s lean and handsome face. It grew even tauter, the lips compressing and growing pale.

  ‘That fucking place,’ Beauvoir said at last. ‘Someone should tear it down.’

  ‘You think the house is to blame?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  It was a strange admission for Beauvoir. Normally so rational and driven by facts, he gave no credence to things unseen, like emotions. He was the perfect complement to his boss, who, in Beauvoir’s opinion, spent far too much time crawling into people’s heads and hearts. Inside there lived chaos, and Beauvoir wasn’t a big one for that.

  But if there was ever a case for evil, in Beauvoir’s experience, it was the old Hadley house. He shifted his toned body in the driver’s seat, suddenly uncomfortable, and looked over at the boss. Gamache was watching him thoughtfully. They locked eyes, Gamache’s steady and calm and of the deepest brown and Beauvoir’s almost gray.

  ‘Who was the victim?’

  ELEVEN

  The road to Three Pines from the autoroute was one of the most scenic, and treacherous, Gamache knew. The car shuddered and thumped and careered from pothole to pothole until both Beauvoir and Gamache felt like scrambled eggs.

  ‘Watch out.’ Gamache pointed to a massive hole in the dirt road. Avoiding it Beauvoir steered into a larger one and then the nearly new Volvo washboarded over a series of waves cut deeply into the mud.

  ‘Any more advice?’ snarled Beauvoir, his eyes pinned to the road.

  ‘I just plan to yell “watch out” every few seconds,’ said Gamache. ‘Watch out.’

  Sure enough an asteroid crater opened up in front of them.

  ‘Fuck.’ Beauvoir yanke
d the steering wheel to the side, narrowly avoiding it. ‘It’s as if that house doesn’t want us to get to it.’

  ‘And it’s commanded the roads to open up?’ Even Gamache, more than happy to entertain existential ideas, found this surprising. ‘Do you think maybe it’s the spring thaw?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it could be that. Watch out.’ They hit a hole and jerked forward. Lurching and swerving and swearing the two men made their slow progress deeper and deeper into the forest. The dirt road wound through pine and maple forests and along valleys and climbed the sides of small mountains. It passed streams throbbing with the spring run-off and gray lakes that had only recently lost their winter ice.

  Then they arrived.

  Ahead Gamache could see the familiar and strangely comforting sight of the Scene of Crime vehicles parked along the side of the road. He couldn’t see the old Hadley house yet.

  Beauvoir pulled the car into a spot by the abandoned mill across from the house. Opening his door Gamache was met with an aroma so sweet he had to close his eyes and pause.

  Inhaling deeply he knew immediately what it was. Fresh pine. Young buds, their fragrance strong and new. He changed into rubber boots, put his Barbour field coat on over his jacket and tie and slipped a tweed cap on his head.

  Still not looking at the old Hadley house he walked instead to the brow of the hill. Beauvoir put his Italian leather jacket over his merino wool turtleneck and, scanning the results in the mirror, noticed he was closer than he appeared. After a moment’s happy reflection he walked up beside Gamache until the two men stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the valley.

  It was Armand Gamache’s favorite view. The mountains rose graciously on the far side, folding into each other, their slopes covered with a fuzz of lime green buds. He could smell not just the pine now, but the very earth, and other aromas. The musky rich scent of dried autumn leaves, the wood smoke rising from the chimneys below, and something else. He lifted his head and inhaled again, softly this time. There, below the bolder aromas, sat a subtler scent. The first of the spring flowers. The youngest and bravest of them. Gamache was reminded of the simple and dignified chapel with its white clapboard spire. It was just below him, off to the right. He’d been in St Thomas’s often enough and on this fine morning knew light from an old stained glass window would be spilling onto the gleaming pews and wooden floor. The image wasn’t of Christ or the lives and glorious deaths of saints, but of three young men in the Great War. Two were in profile, marching forward. But one was looking straight at the congregation. Not accusing, not in sorrow or fear. But with great love as though to say this was his gift to them. Use it well.

  Beneath were inscribed the names of those lost in the wars and one more line.

  They Were Our Children.

  And now standing on the lip of the hill, looking into the loveliest, gentlest village Gamache had ever seen and smelling the brave young flowers, he wondered whether it was always the young who were brave. And the old grew fearful and cowardly.

  Was he? He was certainly afraid to go into the monstrosity he could feel breathing on his neck. Or perhaps that was Beauvoir. But he was afraid of something else, he knew.

  Arnot. Goddamned Arnot. And what that man was capable of even from prison. Especially from prison, where Gamache had put him.

  But even those dark thoughts evaporated before the sight that met his eyes. How could he be fearful when faced with this?

  Three Pines lay nestled in its little valley. Wood smoke wafted from the stone chimneys, and maples and cherry and apple trees were in bud if not quite in bloom. People moved here and there, some working in gardens, some pinning up fresh laundry on their lines, some sweeping the wide and graceful verandas. Spring cleaning. Villagers walked across the green with canvas bags full of baguettes and other produce Gamache couldn’t see but could imagine. Locally made cheeses and pâtés, farm fresh eggs and rich aromatic coffee beans all from the shops.

  He looked at his watch. Almost noon.

  Gamache had been to Three Pines on previous investigations and each time he’d had the feeling he belonged. It was a powerful feeling. After all, what else did people really want except to belong?

  He longed to stride down the muddy verge, cross the village green and open the door to Olivier’s Bistro. There he’d warm his hands by the fire, order licorice pipes and a Cinzano. And maybe a rich pea soup. He’d read old copies of the Times Literary Supplement and talk to Olivier and Gabri about the weather.

  How was it his favorite place on earth was so close to his least favorite?

  ‘What’s that?’ Jean Guy Beauvoir laid a hand on his arm. ‘Can you hear it?’

  Gamache listened. He heard birds. He heard a slight breeze rustling the old leaves at his feet. And he heard something else.

  A rumble. No, more than that. A muffled roar. Had the old Hadley house come to life behind them? Was it growling and growing?

  Ripping his eyes from the tranquility of the village he looked around slowly until his eyes finally fell on the house.

  It stared back, cold, defiant.

  ‘It’s the river, sir,’ said Beauvoir, smiling sheepishly. ‘The Rivière Bella Bella. Spring run-off. Nothing more.’ He watched as the Chief Inspector stared at the house, then Gamache blinked and turned to Beauvoir, smiling slightly.

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t the house growling?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Gamache laughed. He placed his large hand on the younger man’s soft leather jacket then started toward the old Hadley house.

  As he approached he was surprised to see peeling paint and jagged, broken windows. The ‘For Sale’ sign had fallen over and tiles were missing from the roof and even some bricks from the chimney. It was almost as though the house was casting parts of itself away.

  Stop that, he said to himself.

  ‘Stop what?’ Beauvoir asked, almost running to catch up to the chief, the boss’s long strides picking up speed as they neared the house.

  ‘I said that out loud, did I?’ Gamache suddenly stopped. ‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache began, but he didn’t know what he wanted to say. While Beauvoir waited, his handsome face going from respectful attention to quizzical, Gamache thought.

  What do I want to tell him? To be careful? To know things weren’t as they appeared? Not the Hadley house, not this case, not even their own homicide team.

  He wanted to pull this young man away from the house. Away from the investigation. Away from him. As far from him as possible.

  Things were not as they seemed. The known world was shifting, reforming. Everything he’d taken as a given, a fact, as real and unquestioned, had fallen away.

  But he was damned if he was going to fall with it. Or let anyone he loved go down.

  ‘The house is falling apart,’ said Gamache. ‘Be careful.’

  Beauvoir nodded. ‘You too.’

  Once inside Gamache was surprised by how mundane the place felt. Not evil at all. If anything it felt kind of pathetic.

  ‘Up here, Chief,’ Agent Isabelle Lacoste called, her brown hair hanging down as she looked over the dark wood banister. ‘She died in this room.’ Lacoste waved behind her and disappeared.

  ‘Joyeuses Pâques,’ she said a moment later when Gamache had climbed the stairs and walked into the room. Agent Lacoste was dressed in comfortable and stylish clothes, like most of the Québécoises. In her late twenties she’d already had two children and hadn’t bothered to work off all the weight. Instead she dressed well and was perfectly happy with the results.

  Gamache took in the sight. A luxurious four-poster bed stood against one wall. A fireplace with a heavy Victorian mantel sat across from it. On the wooden floor was a huge Indian rug in rich blues and burgundies. The walls held intricate William Morris wallpaper and the lamps, both floor and table, were festooned with tassels. A colorful scarf was artfully draped over a lamp on a vanity.

  It was as though he’d stepped back a hundred years. Except
for the circle of chairs in the middle of the room. He counted them. Ten. Three had fallen over.

  ‘Careful, we haven’t quite finished,’ Lacoste advised as Gamache took a step toward the chairs.

  ‘What’s that?’ Beauvoir pointed to the rug and what looked like ice pellets.

  ‘Salt, we think. At first we thought it might be crystal meth or cocaine, but it’s just rock salt.’

  ‘Why put salt on a carpet?’ Beauvoir asked, not expecting an answer.

  ‘To cleanse the space, I think,’ was her unexpected reply. Lacoste seemed not to appreciate the oddity of her answer.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Gamache asked.

  ‘There was a séance, right?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve heard,’ agreed Gamache.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Salt?’

  ‘All will be revealed.’ Lacoste smiled. ‘There’re lots of ways of doing a séance but only one involves salt in a circle and four candles.’

  She pointed to the candles on the rug inside the ring. Gamache hadn’t noticed them. One had also fallen over and as he leaned closer he thought he could see melted wax on the carpet.

  ‘They’re at the compass points,’ Lacoste continued. ‘North, south, east and west.’

  ‘I know what a compass point is,’ said Beauvoir. He didn’t like this at all.

  ‘You said there’s only one way to do a séance that involves candles and salt,’ said Gamache, his voice calm and his eyes sharp.

  ‘The Wicca way,’ said Lacoste. ‘Witchcraft.’

  TWELVE

  Madeleine Favreau had been scared to death. Killed by the old Hadley house, Clara knew with a certainty. And now Clara Morrow stood outside, accusing it. Lucy, on her leash, was swishing back and forth, anxious to leave this place. And so was Clara. But she felt she owed Madeleine this much. To face down the house. To let it know she knew.

  Something had awoken last night. Something had found them huddled in their tight little circle, friends doing something foolish and silly and adolescent. Nothing more. No one should have died. And no one would have if they’d held the séance in any other place. No one had died at the bistro.