Cruelest Month

by Louise Penny

  And there it was. Worse than he’d expected.

  His jaw clamped shut, his back teeth clenching and unclenching. He could feel himself breathing heavily as he stared at the photograph. His daughter Annie. Annie and a man. Kissing.

  ‘Anne Marie Gamache with her lover, Maître Paul Miron of the public prosecutor’s office.’

  Gamache closed his eyes. When he opened them the photograph was still there.

  He read the piece, twice. Forcing himself to go slowly. To chew, swallow and digest the repugnant words. Then he sat quietly and thought.

  Minutes later he called Reine-Marie, waking her up.

  ‘Bonjour, Armand. What time is it?’

  ‘Almost seven. Sleep well?’

  ‘Not really. I did a bit of tossing. You?’

  ‘Same,’ he admitted.

  ‘I have some bad news. Henri ate your favorite slippers, well one anyway.’

  ‘You’re kidding. He’s never done it before. I wonder why he’d suddenly do that.’

  ‘He misses you, as do I. He loves not wisely but too well.’

  ‘You didn’t eat my other slipper, did you?’

  ‘Just a little nibble round the edges. Barely noticeable.’

  There was a pause then Reine-Marie said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Another article.’

  He could see her in their wooden bed with its simple duvet and feather pillows and clean white sheets. She’d have two pillows behind her back and the sheets up around her chest, covering her naked body. Not out of shame or bashfulness, but to keep warm.

  ‘Is it very bad?’

  ‘Bad enough. It’s about Annie.’ He thought he heard a sharp intake. ‘It shows her kissing a man they identify as Maître Paul Miron. A Crown Prosecutor. Married.’

  ‘As is she,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Oh, poor David. Poor Annie. It’s not true, of course. Annie would never do that to David. To anyone. Never.’

  ‘I agree. The gist is that I got out of being charged with murder along with Arnot because I had Annie sleep with the prosecutor.’

  ‘Armand! Mais, c’est épouvantable. How can they? I don’t understand how anyone can do this.’

  Gamache closed his eyes and felt a hole open in his chest, where Reine-Marie should be. He wished with all his heart he was with her. Could hold her to him, could wrap his strong arms around her. And she could hold him.

  ‘Armand, what’re we going to do?’

  ‘Nothing. We stand firm. I’ll call Annie and talk to her. I spoke to Daniel last night. He seems all right.’

  ‘What do these people want?’

  ‘They want me to resign.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Revenge for Arnot. I’ve become a symbol of the shame that was brought on the Sûreté.’

  ‘No, that’s not it, Armand. I think you’ve become too powerful.’ After he hung up he called his daughter and woke her up too. She slipped off into another room to talk, then heard David stirring.

  ‘Dad, I have to talk to David. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Annie, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. God, he’s heading downstairs to the paper. Gotta go.’

  For a moment Armand Gamache imagined the scene in their home in the Plateau Mont-Royal quartier of Montreal. David rumpled and bewildered. So in love with Annie. Annie impetuous, ambitious, full of life. And so in love with David.

  He made one more call. To his friend and superior, Michel Brébeuf.

  ‘Oui, allô,’ came the familiar voice.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Not at all, Armand.’ The voice was pleasant and warm. ‘I was going to call you this morning. I saw the papers yesterday.’

  ‘Have you seen this morning’s?’

  There was a pause then Gamache heard Michel call, ‘Catherine, has the paper arrived? Oui? Could you bring it here? Just a moment, Armand.’

  Gamache heard the rustle as Brébeuf turned the leaves of the paper. Then it stopped.

  ‘Mon Dieu. Armand, c’est terrible. C’est trop. Have you talked to Annie?’

  She was Michel’s goddaughter and a particular favorite.

  ‘Just now. She hadn’t seen it. She’s talking to David right now. It isn’t true, of course.’

  ‘You’re kidding, because I believe it,’ said Brébeuf. ‘Of course it’s lies. We know Annie would never have an affair. Armand, this is getting dangerous. Someone’s going to believe this crap. Perhaps you should explain.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘No, not to me, but to the reporters. That first picture was of you talking to Daniel. Why don’t you just call the editor and straighten him out? And I’m sure you have an explanation for the envelope. What was in it anyway?’

  ‘The one I gave to Daniel? Nothing significant.’

  There was a pause. Finally Brébeuf spoke, seriously. ‘Armand, was it a crêpe?’

  Gamache laughed. ‘How’d you guess, Michel? That’s exactly what it was. An old family crêpe my grand-mère made.’

  Brébeuf laughed then grew silent. ‘If you don’t stop these insinuations they’ll just grow. Hold a news conference, tell everyone Daniel’s your son. Tell them what was in the envelope. Tell them about Annie. What’s the harm?’

  What was the harm?

  ‘The lies will never end, Michel. You know that. It’s a monster with an endless supply of heads. Lop off one head and more appear, stronger and more vicious. If we respond they’ll know they have us. I won’t do it. And I won’t resign.’

  ‘You sound like a child.’

  ‘Children can be wise.’

  ‘Children are willful and selfish,’ Brébeuf snapped. There was silence. Michel Brébeuf forced himself to pause. To count to five. To give the impression of massive thought. Then he spoke.

  ‘You win, Armand. But will you let me work behind the scenes? I have some contacts at the papers.’

  ‘Thank you, Michel. I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘Good. Go to work, concentrate on the investigation. Keep your focus and don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of it.’

  * * *

  Armand Gamache dressed and headed downstairs, plunging deeper and deeper into the aroma of strong coffee. For a few minutes he sipped his coffee, ate a flaky croissant, and talked to Gabri. The disheveled man had toyed with the handle of his mug and told Gamache about coming out, about telling his family, about telling his co-workers at the investment house. And as he spoke Gamache realized Gabri knew how he was feeling. Naked, exposed, being made to feel shame for something not shameful. And in his oddly quiet way Gabri was saying he wasn’t alone. Thanking Gabri Gamache put on his rubber boots and waxed Barbour field coat and went for a walk. He had a lot to ponder and he knew that everything is solved by walking.

  It was drizzling slightly, and all the joyous spring flowers were lying down, like young soldiers slaughtered on a battlefield. For twenty minutes he walked, his hands clasping each other behind his back. Round and round the quiet little village he went and watched as it came alive, as lights appeared at the windows, dogs were put out, fires were lit in grates. It was peaceful and calm.

  ‘Hello there,’ called Clara Morrow. She stood in her garden, a mug in her hand and a raincoat over her nightgown. ‘Just surveying the damage. Are you free for dinner tonight? We thought we might invite a few people over.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful, thank you. Would you join me?’ Gamache indicated his circular walk round the Commons.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘How’s your art? I hear Denis Fortin’s coming to visit soon.’ Seeing her face he knew he’d stepped in something sticky and stinky. ‘Or shouldn’t I have said anything?’

  ‘No, no. It’s just that I’m struggling a little. Things that were so clear a few days ago are suddenly muddy and confused. You know?’

  ‘I know,’ he said ruefully.

  She looked at him. She often felt foolish, ill constructed, next to others. Beside Gamache she only ever felt whole.

&nb
sp; ‘What did you think of Madeleine Favreau?’

  Clara paused to collect her thoughts. ‘I liked her. A lot. Didn’t really know her all that well. She’d just joined the ACW. Lucky Hazel.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Hazel was supposed to take over from Gabri this September as president, but then Madeleine said she’d do it.’

  ‘Didn’t that upset Hazel?’

  ‘You’ve clearly never been an Anglican Church Woman.’

  ‘I’m not Anglican.’

  ‘It’s great fun. We hold church socials and teas and twice a year we have a sale of goods. But it’s hell to organize.’

  ‘So that’s hell,’ smiled Gamache. ‘Only mortal sinners run ACWs?’

  ‘Absolutely. Our punishment is to spend eternity begging for volunteers.’

  ‘So Hazel was happy to get out of it?’

  ‘Thrilled, I should think. Probably why she brought Madeleine into it in the first place. They were a good team, though quite different.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, Madeleine always made you feel good about yourself. She laughed a lot and listened well. She was a lot of fun. But if you were sick or in need, it was Hazel who’d show up.’

  ‘Was Madeleine superficial, do you think?’

  Clara hesitated. ‘I think Madeleine was used to getting what she wanted. Not because she was greedy but just because it always happened.’

  ‘Did you know she had cancer?’

  ‘I did. Breast cancer.’

  ‘Do you know whether she was healthy?’

  ‘Madeleine?’ Clara laughed. ‘Healthier than you or me. She was in great shape.’

  ‘Had she changed at all in the last few weeks or months?’

  ‘Changed? I don’t think so. Seemed the same to me.’

  Gamache nodded then continued. ‘We think the substance that killed her was slipped into her food at dinner. Did you see or hear anything at all strange?’

  ‘In that group? Anything normal would set off alarms. But you’re saying that someone at our dinner killed her? Gave her the ephedra?’

  Gamache nodded.

  Clara thought about it, replaying the dinner in her mind. The food arriving, being warmed up, prepared, set out. People sitting down. Passing round the various dishes.

  No, it all seemed natural and normal. It was a terrible thought that one of them around that table had poisoned Madeleine, but not, it must be said, a surprise. If it was murder, one of them did it.

  ‘We all ate out of the same dishes, helping ourselves. Could the poison have been meant for someone else?’

  ‘No,’ said Gamache. ‘We’ve had the leftovers tested and there’s no ephedra in any of the dishes. Besides, you all helped yourselves, right? To have any control over who got the ephedra the murderer had to have slipped it to Madeleine directly. Shoved it into the food on her plate.’

  Clara nodded. She could see the hand, see the action, but not the person. She thought of the people at her dinner. Monsieur Béliveau? Hazel and Sophie? Odile and Gilles? True, Odile murdered verse, but surely nothing else.

  Ruth?

  Peter always said Ruth was the only person he knew capable of murder. Had she done it? But she hadn’t even been at the séance. But, maybe she didn’t have to be.

  ‘Did the séance have anything to do with it?’ she asked.

  ‘We think it was one ingredient. As was the ephedra.’

  Clara sipped her now cool coffee as they walked. ‘What I don’t understand is why the murderer decided to kill Madeleine that night.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ asked Gamache.

  ‘Why give her ephedra in the middle of a dinner party? If the murderer needed a séance why not do it Friday night?’

  It was a question that hounded Gamache. Why wait until Sunday? Why not kill her Friday night?

  ‘Maybe he tried,’ he said. ‘Did anything odd happen that Friday night?’

  ‘More odd than contacting dead people? Not that I remember.’

  ‘Who did Madeleine have dinner with?’

  ‘Hazel, I guess. No, wait, Madeleine didn’t go home for dinner. She stayed here.’

  ‘Had dinner at the bistro?’

  ‘No, with Monsieur Béliveau.’ She looked over at his home, a large rambling clapboard house facing the green. ‘I like him. Most people do.’

  ‘Most, but not all?’

  ‘Don’t you let anything pass?’ she laughed.

  ‘When I miss things or let them pass they gather in a heap then rise up and take a life. So, I try not to.’ He smiled.

  ‘I guess not. The only person I’ve ever seen actually cut Monsieur Béliveau was Gilles Sandon. But then Gilles’s quite a character. Do you know him?’

  ‘He works in the woods, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Makes amazing furniture, but I think there’s a reason he works with trees and not people.’

  ‘How does Monsieur Béliveau feel about him?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think he even notices the slights. He’s such a gentle man and kind. He only went to the séance to keep Mad company, you know. I could tell he didn’t like it at all. Probably because of his dead wife.’

  ‘Afraid she’d come back?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Clara laughed. ‘They were very close.’

  ‘Do you think he expected her to show up?’

  ‘Ginette, his dead wife? None of us expected anything. Not that first night at the bistro, anyway. It was a lark. But still, I think it upset him. He didn’t sleep well that night, he said.’

  ‘The next séance was different,’ said Gamache.

  ‘We were crazy to go there.’ She had her back to the old Hadley house, but she could feel it staring at her.

  Gamache turned, feeling a chill born from the inside and growing to meet the cold damp air on his skin. It was the menace on the hill, poised, waiting for the right moment to swoop down on them. But no, Gamache thought. The old Hadley house wouldn’t swoop. It would creep. Slowly. Almost unnoticed until you woke up one morning swallowed by its despair and sorrow.

  ‘As we were walking up the hill that night,’ said Clara, ‘something kind of strange happened. We started off all bunched up, talking, but as we got closer we stopped talking and drifted apart. I think that house creates isolation. I was almost the last. Madeleine was walking behind me.’

  ‘Monsieur Béliveau wasn’t with her?’

  ‘No, strange that. He was talking with Hazel and Sophie. He hadn’t seen Sophie in a while. I think they must be friends because Sophie made sure to sit next to him at dinner. As I walked I passed Odile standing on the road. Then I heard Odile and Madeleine talking behind me.’

  ‘Was that unusual?’

  ‘Not unheard of, but I didn’t think they had much in common. I can’t remember exactly what was said, but I have the impression Odile was sucking up. Telling Mad how lovely she was and popular. Something like that, but the funny thing is it seemed to upset Madeleine. I’m afraid I tried to hear more but couldn’t.’

  ‘What do you think of Odile?’

  Clara laughed then stopped herself. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t very nice. But every time I think of Odile I think of her poetry. I can’t imagine why she writes it. Do you think she thinks it’s good?’

  ‘It must be difficult to know,’ said Gamache, and Clara felt fear snake around her heart and into her head again. Fear that she was as delusional as Odile. Suppose Fortin shows up and laughs? He’d seen a few of her works but maybe he was drunk or not in his right mind. Maybe he’d seen Peter’s and thought they were Clara’s. That must be it. There’s no way the great Denis Fortin could really like her work. And what work? That wretched half-finished accusation in her studio?

  ‘Have Odile and Gilles been together long?’ asked Gamache.

  ‘A few years. They’ve known each other forever but only got together after his divorce.’

  Clara was silent, thinking.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Gamache.

  ‘I was thinking of
Odile. It must be difficult.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I get the feeling she’s trying so hard. Like a rock climber, you know? But not a very good one. Just clinging on for dear life and trying not to show how scared she is.’

  ‘Clinging on to what?’

  ‘To Gilles. She only started writing poetry when they got together. I think she wants to be part of his world. The creative world.’

  ‘What world does she belong in?’

  ‘I think she belongs in the rational world. With facts and figures. She’s wonderful at running the store. Turned it around for him. But she won’t hear a compliment about that. She only wants to hear that she’s a great poet.’

  ‘It’s interesting she’d choose poetry when one of the greatest poets in Canada is a neighbor,’ said Gamache, watching as Ruth walked down the steps of her veranda. She paused, turned back, bent down, then straightened up.

  ‘I married one of the greatest artists in Canada,’ said Clara.

  ‘Do you see yourself in Odile?’ he asked, astonished.

  Clara was silent.

  ‘Clara, I’ve seen your work.’ He stopped and looked at her directly and for an instant the snake retreated, her heart expanded, her head cleared, as she looked into his deep brown eyes. ‘It’s brilliant. Passionate, exposed. Full of hope, belief, doubt. And fear.’

  ‘I’ve got plenty of that for sale. Want some?’

  ‘I’m rather flush right now myself, thank you. But you know what?’ He smiled. ‘All will be as it should, if we just do our best.’

  Ruth was standing on her front lawn, staring down. As they approached they saw the two baby birds.

  ‘Morning.’ Clara waved. Ruth looked up and grunted.

  ‘How’re the babies?’ Clara asked then she saw. Little Rosa was squawking around preening and parading herself. Lilium was standing still, staring ahead. She looked afraid, like that tiny bird in the old Hadley house. Gamache wondered whether maybe she’d been born with a caul.

  ‘They’re perfect,’ snapped Ruth, daring them to contradict her.

  ‘We’re having people over for dinner. Want to come?’

  ‘I was planning to anyway. I’m out of Scotch. You be there?’ she asked Gamache, who nodded.