Cruelest Month

by Louise Penny

  ‘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

  Odile 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.

  ‘You’re back,’ he called to Beauvoir.

  ‘And brought the boss.’

  Sandon strode over to them, his feet crackling twigs underfoot.

  ‘No bosses out here,’ he said to Beauvoir, then turned to size Gamache up. ‘You�
�re the one in the papers.’

  ‘I am,’ said Gamache, with ease.

  ‘You don’t look like a murderer.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to believe that?’

  ‘You’ll believe what you choose. I don’t care.’

  Sandon grunted then finally indicated a stump as though it was a silk-upholstered chair.

  ‘You were a lumberjack once, I believe,’ said Gamache, sitting on the stump.

  ‘In the dark days, yes. I’m not ashamed of it any more. I didn’t know any better.’

  But he looked ashamed.

  ‘What didn’t you know?’ asked Beauvoir.

  ‘I told you. That trees are alive. I mean, we all know they’re living, but don’t really think of them as alive, you know? But they are. You can’t kill something that’s alive. It’s not right.’

  ‘How did you find out?’ Gamache asked.

  Sandon reached into his pocket and brought out a dirty hanky. He rubbed the blade of his axe and cleaned it as he spoke.

  ‘I was working as a logger for one of the mills around here. Went into the forest every day with my team. Cut down trees, hooked them to tractors and dragged them to the logging road to be picked up. Back-breaking work, but I liked it. Outside, fresh air. No bosses.’

  He looked suspiciously at Gamache, his weathered face covered by a red and graying beard, his eyes keen but distant.

  ‘One day I walked into the woods with my axe and I heard a whimpering. Sounded like a baby. It was this time of year. Best time for cutting trees. But it’s also the time when animals have babies. The crew was just arriving and the whimpering grew louder. Then I heard a scream. I shouted to the guys to stop, to be quiet and listen. The whimpering had turned into a cry. It was all around. And I could feel it too. I’d always felt at home in the forest, but suddenly I was afraid.

  ‘“Don’t hear nothin’,” said one of the guys and hit the tree again. And again there was a scream. You can figure the rest. Something had changed overnight. I’d changed. I could hear the trees. I think I could always hear their happiness. I think that’s why I felt so happy myself in the forest. But now I could hear their terror too.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What could I do? What would you do? I had to stop it. Had to stop the killing. Can you imagine cutting down a forest that was screaming at you?’

  Beauvoir could, especially if the screaming went on all day.

  ‘But mostly trees are quiet. Just want to be left alone,’ Gilles continued. ‘Funny how I learned freedom from creatures that are rooted in place.’

  Gamache thought that made perfect sense.

  ‘I was fired, but I would’ve quit anyway. I’d walked into the forest that day a logger and I walked out something else entirely. The world was never the same. Couldn’t be. My wife tried to understand but couldn’t. She finally left with the kids. Went back to Charlevoix. Don’t blame her. Relief really. She kept trying to tell me trees don’t talk and they don’t sing and they sure as hell don’t scream. But they do. We lived in different worlds.’

  ‘Does Odile live in your world?’ Beauvoir asked.

  ‘No,’ Gilles admitted. ‘I actually haven’t met anyone who does. But she accepts it. Doesn’t try to change me or convince me I’m wrong. She takes me as I am.’

  ‘And Madeleine?’

  ‘She was like something beautiful and exotic. Like walking through the forest here and coming across a palm tree. It takes your attention.’

  ‘Did you have an affair with her?’ Beauvoir asked, more bluntly than Gamache would have liked, but it was his style.

  ‘I did not. It was enough to admire from afar. I might talk to trees, but I’m not crazy. She wasn’t interested in me. And I wasn’t interested in her, not really. Fantasy, maybe, but not in the real world.’

  Beauvoir wondered what exactly Sandon considered the ‘real’ world.

  ‘Why don’t you like Monsieur Béliveau?’ asked Gamache. It took Sandon a moment to tear his mind away from Madeleine and focus on the austere grocer. He looked down at his massive hands and picked at a callus.

  ‘There was a magnificent oak on his land. It’d been hit by lightning and a huge limb was hanging loose. I could hear it crying so I asked if I could remove the limb, help the tree. He refused.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Beauvoir.

  Gilles looked at them. ‘Said I’d kill the whole tree by taking off the branch. That was a risk, I admitted, but told him the tree was in pain and it would be more merciful for it to either live healthy or die quickly.’

  ‘But he didn’t believe you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Took four years for that tree to die. I could hear it crying for help. I begged Béliveau but he wouldn’t hear of it. Thought the tree was getting better.’

  ‘He didn’t know,’ said Gamache. ‘He was afraid.’

  Gilles shrugged, dismissive.

  ‘And the fact he was seeing Madeleine wasn’t part of it?’ asked Gamache.

  ‘He should have protected her. He should have protected the tree. He looks so gentle but he’s a bad one.’

  What had Monsieur Béliveau called himself? Gamache tried to remember. The thing that brings death. That was it. First his wife, then Madeleine, then the bird. And the tree. Things died around Monsieur Béliveau.

  The men were silent, inhaling the sweet, musty aroma of moist pines and autumn leaves and new buds.

  ‘Now I come out here and find trees already dead and turn them into furniture.’

  ‘Give them new life,’ said Gamache.

  Sandon looked at him. ‘I don’t suppose you hear the trees?’

  Gamache cocked his head, listening, then shook it. Sandon nodded.

  ‘Are there any ginkgo trees around?’ Gamache asked.

  ‘Ginkgo? A few, not many. They’re mostly from Asia, I think. Very old trees.’

  ‘You mean they live a long time?’ asked Beauvoir.

  ‘That too, though not as long as sequoias. Some of them are thousands of years old, can you believe it? Love to have a conversation with one of them. No, a ginkgo doesn’t last that long, but it’s the oldest tree known. Prehistoric. Considered a living fossil. Imagine that.’

  Gamache was impressed. Sandon knew a lot about the ginkgo tree. The ancient ginkgo family that produced ephedra.

  A newspaper was folded neatly at his desk when they arrived back at the Incident Room. It was five o’clock and Robert Lemieux was working on his computer. He looked up and waved as they came in, his eyes falling on the newspaper as though commiserating with Gamache.

  Jean Guy Beauvoir stood beside the chief as he reached for the paper. Gamache was reminded of a nature show he once saw about gorillas. When threatened they ran forward, focusing on the attacker, screaming and pounding their chests. But every now and then they’d reach out to touch the gorilla next to them. To make sure they weren’t alone.

  Beauvoir was the gorilla next to him.

  There, on the front page, was a picture of Gamache looking foolish, his eyes half-closed, his mouth in a strange grimace.

  SOÛL! insisted the type underneath, in capital letters. Drunk!

  ‘I see you’re a drunken, blackmailing, pimping murderer,’ said Beauvoir.

  ‘A Renaissance man,’ said Gamache, shaking his head. But he was relieved. He first skimmed the article looking for Daniel, Annie, Reine-Marie. But all he found was his own name and Arnot’s. Always linked, as though one didn’t exist without the other.

  He called his family and spent the next half-hour catching up with them, making sure all was as well as could be.

  It was a strange world, he realized as he and Beauvoir made their way back to the B. & B. with their dossiers and yearbooks, when a good day was one where he was only accused of drunken incompetence.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  For the first time in twenty-five years Clara Morrow closed the door to her studio. Olivier and Gabri were arriving. Armand Gamache and his inspector, J
ean Guy Beauvoir, had just walked in. Myrna had arrived earlier with shepherd’s pie and a massive arrangement of flowers, branches in bud and what looked like a bonnet

  ‘There’s a gift in there for you,’ she said to Gamache.

  ‘Really?’ He hoped she didn’t mean the bonnet.

  Clara showed Jeanne Chauvet into the living room where everyone was massed. Gamache caught Clara’s eye and smiled his thanks. She smiled back but he thought she looked tired.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He took the tray of drinks from her and placed it on its normal spot on the piano.

  ‘Just a little stressed. Tried to paint this afternoon but Peter was right. Best not to try too hard if the muse isn’t there. Fortunately I had the dinner to concentrate on.’

  Clara looked as though she’d rather gnaw off her foot than be at this dinner party.

  Olivier took the ceramic bowl of home-made pâté from Gabri, who was supposed to circulate with it but had decided to stand by the fire and talk to Jeanne instead.

  ‘Pâté?’ he asked Beauvoir, who took a large slice of baguette and smeared it thickly.

  ‘So, I hear you’re a witch,’ Gabri said to Jeanne, and the room fell silent.

  ‘I prefer Wicca, but yes,’ said Jeanne matter-of-factly.

  ‘Pâté?’ asked Olivier, grateful to have the appetizers to hide behind. Would that they’d brought a horse.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jeanne.

  Ruth arrived, stomping into the cheery living room. Beauvoir took the distraction as a chance to speak to Jeanne privately.

  ‘Agent Lemieux looked up your high school,’ he said, guiding her into a quiet corner.

  ‘Really? That’s interesting,’ though she didn’t look interested.

  ‘It was actually. There was no school.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘No Gareth James High in Montreal.’

  ‘But that’s impossible. I went to it.’ She seemed agitated, just the way Beauvoir wanted his suspects. He didn’t like this woman, this witch.

  ‘The school burned down twenty years ago. Convenient, don’t you think?’ He got up before she could respond.

  ‘Where’s my drink?’ Ruth limped over to the piano. ‘Wanted to get here earlier before you drank it all,’ she said to Gamache. Olivier was deeply grateful someone more maladroit than Gabri was finally in the room.