Cruelest Month

by Louise Penny

  ‘Har-dee-har-har,’ said Olivier.

  ‘You want to know what I believe?’ said Ruth. ‘Here, give me that.’

  Without waiting she leaned over and snatched the second book from the table. The cracked and worn Bible Gamache had taken from the old Hadley house. She squinted and brought it close to a candle as she tried to find the right page. The room was silent, the only sound the slight sizzling of a candle wick.

  ‘Behold I show you a mystery,’ read Ruth, her voice as worn as the Bible she held. ‘We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.’

  Into the silence they stared.

  The dead shall be raised.

  And then Ruth’s alarm went off.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Gamache couldn’t sleep. His bedside clock said 2:22. He’d been lying awake watching the bright red numbers change since the clock had said 1:11. He’d been woken up not by a bad dream, not by anxiety or a full bladder. He’d been woken up by frogs. Peepers. An army of invisible frogs at the pond spent most of the night singing a mating call. He would have thought they’d be exhausted by now, but apparently not. At dusk it was joyful, after dinner it was atmospheric. At 2 a.m. it was simply annoying. Anyone who said the country was peaceful hadn’t spent time there. Especially in the spring.

  He got up, put on his dressing gown and slippers, took a stack of books from the dresser and headed downstairs.

  He relit the fireplace and made himself a pot of tea, then settled in staring at the fire and thinking of the dinner party.

  Ruth had left as soon as her alarm went off, scaring the pants off everyone. She’d just read that extraordinary passage. St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. Quite a letter, thought Gamache. Thank God they kept it.

  ‘Good night,’ Peter had called from the door. ‘Sleep tight.’

  ‘Always do,’ Ruth snapped.

  The rest of the dinner had been peaceful and tasty. A pear and cranberry tarte was produced by Peter, from Sarah’s Boulangerie. Jeanne had bought handmade chocolates from Marielle’s Maison du Chocolat in St-Rémy and Clara put out a platter of cheese and bowls of fruit. Rich, aromatic coffee made the perfect end to the evening.

  Over tea now, in the quietude of the B. & B., Gamache thought about what he’d heard. Then he picked up one of the yearbooks. It was from the first year Madeleine had been at the high school and she didn’t figure in many pictures. Hazel was in a few, on some of the junior teams. But as the years went by Madeleine seemed to bloom. Became captain of the basketball and volleyball teams. Beside her in all the shots was Hazel. Her natural place.

  Gamache put down the books and thought a bit, then he picked one up again and looked for the missing cheerleader. Jeanne Potvin. Was it possible? Was it that easy?

  ‘Fucking frogs,’ said Beauvoir a few minutes later, shuffling into the living room. ‘We just get rid of Nichol and now the frogs start acting up. Still, they’re better-looking and less slimy. What’re you reading?’

  ‘Those yearbooks Agent Lacoste brought back. Tea?’

  Beauvoir nodded and wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘Don’t suppose she brought back any Sports Illustrated?’

  ‘Sorry, old son. But I did find something in this one. Our missing cheerleader. You’ll never guess.’

  ‘Jeanne?’ Beauvoir got up and took the book from Gamache. He scanned the page until he found a picture of Jeanne Potvin. Then he looked at Gamache, taking a sip of tea and watching him over the rim of the mug.

  ‘I’m glad it was your hunch and not mine. Not exactly caul-worthy.’

  Jeanne Potvin, the missing cheerleader, was black.

  ‘Well, it was worth a try,’ said Beauvoir, not trying very hard to hide his amusement. Picking up The Dictionary of Magical Places he started flipping through it.

  ‘There’s an interesting section on caves in France in there.’

  ‘Oh boy.’ Beauvoir looked at the pictures for a while. Stone circles, old houses, mountains. There was even a magical tree. A ginkgo. ‘Do you believe in this stuff?’

  Gamache looked at Beauvoir over his half-moon glasses. The younger man’s hair was disheveled and he had a small shadow of beard. He brought his hand up to his own face and felt it rough. He then brought his hand to his head and felt the telltale ends there. What little hair he had was standing on end. They must look a fright.

  ‘Frogs get you too?’ Jeanne Chauvet wandered into the room in her dressing gown. ‘Is there more?’ She nodded to the tea.

  ‘Always more,’ Gamache smiled and poured the rest for her. She took the tea and was amazed to discover that even at almost three in the morning he smelled just a little of sandalwood and rosewater. It felt peaceful.

  ‘We were just talking about magic,’ said Gamache, sitting down once Jeanne had taken a seat.

  ‘I asked if he believed in these things.’ Beauvoir tapped the book Myrna had given them.

  ‘You don’t?’ asked Jeanne.

  ‘Not a bit.’

  He looked over at the chief who’d snorted.

  ‘Sorry,’ Gamache apologized. ‘It got away from me.’

  Beauvoir, who knew nothing got away from the chief unless he wanted it to, scowled.

  ‘Well, really.’ Gamache sat forward. ‘Who has his lucky belt? And his lucky coin? And his lucky meal before each hockey game?’ Gamache turned to Jeanne. ‘He’ll only eat Italian poutine with his left hand.’

  ‘We beat the Montreal Metro police drug squad in hockey. I scored a hat trick, and that night I’d eaten Italian poutine with my left hand.’

  ‘Makes sense to me,’ said Jeanne.

  ‘Every time we get on a plane you have to sit in seat 5A. And you have to listen to the safety announcements all the way through. If I interrupt you you pay no attention.’

  ‘That’s not magic, that’s common sense.’

  ‘Seat 5A?’

  ‘It’s a comfortable seat. OK, it’s my favorite. If I sit there the plane won’t crash.’

  ‘Do the pilots know? Maybe they should sit there,’ said Jeanne. ‘If it’ll make you feel better, everyone has their superstitions. It’s called magical thinking. If I do this, that will happen, even if the two aren’t connected. If I step on a crack it’ll break my mother’s back. Or walk under a ladder, or break a mirror. We’re taught early to believe in magic then spend the rest of our lives being punished for it. Did you know most astronauts take some sort of talisman with them into space to keep them safe? These are scientists.’

  Beauvoir got up. ‘I’m going to try to get some sleep. Want the book?’ He offered it to Gamache who shook his head.

  ‘I’ve already looked at it. Quite interesting.’

  Beauvoir clumped up the stairs and when he was gone Jeanne turned to Gamache. ‘You asked why I came here and I said it was for a rest, and that was true, but not the whole truth. I’d been sent a brochure but it wasn’t until yesterday when I saw the others Gabri had that I realized mine was different. Here.’

  She pulled two shiny brochures for the B. & B. out of her dressing gown pocket and handed them to Gamache. He stared at them. On the front were photographs of the B. & B. and Three Pines. The brochures were identical. Except for one thing. Across the top of the one mailed to Jeanne Chauvet was typed, Where lay lines meet – Easter Special.

  ‘I’ve heard of lay lines, but what are they?’

  ‘Whoever wrote this didn’t know much either. They misspelled it. It’s l-e-y, not l-a-y,’ said Jeanne. ‘They were first described in the 1920s—’

  ‘As recently as that? I thought they were supposed to be ancient. Stonehenge, that sort of thing.’

  ‘They are, but no one noticed until about ninety years ago. Some fellow in England, I’ve forgotten his name, looked at stone circles and standing stones and even the oldest cathedrals and noticed that they all line up. They’re built miles and miles apar
t, but if you connect the dots they’re in straight lines. He came to the conclusion there was a reason for this.’

  ‘And it was?’

  ‘Energy. The earth seems to give off more energy along these ley lines. Some people’, she leaned forward and darted her eyes to make sure no one else was listening, ‘don’t believe this.’

  ‘No,’ he whispered back. Then he picked up her brochure. ‘Someone knew you well enough to know how to get you here.’

  And someone needed the psychic here at Easter. To contact, and create, the dead.

  Ruth Zardo was also up, though she hadn’t actually gone to bed. Instead she’d been sitting at the preformed white resin garden furniture she called her kitchen set, staring into the oven. It was on the lowest setting. Just enough to keep Rosa and Lilium warm.

  It wasn’t true what Gabri said. There was no way simply cracking the shell had hurt Lilium. She hadn’t done much, just a little crack, just enough to give Lilium the idea, really.

  Ruth got up, her hip and knees fighting her, and limped over to the oven, instinctively putting her shrunken and veined hand in to make sure the element was still on, but not too hot.

  Then she bent over the little ones, watching for breath.

  Lilium looked fine. She actually looked as though she’d grown. Ruth was sure she saw the little chest rise and fall. Then she slowly made her way back to the white resin chair. She stared a little longer at the pan in the oven then pulled a notebook toward her.

  When they came to harvest my corpse

  (open your mouth, close your eyes)

  cut my body from the rope,

  Surprise, surprise:

  I was still alive.

  She could see the pink scalp and yellow beak poking through the shell. She was sure the little one had looked at her, and squealed. Called for help. She’d heard that geese bond with the first thing they see. What she hadn’t heard was that it goes both ways. She’d reached out then, not capable of just watching the little one struggle. She’d cracked the shell. Freed little Lilium.

  How could that be wrong?

  Ruth laid down her pen and put her head in her hands, her knotty fingers clutching at the short white hair. Trying to contain the thoughts, trying to stop them from becoming feelings. But it was too late. She knew.

  She knew that kindness kills. All her life she’d suspected this and so she’d only ever been cold and cruel. She’d faced kindness with cutting remarks. She’d curled her lips at smiling faces. She’d twisted every thoughtful, considerate act into an assault. Everyone who was nice to her, who was compassionate and loving, she rebuffed.

  Because she’d loved them. Loved them with all her heart, and wouldn’t see them hurt. Because she’d known all her life that the surest way to hurt someone, to maim and cripple them, was to be kind. If people were exposed, they die. Best to teach them to be armored, even if it meant she herself was forever alone. Sealed off from human touch.

  But, of course, her feelings had to come out somehow, and so in her sixties the string of words she’d coiled inside came out. In poetry.

  Jeanne was right, of course, thought Ruth. I do believe. In God, in Nature, in magic. In people. She was the most credulous person she knew. She believed in everything. She looked down at what she’d written.

  Having been hanged for something

  I never said,

  I can now say anything I can say.

  Ruth Zardo picked up the little bird, no longer needing her warm, new towel. Lilium’s head fell to one side, her eyes staring at her mother. Ruth lifted the tiny wings, hoping, maybe, she’d see a flutter.

  But Lilium was gone. Killed by kindness.

  Before, I was not a witch.

  Now I am one.

  *

  Clara had been in her studio since midnight. Painting. A feeling had crept over her since the party. Not yet an idea, not even a thought. But a feeling. Something significant had happened. It wasn’t what was said, not totally. It was more. A look, a sense.

  She’d sneaked out of bed and practically run to her canvas. She’d stood back from it, staring for many minutes, seeing it as it was and as it could be.

  Then she’d picked up her brush.

  God bless Peter for suggesting the party. Without it she was sure she’d still be blocked.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The next morning was splendid, a green and golden day. The early and young sun hit the village and everything shone, made fresh and clean by the rain of the day before. Despite being up for a couple of hours in the middle of the night Gamache rose early and went for his morning walk, tiptoeing between the worms on the road, another sign of spring. They at least were silent. After twenty minutes he was joined by Jean Guy Beauvoir, who jogged across the green to join him on his walk.

  ‘We should wrap it up today,’ said Beauvoir, watching Gamache appear to sneak along the road.

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘We’ll get the report on the ephedra then question Sophie again. She’ll tell us everything.’

  ‘She’ll confess? Do you think she did it?’

  ‘Nothing’s changed, so yes, I think she did it. I take it you don’t?’

  ‘I think she had motive, opportunity and probably has the anger.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  Gamache stopped tiptoeing and turned to look at Beauvoir. It felt as though the day belonged to them. No one else was stirring yet in the pretty village. For a moment Gamache indulged in a fantasy. Of giving the Arnot people what they wanted. It would be so easy to drive into Montreal today and hand in his resignation. Then he’d pick up Reine-Marie from her job at the Bibliothèque Nationale and drive down here. They’d have lunch on the terrasse of the bistro overlooking the Rivière Bella Bella, then go house-hunting. They’d find a place in the village, and he’d buy one of Sandon’s lyrical rocking chairs and he’d sit in it reading his paper each morning and sipping his coffee and villagers would come to him when they had little problems. A sock missing from the clothes line. A family recipe mysteriously made by a neighbor for a party. Reine-Marie would join Arts Williamsburg and finally sign up for those courses she was longing to take.

  No more murder. No more Arnot.

  It was so tempting.

  ‘Did you look at The Dictionary of Magical Places?’

  ‘I did. You so subtly told me to look at the stuff on France.’

  ‘I’m very clever,’ agreed Gamache. ‘And did you?’

  ‘All I saw were caves they discovered about fifteen years ago. Had all these weird drawings of animals. Apparently cave men drew them thousands of years ago. I read for a while but frankly didn’t see why it was so important. There’re other caves with drawings. It’s not as if that was the first they found.’

  ‘True.’

  Gamache could still see the images. Elegant, plump bison, horses, not one at a time but a lively herd, flowing across the rock face. Archeologists had been astonished by the images when they were first discovered, less than twenty years ago, by hikers in the woods of France. So detailed, so alive were the drawings archeologists first thought they must be the very pinnacle of the cave man’s art. The last stage before man evolved further.

  And then came the astonishing discovery. The drawings were actually twenty thousand years older than anything they’d found before. It wasn’t the last, it was the first.

  Who were these people who managed what their descendants couldn’t? To shade, to make three-dimensional images, to so gracefully depict power and movement? And then the final, staggering discovery.

  Deep inside one of the caves they found a hand, outlined in red. Never before in all the other cave drawings was there an image of the artist, or the people. But the person who created these had a sense of self. Of the individual.

  In the book last night, The Dictionary of Magical Places, Armand Gamache had stared at that one image. Of the hand, outlined in red. As though the artist was declaring himself alive, after thirty-five thousand years.
r />   And Gamache had thought of another image, not quite so old, on a book he’d found in a damned and decaying house.

  ‘What makes them different is that they seem to be art for the pleasure of it. And magic. Scientists think the drawings were meant to conjure the actual beasts.’

  ‘But how do they know?’ asked Beauvoir. ‘Don’t we always say something’s magic when we don’t understand?’

  ‘We do. That’s what the witch-hunts were about.’

  ‘What was it Madame Zardo called it? The burning times?’

  ‘I’m not so sure they’re over,’ said Gamache, looking up at the old Hadley house then dragging his eyes back to the lovely and peaceful village. ‘What interested me most, though, about those cave drawings was the name of the cave itself. Do you remember it?’

  Beauvoir thought. But he knew no answer would be coming.

  The chief turned back to his walk, and continued to tiptoe between the squiggling worms. Beauvoir watched him for a moment, the tall, elegant, powerful man, avoiding the worms. Then he too started walking, tiptoeing, so that from any of the mullioned windows around the village green they looked like two grown men in an awkward, though familiar, ballet.

  ‘Do you remember the name?’ Beauvoir asked when he caught up with the chief.

  ‘Chauvet. They’re the caves at Chauvet.’

  When they got back to the B. & B. they were met by the aroma of fresh-brewed café au lait, maple-cured back bacon and eggs.

  ‘Eggs Benedict,’ announced Gabri, rushing to greet them and take their coats. ‘Yummy.’

  He pushed them along through the living room and into the dining room where their table was set up. Gamache and Beauvoir sat down and Gabri placed two steaming, frothy bols of coffee in front of them.

  ‘Patron, did you see a stack of books in the living room when you came down?’ Gamache asked, taking a sip of the rich brew.

  ‘Books? No.’

  Gamache put his bol down and walked into the living room. Through the archway Beauvoir watched as he walked round and finally returned, replacing his white linen napkin on his lap.