Brutal Telling

“What does Gamache think?” asked Clara.

“He seems as puzzled as the rest of us. I mean really,” Myrna turned to face Clara, “why was a strange man in the bistro? Dead?”

“Murdered,” said Clara and the two thought about that for a moment.

Clara finally spoke. “Did Olivier say anything?”

“Nothing. He seemed just stunned.”

Clara nodded. She knew the feeling.

The police were at the door. Soon they’d be in their homes, in their kitchens and bedrooms. In their heads.

“Can’t imagine what Gamache thinks of us,” said Myrna. “Every time he shows up there’s a body.”

“Every Quebec village has a vocation,” said Clara. “Some make cheese, some wine, some pots. We produce bodies.”

“Monasteries have vocations, not villages,” said Peter with a laugh. He placed bowls of rich-scented soup on Myrna’s long refectory table. “And we don’t make bodies.”

But he wasn’t really so sure.

“Gamache is the head of homicide for the Sûreté,” said Myrna. “It must happen to him all the time. In fact, he’d probably be quite surprised if there wasn’t a body.”

Myrna and Clara joined Peter at the table and as the women talked Peter thought of the man in charge of the investigation. He was dangerous, Peter knew. Dangerous to whoever had killed that man next door. He wondered whether the murderer knew what sort of man was after him. But Peter was afraid the murderer knew all too well.

Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir looked around their new Incident Room and inhaled. He realized, with some surprise, how familiar and even thrilling the scent was.

It smelled of excitement, it smelled of the hunt. It smelled of long hours over hot computers, piecing together a puzzle. It smelled of teamwork.

It actually smelled of diesel fuel and wood smoke, of polish and concrete. He was again in the old railway station of Three Pines, abandoned by the Canadian Pacific Railway decades ago and left to rot. But the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Department had taken it over, sneaking in and hoping no one noticed. Which, of course, they didn’t, the CPR having long forgotten the village existed. So now the small station was home to their fire trucks, their bulky outfits, their equipment. The walls retained the tongue-in-groove wood paneling, and were papered with posters for scenic trips through the Rockies and life-saving techniques. Fire safety tips, volunteer rotation and old railway timetables competed for space, along with a huge poster announcing the winner of the Governor General’s Prize for Poetry. There, staring out at them in perpetuity, was a madwoman.

She was also staring at him, madly, in person.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Beside her a duck stared at him too.

Ruth Zardo. Probably the most prominent and respected poet in the country. And her duck Rosa. He knew that when Chief Inspector Gamache looked at her he saw a gifted poet. But Beauvoir just saw indigestion.

“There’s been a murder,” he said, his voice he hoped full of dignity and authority.

“I know there’s been a murder. I’m not an idiot.”

Beside her the duck shook its head and flapped its wings. Beauvoir had grown so used to seeing her with the bird it was no longer surprising. In fact, though he’d never admit it, he was relieved Rosa was still alive. Most things, he suspected, didn’t last long around this crazy old fart.

“We need to use this building again,” he said and turned away from them.

Ruth Zardo, despite her extreme age, her limp, and her diabolical temperament, had been elected head of the volunteer fire department. In hopes, Beauvoir suspected, that she’d perish in the flames one day. But he also suspected she wouldn’t burn.

“No.” She whacked her cane on the concrete floor. Rosa didn’t jump but Beauvoir did. “You can’t have it.”

“I’m sorry, Madame Zardo, but we need it and we plan to take it.”

His voice was no longer as gracious as it had been. The three stared at each other, only Rosa blinking. Beauvoir knew the only way this nut-case could triumph was if she started reciting her dreary, unintelligible verse. Nothing rhymed. Nothing even made sense. She’d break him in an instant. But he also knew that of all the people in the village, she was the least likely to quote it. She seemed embarrassed, even ashamed, by what she created.

“How’s your poetry?” he asked and saw her waver. Her short, shorn hair was white and thin and lay close to her head, as though her bleached skull was exposed. Her neck was scrawny and ropy and her tall body, once sturdy he suspected, was feeble. But nothing else about her was.

“I saw somewhere that you’ll soon have another book out.”

Ruth Zardo backed up slightly.

“The Chief Inspector is here too, as you probably know.” His voice was kind now, reasonable, warm. The old woman looked as though she was seeing Satan. “I know how much he’s looking forward to talking to you about it. He’ll be here soon. He’s been memorizing your verses.”

Ruth Zardo turned and left.

He’d done it. He’d banished her. The witch was dead, or at least gone.