Cruelest Month

‘How dare you?’

‘How dare you attack my family?’

Both men stared at each other. Then Gamache blinked and Francoeur smiled, throwing himself back comfortably in his chair.

Gamache looked steadily at Francoeur. ‘I’m sorry, Superintendent. That wasn’t called for.’

Francoeur nodded as a knight might to a peasant.

‘I haven’t come here to fight with any of you. You’ve all read the papers, seen the television reports. And it’ll only get worse, I know. As I said before, they’re lies, but I don’t expect you to believe me or trust me. Not after what I did in the Arnot case. I crossed the Rubicon. There’s no going back.’

‘Then what do you expect, Chief Inspector?’ Superintendent Paget asked.

‘I’d like you to accept my resignation.’

Those not already sitting up did so now. All chairs tipped forward, some so quickly they threatened to spill their distinguished contents onto the table. Now all eyes were on Gamache. It was as though Mont Royal had begun to subside, to sink into the earth. Something remarkable was about to disappear. Armand Gamache. Even those who loathed him recognized he’d become legend, had become a hero both inside and outside the Sûreté.

But sometimes heroes fall.

And they were witnesses to that now.

‘Why should we?’ asked Francoeur. All eyes swung to the Superintendent. ‘Wouldn’t that let you off the hook? It’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to run away just as you did from the Arnot decision. As soon as things get difficult that’s what you do.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Brébeuf.

‘You believe one of us is responsible for planting those stories in the paper, don’t you?’ Francoeur said, comfortable and in command, the natural, if not assigned, leader of the group.

‘I do.’

‘Voilà. See what he thinks of us?’

‘Not all, only one.’ Gamache stared back at Francoeur.

‘How dare you—’

‘That’s the second time you’ve asked me that and I’m tired of it. I dare because someone has to.’ He looked around the room. ‘The Arnot case isn’t over, you all know that. Someone in this room is continuing his work. Not quite to the murder stage, but it won’t be long. I know it.’

‘Know it? Know it? How can you?’ Francoeur shot to his feet, leaning over Gamache now. ‘It’s ridiculous to even be listening to you. A waste of time. You don’t have thoughts, you have sentiments.’

A few chuckles were heard.

‘I have both, Superintendent,’ said Gamache. Francoeur towered above him, one hand on the back of Gamache’s chair, the other on the table, as though to imprison the man.

‘You’re fucking arrogant,’ Francoeur yelled. ‘You’re the worst sort of officer. Full of yourself. You’ve created your own little army of underlings. People who’ll worship you. The rest of us choose the best of the police grads for the Sûreté, you deliberately choose the worst. You’re a dangerous man, Gamache. I’ve known it all along.’

Gamache stood up too, slowly, forcing Francoeur to back away.

‘My team has solved almost every murder it’s investigated. They’re brilliant and dedicated and courageous. You set yourself up as judge and you toss out those who don’t conform. Fine. But don’t blame me for picking up your garbage and seeing value in it.’

‘Even Agent Nichol?’ Francoeur had lowered his voice and now the rest had to strain to hear the words, but not Gamache. They were loud and clear.

‘Even Agent Nichol,’ he said, staring into the cold, hard eyes.

‘You tossed her back once as I remember,’ said Francoeur, his voice almost a hiss. ‘Fired her and she landed in my division. Narcotics. She took to it.’

‘Then why send her back to me?’ Gamache asked.

‘What is it you like to say, Chief Inspector? There’s a reason for everything. Very deep. There’s a reason for everything, Gamache. Figure it out. Now I have a question for you.’ His voice lowered even further. ‘What was in that envelope you were passing so secretively to your son? Daniel’s his name, I believe. Daughter, Florence. Wife. Did I hear she’s pregnant?’

Now no one else in the room could hear, the words were spoken so softly. Gamache had the strangest impression Francoeur hadn’t even spoken out loud, but had inserted them directly into his head. Sharp, stabbing, intended to wound and warn.

He inhaled sharply and tried to contain himself, to not bring his fist up and smash the leering, smug, wretched face.

‘Do it, Gamache,’ hissed Francoeur. ‘To save your family, do it.’

Was Francoeur inviting him to attack? So that he’d be arrested, imprisoned? Exposed to any ‘accident’ that might happen in the cells? Was that the price Francoeur was proposing for backing off his family?