Cruelest Month

‘Fucking coward.’ Francoeur smiled and stepped back, shaking his head. ‘I think the least Chief Inspector Gamache can do is explain himself,’ he said in a normal voice. The faces, strained and nervous, relaxed a little now that they could hear again. ‘I think before we can even consider acting on his behalf, or accepting his resignation, we need to know a few things. Like what was in the envelope he was passing to his son. Voyons, Chief Inspector, it’s a reasonable question.’

Around the conference table there were nods of agreement. Gamache looked over at Brébeuf who cocked his brow as though to say it was a strangely benign request. They’d get off easy if this was all the council wanted.

Gamache remained silent for a moment, thinking. Then he shook his head.

‘I’m sorry. It’s private. I can’t tell you.’

It was over, Gamache knew. He bent down and placed his papers in his satchel, then made for the door.

‘You’re a stupid man, Chief Inspector,’ Superintendent Francoeur called after him, smiling broadly. ‘You walk out of here now your life will be in ruins. The media will keep picking at you and your children until even the bones are gone. No careers, no friends, no privacy, no dignity. All because of your pride. What was it one of your favorite poets said? Yeats? Things fall apart. The center cannot hold.’

Gamache stopped, turned and deliberately walked back. With each step he seemed to expand. The officers around the table, wide-eyed, leaned out of his way. He walked to Francoeur, whose smile had disappeared.

‘This center will hold.’ Gamache pronounced each word slowly and clearly, his voice strong and low and more menacing than anything Francoeur had ever heard. He tried to recover himself as Gamache turned and walked through the door, but it was too late. Everyone in the room had seen fear on Francoeur’s face and more than one wondered whether they’d backed the wrong man.

But it was too late.

As Gamache strode down the corridor, men and women on each side smiling hello and nodding to him, his mind settled. Something Francoeur said had jogged something loose. Some piece of information had twisted in that instant and he’d seen it in a different way. But in the stress of the moment Gamache had lost it. Was it to do with Arnot? Or was it the case in Three Pines?

‘Well, that went well. For Francoeur,’ said Brébeuf, catching up with him as they waited for the elevator. Gamache said nothing, but stared at the numbers, trying to recall what had struck him as so significant. The elevator came and the two men stepped in, alone.

‘You could have told him what was in the envelope, you know,’ said Brébeuf. ‘It can’t possibly be that important. What was in it anyway?’

‘I’m sorry, Michel, what did you say?’ Gamache brought himself back to the present.

‘The envelope, Armand. What was in it?’

‘Oh, nothing much.’

‘For God’s sake, man, why not tell him?’

‘He didn’t say please.’ Gamache smiled.

Brébeuf scowled. ‘Do you ever listen to yourself? All the advice you give others, does any of it penetrate your own thick skull? Why keep this secret? It’s our secrets that make us sick. Isn’t that what you always say?’

‘There’s a difference between secrecy and privacy.’

‘Semantics.’

The elevator door opened and Brébeuf stepped out. The meeting had gone better than he’d dared dream. Gamache was almost certainly out of the Sûreté, but more than that, he was humiliated, ruined. Or soon would be.

Inside the elevator Armand Gamache stood rooted like one of Gilles Sandon’s trees. And had Sandon been there he might have heard what no one else could, Armand Gamache screaming as though felled.

Behold I show you a mystery.

The haunting words of St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians swirled around Gamache’s head. The words had been prophetic. In the twinkling of an eye his world had changed. He could see clearly something that had been hidden. Something he never wanted to see.

He’d stopped at the high school in Notre-Dame-de-Grâce and just caught the secretary as she left for the day. Now he sat in the parking lot staring at the two things she’d given him. An alumni list and another yearbook. She’d wondered why in the world he needed so many, but Gamache had mumbled apologies and she’d relented. He thought she might assign him lines. I will not lose another yearbook.

But it hadn’t been lost. It’d been stolen. By someone who’d been at school with Madeleine and Hazel. Someone who’d chosen to keep their identity secret. Now, looking at the alumni list and the yearbook, Gamache knew exactly who that was.

Behold I show you a mystery. Ruth’s crumbling voice came to him as she’d read the magnificent passage. And hard on that another voice. Michel Brébeuf. Accusing, angry. It’s our secrets that make us sick.