Cruelest Month

He brought out his wallet. From the billfold he withdrew a folded piece of paper, softened and worn as a love letter might be. He unfolded it and started reading. ‘It’s from AD 960. Supposedly said by Abd-er-Rahman the Third, of Spain.’

He sounded like a nervous schoolboy in front of the class. Gamache almost gasped with the pain of it. Brébeuf cleared his throat and read on.

‘I have now reigned about fifty years in victory or peace, beloved by my subjects, dreaded by my enemies, and respected by my allies. Riches and honors, power and pleasure have waited on my call, nor does any earthly blessing appear to have been wanting. In this situation I have diligently numbered the days of pure and genuine happiness which have fallen to my lot: they amount to fourteen.’

Robert Lemieux laughed. But Armand Gamache’s heart broke.

Brébeuf carefully refolded the paper and placed it back in his wallet.

‘All our lives I’ve been smarter, faster, better at tennis and hockey than you,’ said Brébeuf. ‘I got better grades and found love first. Had three sons. Five grandchildren to your one. I won seven commendations. How many have you?’

Gamache shook his head.

‘You don’t even know, do you? I beat you out for Superintendent and became your boss. I watched as you ruined your career. So why are you the happy one?’

The question pierced Gamache, thrusting through his chest and through his heart, and burst into his head forcing him to close his eyes. When he opened them again he thought he was seeing things. Standing slightly behind Lemieux was someone else. In the shadows.

Then the one shadow separated from the whole and became Agent Nichol, like a ghost caught between worlds.

‘What do you want?’ he asked Brébeuf.

‘He wants you to resign,’ said Lemieux, still apparently unaware of Nichol. ‘But we both know that won’t be enough.’

‘Of course it’s enough,’ Brébeuf snapped. ‘We’ve won.’

‘And then what?’ asked Lemieux. ‘You’re a weak man, Brébeuf. You’ve promised to sponsor my rise through the ranks, but how can I trust a man who’ll betray his own best friend? No, my only guarantee is to hold something so hideous over you there’ll be no going back.’ He took out his gun and looked at Gamache. ‘You told me right here in this house never to draw my gun unless I mean to use it. It’s a lesson I took to heart. But I don’t mean to use it. You do.’

He thrust the revolver at Brébeuf. ‘Take it.’ Lemieux’s boyish voice was smooth and reasonable.

‘I will not. You’re telling me to shoot my friend?’

‘Your friend? You’ve already killed that relationship. Why not the man? He won’t let you go, you know. Look at what he did to Arnot. There’s no way even if he resigned he’d let this drop. He’d spend the rest of his life trying to bring you down.’

Brébeuf dropped his hands to his sides. Lemieux sighed and cocked the gun.

‘Lemieux,’ called Gamache, starting forward, trying to keep his eye on both Lemieux and Nichol behind him. He saw Nichol reach for her hip.

‘Stop.’

A gun walked out of the darkness, with Jean Guy Beauvoir attached to it. He held it steady, his eyes hard and staring at Lemieux. Nichol dissolved back into the shadows.

‘You all right?’ he asked Gamache without losing his focus.

‘Fine.’

Like ancient enemies Beauvoir and Lemieux stared at each other, their guns thrust forward, pointing. Beauvoir’s at Lemieux and Lemieux’s at Gamache.

‘You know I have nothing to lose, Inspector,’ said the reasonable young voice. ‘There’s no way I’m going to walk out of here your prisoner. If you don’t lower your gun by the count of five I’ll kill Gamache. If you even breathe, if I get the faintest hint you’re preparing to shoot, I’ll shoot first. In fact, what the hell.’ He turned his head slightly to Gamache.

‘No! No, wait!’ Beauvoir dropped his revolver.

‘Weak.’ He shook his head. ‘All your people are weak.’

He turned to Gamache and fired.

   FORTY-THREE

Clara Morrow jumped to her feet at the sound of the shot. For the last fifteen minutes they’d heard muffled voices sometimes raised in argument, though at least they were human. But the gunshot was something else. Something most Canadians never ever hear. It was grotesque and signaled death was again loose in the old Hadley house.

‘Should we see?’ she asked.

‘Are you nuts?’ asked Myrna, her eyes wide with terror. ‘What’re we going to do? Someone has a gun, for God’s sake. We should get out of here.’

‘I’m with you,’ said Gabri, already on his feet.

‘We should stay,’ said Jeanne. ‘The Chief Inspector asked us to.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sandon demanded. ‘If he asked you to jump from the window would you?’