Cruelest Month

‘How could you not think? Well, think now. What do you think we’re about?’ Beauvoir hissed, trying not to raise his voice for the villagers to hear. ‘Someone here is a murderer. Someone here isn’t afraid to kill. Do you know what stops most people from killing? Fear. Fear of getting caught. We’re dealing with someone who’s fearless. Very scary person, Lemieux. And you just handed them a huge advantage.’

Gamache listened with interest, though without agreement. Fear might stop some people from committing murder, but he knew for certain fear was what drove most people to kill. It was what nested below all the other emotions. It was what twisted and turned the other emotions into something sick. It was an alchemist and could turn daylight into night, joy into despair. Fear, once taken root, blocked the sun. And Gamache knew what grew in that darkness. He searched for it every day.

‘You’re right, you’re absolutely right,’ said Lemieux. ‘I’m sorry.’

He looked squarely at Gamache, who stared back sternly. Then Lemieux saw the slightest softening. Lemieux relaxed. Brébeuf was right. Intentionally leak the ephedra information, get them angry at you, apologize like hell.

Everyone loves a sinner, but none more than Gamache. And why not? After all the sinning he himself had done. After setting up Arnot and almost destroying the Sûreté, of course the great Gamache would love sinners.

Lemieux wondered what it would be like when he himself was head of homicide. Not right away, of course. But Brébeuf would have to reward him. And he’d move up quickly. And when this was over there’d be promotions to be had.

‘Be careful,’ Gamache said softly and for a terrible instant Lemieux wondered whether Gamache’s searching look could actually penetrate the skin. Did he know?

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘You must pay better attention,’ said Gamache, still staring at him.

I won’t be weak, like him, thought Lemieux. And I won’t stop at Chief Inspector.

‘We’re going to have to cover more ground more quickly,’ said Gamache. ‘Inspector, I’d like you and Agent Lemieux to split up and interview everyone who witnessed the murder.’

‘You?’ asked Beauvoir.

‘I’ll be with Jeanne Chauvet.’

Beauvoir took his chief by the elbow and led him a step or two away from Lemieux.

‘I should come along,’ said Beauvoir.

‘To interview the psychic, Jean Guy? Why?’

‘Well.’ Beauvoir looked up at the old Hadley house then away. ‘It just might be better. That wasn’t simply a regular tarot card reading or Ouija board my mother and her friends used to do. Jeanne Chauvet’s a witch.’

‘And you think she’ll conjure evil spirits against me?’

Gamache wasn’t smiling, wasn’t mocking Beauvoir. He seemed to be genuinely interested to know.

‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I think they’re manufactured to serve a purpose.’

‘What purpose?’

‘My wife talks about angels. She wants to believe in guardian angels, because it makes her feel less afraid, less alone.’

‘And evil spirits, are they manufactured too?’

‘I think so. By parents and the church, so that we’ll be afraid and do as we’re told.’

‘So evil spirits create fear and angels calm it,’ said Gamache, thinking about it.

‘I think it’s all in our minds,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I think it’s what we want to believe. Madeleine Favreau believed in ghosts and it killed her. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have been so afraid and that ephedra wouldn’t have stopped her heart. You said as much yourself. She was scared to death. She was killed by her beliefs. By someone taking advantage of them. You believe in things I don’t. I’m afraid she’ll take advantage of that. Get inside your head.’

‘The psychic? You think she’ll crawl inside my head and use my beliefs against me?’

Beauvoir nodded and refused to drop his gaze, though he longed to. This was territory he hated. Things he literally couldn’t quite grasp.

‘I know you’re saying this because you care.’ Gamache held his gaze. ‘But my beliefs comfort, they don’t kill. They’re who I am, Jean Guy. They can’t be used against me because they are me.’

‘You believe in spirits.’ Beauvoir wasn’t going to let it go. ‘I know you don’t go to church, but you still believe in God. Suppose she said she’d conjure evil spirits, then where’d you be?’

‘I guess I’d have to call on the angels,’ Gamache smiled. ‘Look, Jean Guy, at some point in all our lives we’re going to be faced with exactly that question. What do you believe? At least I have my answer, and if it kills me, it kills me. But I won’t run away.’

‘I’m not asking you to run away, just to accept help. Let me come.’

Gamache wavered. ‘There’s too much to be done. You have your assignment.’

Beauvoir held Gamache’s gaze, then dropped it. He knew then what would kill Gamache. Not an evil spirit, not a ghoul or a ghost. But his own pride.

   TWENTY-ONE

‘So, I hear you’re a witch.’

‘I prefer Wiccan. I expect you’re a Catholic.’