Cruelest Month

Gamache raised his brows. The woman in front of him was probably in her early forties though it was hard to tell. Gamache suspected she’d looked middle-aged since kindergarten. She wore a sensible skirt and flat shoes. Her sweater was of good quality, though out of date as well. He wondered where she got it. From her mother? From a second hand shop? All she needed was a pinafore and she’d look like something from the Beatrix Potter books he’d bought Florence. Her features were small and pointy and her eyes gray. He had the impression he was interviewing a woodland creature. One with a very sharp brain.

‘Lapsed,’ said Gamache. Was Beauvoir right? Was this woman trying to get into his head? Strangely enough that’s where Beauvoir seemed to think he kept his beliefs. They were actually nowhere near his head.

‘Wiccan?’ he asked.

‘Practicing,’ she nodded and gave him a small, but warm, smile.

The two were sitting in the living room of the B. & B., a fire in the hearth. It was going to be a mild day but a fire was still welcome. The room was elegant and simple, a surprise to anyone who met Gabri before meeting his living space. Gamache wondered which was genuine, the flamboyant man or his dignified and comfortable home.

‘We were looking for you yesterday. Do you mind telling me where you went?’

‘Not at all. But I have a question for you first. Was Madame Favreau murdered?’

‘Didn’t Gabri tell you?’

‘Well, yes he did. But he also told me he’d written The Producers only to have it stolen by Mel Brooks, and that Ruth is his father.’

Gamache laughed.

‘He must allow himself one truth a day, and I’m afraid his news about Madeleine Favreau was it. She was murdered.’

Jeanne closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. ‘Ephedra?’

Damn Lemieux, he thought. ‘Two truths,’ he said.

‘What is ephedra?’

She asked it so naturally he wondered whether she was curious or cunning. If she really didn’t know then she was innocent of the crime.

‘My question first, please. Where did you go yesterday afternoon?’

‘I was just up the hill.’

‘At the old Hadley house?’

The revulsion in her face was instant, as though a curtain had suddenly been raised and he had a glimpse of what was back there.

‘No, not that place. I hope never again to go there.’ She looked hard at him, strip-mining his face for any indication he was going to ask her to do just that. Gamache thought it was a look dentists would recognize. Frightened patients pleading with just their eyes, ‘Don’t hurt me.’

Then the moment was gone. ‘I was at the other extreme. The little church.’

‘St Thomas’s?’

‘Yes. It’s beautiful. I felt the need for quiet, for a peaceful place to pray.’

She saw his confusion.

‘What? Witches don’t pray? Or we only pray to the fallen angels not the ones who hang around St Thomas’s?’

‘I know nothing about the Wiccan,’ said Gamache. ‘I’d like to hear.’

‘Will you come with me?’

‘Where to?’

‘Are you afraid?’ She wasn’t laughing at him.

He paused for a moment to think about that. He tried not to lie to suspects. Not because he was a moral or ethical man, but because he knew if found out it weakened his position. And Chief Inspector Gamache would never do that. Not for something as foolish as a lie.

‘I’m always a little afraid of the unknown,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m not afraid of you.’

‘You trust me?’

‘No.’ He smiled. ‘I trust myself. Besides, I have a gun and you probably don’t.’

‘Not my weapon of choice, it’s true. It’s such a lovely day it’s a shame to be inside. I’m only suggesting a walk. Perhaps we can go back to the chapel.’

They stood on the wide veranda for a moment, beside the rocking chairs and wicker tables, then descended the sweeping stairs and fell into step. They walked in silence for a minute or two. It was a golden day with every shade of green imaginable just appearing. The dirt road was finally dry and the air smelled of fresh grass and buds. Purple and yellow crocuses dotted the lawns and the village green. Great fields of early daffodils bobbed, having spread and naturalized all over Three Pines, their bright yellow trumpets catching the sun. After a minute Gamache took off his field coat and draped it over his arm.

‘It’s very peaceful,’ said Jeanne. Gamache didn’t answer. He walked and waited. ‘It’s like a mystical village that only appears for people who need it.’

‘Did you?’

‘I needed a rest, yes. I’d heard about the B. & B. and decided to book in at the last minute.’

‘How’d you hear about it?’

‘A brochure. Gabri must have advertised.’

Gamache nodded. The sun was warm on his face, though not hot.

‘Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. No one has ever died at one of my rituals. And no one has ever been hurt. Not in the physical sense.’

Gamache longed to ask, but decided to stay quiet.

‘People often hear things that upset them emotionally,’ said Jeanne. ‘Spirits don’t seem to care much for people’s feelings. But for the most part contacting the dead is a very gentle, even tender experience.’