Cruelest Month

‘There were tensions I could feel, mostly from two of the men. Not Gabri. The other two. The tall, sad man and the huge bearded one. But men are often like that at séances. They either don’t believe and are full of negative energy, or they do believe and are embarrassed by their fear. Again, negative energy. But I actually had the impression they weren’t just upset about being there. I think they didn’t like each other. The big man was more obvious about it, but that grocer man—’

‘Monsieur Béliveau,’ said Gamache.

‘There’s something dark about him.’

Gamache looked at her with surprise. What little he knew of the man he liked. He seemed courtly and almost timid.

‘He’s hiding something,’ said Jeanne.

‘We all are,’ said Gamache.

‘You come here every day?’ Beauvoir asked after Sandon had finished his story. It sounded like a pickup line and Beauvoir tried not to blush.

‘Uh huh. To find the wood for my furniture.’

‘I saw some of your stuff at the store. It’s fantastic.’

‘The trees let me do it.’

‘They let you cut them down?’ asked Beauvoir, surprised.

‘Of course not, what do you think I am?’

A murderer? Beauvoir completed his thought. Did he think that?

‘I walk the woods and wait for inspiration. I only use dead trees. I guess we have a lot in common, you and me.’

For some reason this pleased Beauvoir, though he couldn’t think what they had in common.

‘We both deal in death, profit by it you might even say. Without dead trees I’d have no furniture, without dead people you’d have no job. Course, you people sometimes hurry it along.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, did you read the paper today?’ Sandon reached behind him and pulled a folded and crushed tabloid from his back pocket. He handed it to Beauvoir, pointing with one filthy finger.

‘See. I thought they’d put all the rotten ones in jail, but I guess there’s one still out there. Or out here, really. You seem like a decent sort. Must be tough having a dirty boss.’

Beauvoir barely heard the comments. He felt as though he’d tumbled into the paper and was trapped by the words. One word.

Arnot.

Jeanne was quiet for a moment, taking in the small wooden chapel. Simple white and green lily of the valley filled it with fragrance so that the place smelled of old wood, lemon Pledge, books and flowers. And it looked like a jewel. Sunlight was made green and blue and red as it passed through the stained glass windows, the most prominent of which wasn’t the risen Christ behind the altar, but the one on the side of the chapel. With the three young men in uniform. The sun passed through them and spilled their colors onto Gamache and Jeanne, so that they were sitting in the warmth, the essence, of the boys.

‘Be careful.’ She turned away from Gamache and looked at a patch of red light at his feet.

‘What do you mean?’

‘All around you, I can see it. Be careful. Something’s coming.’

   TWENTY-FOUR

Jean Guy Beauvoir found Gamache sitting in St Thomas’s. The chief and the witch were side by side, staring ahead. He might, he knew, be interrupting the interrogation, but he didn’t care. In his hand he held the newspaper, full of filth. Gamache turned and seeing Beauvoir he smiled and rose. Beauvoir hesitated then shoved the paper into his breast pocket.

‘Inspector Beauvoir, this is Jeanne Chauvet.’

‘Madame.’ Beauvoir took her hand and tried not to flinch. Had he known when he’d woken that morning he’d be shaking hands with a witch, well. Well, he wasn’t sure what he’d have done differently. It was, he had to admit, one of the things he loved about his job. It was unpredictable.

‘I was just leaving,’ said the witch, but for some reason she was holding on to Beauvoir’s hand. ‘Do you believe in spirits, Inspector?’

Beauvoir almost rolled his eyes. He could just imagine the interrogation dissolving into the chief and the witch discussing spirits and God.

‘No, madame, I don’t. I think it’s a hoax, a way to prey on weak minds and take advantage of grieving people. I think it’s worse than a hoax.’ He yanked his hand from her grip. He was getting himself worked up. His rage was rattling the cage and he knew it was in danger of breaking out. Not normal, healthy anger, but rage that rips and claws indiscriminately. Blind and powerful and without conscience or control.

In his coat pocket, folded next to his chest, sat the words that would at the very least wound Gamache. Maybe more. And he was the one who had to deliver the blow. Beauvoir spewed his rage on this tiny, gray, unnatural woman in front of him.

‘I think you prey on sad and lonely people. It’s disgusting. If I had my way I’d put you all in jail.’

‘Or string us up to an apple tree?’

‘Doesn’t have to be apple.’

‘Inspector Beauvoir!’ Armand Gamache rarely raised his voice, but he did now. And Beauvoir knew he’d crossed a line, crossed it and then some.

‘I’m sorry, madame,’ Beauvoir sneered, barely containing his anger. But the little woman in front of him, so insubstantial in many ways, hadn’t moved. She was calm and thoughtful in the face of Beauvoir’s onslaught.