Cruelest Month

Strangely enough the light-headedness, the distraction and befuddlement had lifted. Now she concentrated on her daughter, who needed her.

Olivier delivered the sandwich platter to the back room of his bistro. He’d also put a pot of mushroom and coriander soup and an assortment of beers and soft drinks on the sideboard. As the Sûreté team arrived for lunch Olivier took Gamache by the elbow and led him aside.

‘Did you see today’s paper?’ Olivier asked.

‘La Journée?’

Olivier nodded. ‘They mean you, don’t they?’

‘I think they do.’

‘But why?’ Olivier was whispering. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Do they do this sort of thing often?’

‘Not often but it happens.’ He said it so casually Olivier relaxed.

‘If you need anything, let me know.’

Olivier hurried off to his lunch hour rush and Gamache got himself a bowl of soup, a grilled vegetable and goat cheese sandwich on panini and sat down.

His team sat around him, sipping soup, eating sandwiches and darting looks in his direction. Except for Nichol, who kept her head down. Somehow, though they were sitting in a circle, she managed to look as though she was at a separate table in a different room entirely.

Had he made a mistake bringing her here?

He’d worked with her for a couple of years now and nothing seemed to have changed. That was the most worrisome. Agent Nichol seemed to collect resentments, collect and even manufacture. She was a perfect little producer of slights and sores and irritations. Her factory went night and day, churning out anger. She turned good intentions into attacks, gifts into insults, other people’s happiness into a personal attack. Smiles and even laughter seemed to physically hurt her. She held on to every resentment. She let nothing go, except her sanity.

And yet Agent Yvette Nichol had shown an aptitude for finding murderers. She was a sort of idiot savante, who had that one ability, perhaps sensing a like mind.

But there was a reason she was on this case now. A reason he had to keep to himself.

He watched as Yvette Nichol leaned so close to her soup her hair dipped into it. It hung down and created an almost impenetrable curtain. But between the clumps he could just see her spoon sputter and spill its contents as it shook its way to her mouth.

‘You’ve probably all seen this.’ He held up a copy of La Journée.

They nodded.

‘They’re referring to me, of course, but it means nothing. It’s just a slow news day after a long weekend and they decided to resurrect the Arnot case. That’s all. I don’t want this interfering with your work. D’accord?’

He looked around. Agent Lemieux was nodding agreement, Agent Nichol was soaking soup from the ends of her hair with a paper napkin and appeared not to have heard. Inspector Beauvoir was looking at him intently, then nodded curtly and picked up a huge roast beef and horseradish sandwich on a croissant.

‘Agent Lacoste?’

Isabelle Lacoste was staring at him, unmoving. Not eating, not nodding, not speaking. Just staring.

‘Tell me,’ said Gamache, folding his hands in his lap, away from his food, giving her his full attention.

‘I think it’s something, sir. You always say everything happens for a reason. I think there’s a reason that was put into the paper.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘You know, sir, what that reason is. It’s what it’s always been. They want to get rid of you.’

‘Who are “they”?’

‘The people in the Sûreté still loyal to Arnot.’ She didn’t even hesitate, didn’t have to think about that. It helped, of course, that she’d spent all morning thinking about it and coming to that conclusion.

She watched as he absorbed her words.

Armand Gamache looked across the table and straight into her eyes. His own brown eyes were steady and thoughtful and calm. Through all the chaos, through all the threats and stress, through all the attacks, verbal and physical, they’d endured in trying to find murderers, this was what she always remembered. Chief Inspector Gamache, calm and strong and in charge. He was their leader for a reason. He never flinched. And he didn’t flinch now.

‘Their reasons are their own,’ he finally said. ‘I don’t have to care.’ He looked around at the others. Even Agent Nichol was looking at him, her mouth slightly open.

‘What about others?’ asked Lacoste. ‘The people here? Or other agents in the Sûreté? People will believe it.’

‘So?’

‘Well, it could hurt us.’

‘What would you have me do? Take out an ad saying it’s not true? There are two things I can do. I can get upset and worry about it, or I can let it go. Guess which one I choose?’

He smiled now. The tension left the room for the first time and they were able to get on with their lunch and their reports. By the time Olivier cleared their plates and brought in the cheese course Beauvoir and Gamache had brought them up to speed. Robert Lemieux had reported on his interview with Monsieur Béliveau.

‘What do we know of his wife?’ Beauvoir asked. ‘Ginette was her name?’

‘Nothing yet,’ said Lemieux, ‘except that she died a few years ago. Is it important?’