Cruelest Month

Brébeuf had meant it to be a warning, but instead it had come out petulant and whiny. Lemieux solidified his position by ignoring the comment.

‘Where are you now?’ Brébeuf asked.

‘In the old Hadley house. Gamache is searching the rest of the house and I’m in the room where the murder happened.’

‘Is he close to solving the case?’

‘Are you kidding? A few minutes ago he was communing with a dead bird. The Chief Inspector’s a long way from figuring this out.’

‘Have you?’

‘Have I what?’

‘Figured out who murdered the woman.’

‘That’s not my job, remember?’

Superintendent Brébeuf noticed there was no longer any pretense about who was in charge. Even the ‘sir’s had disappeared. The likeable, malleable, ambitious but slightly stupid young officer had turned into something else.

‘How’s Agent Nichol doing?’

‘She’s a disaster. I don’t know why you wanted her here.’

‘She serves a purpose.’ Brébeuf felt his shoulders drop from where they’d crept up around his ears. He had one secret from Lemieux anyway. Yvette Nichol.

‘Look, you need to tell me why she’s here,’ said Lemieux, then after a pause, ‘Sir.’

Now Brébeuf was smiling. God bless Agent Nichol. Wretched, lost Agent Nichol.

‘Has the Chief Inspector seen the newspaper?’

There was a pause as Lemieux struggled with letting the Nichol thing go. ‘Yes. He talked about it at lunch.’

‘And?’

‘Didn’t seem to bother him. Even laughed.’

Gamache laughed, thought Brébeuf. He’d been clearly and personally attacked, and he’d laughed.

‘That’s all right. What I expected, actually.’

And it was. But he’d hoped for something else. In his daydreams he’d seen that familiar face stunned and hurt. Had even imagined Gamache phoning his best friend for support and advice. And what advice had Michel Brébeuf prepared and practiced?

‘Don’t let them win, Armand. Focus on the investigation and leave the rest to me.’

And Armand Gamache would relax, knowing his friend would protect him. He’d turn his attention fully to finding the killer, and not see what was creeping up behind him. Out of the long, dark shadow he himself created.

So far Gamache had peered into the attic, shining his light and scaring a few bats, and himself. He’d glanced around all the bedrooms and bathrooms and closets. He’d stridden purposefully through the cobwebbed living room with its heavy mantelpiece and moldings and into the dining room.

A strange thing happened in there. He could suddenly smell the appetizing aroma of a well-prepared dinner. It smelled of a Sunday roast, with warm gravy and potatoes and sweet parsnips. He could smell the caramelized onions and fresh, steaming bread, and even the red wine.

And he could hear laughter and conversation. He stood, mesmerized, in the dark dining room. Was the house trying to seduce him, he wondered? Make him lower his guard? Dangerous house that knew food would do that to him. But still the strange impression remained, of a dinner served long ago to people long dead and buried. People who’d been happy here, once. It was his imagination, he knew. Just imagination.

Gamache had left the dining room. If there was someone, or something, hiding in this house he knew where he’d find it.

The basement.

He reached out for the doorknob. It was ceramic and cold to the touch. The door creaked open.

‘You’re back.’ Agent Lacoste greeted Beauvoir with a wave, ignoring Nichol. ‘How’d it go?’

‘Brought this back.’ He tossed the yearbook onto the conference table then told Lacoste about his interviews with Hazel and Sophie.

‘What’d you think?’ Lacoste asked after reflecting on what she’d heard. ‘Did Sophie love Madeleine or hate her?’

‘Don’t know. It seems confused. Might be either.’

Lacoste nodded. ‘Lots of girls get crushes on older women. Teachers, writers, athletes. I had a crush on Helen Keller.’

Beauvoir had never heard of Helen Keller, but the idea of Lacoste in a steamy relationship with this Helen gave him pause as he took off his coat. He could see their glistening bodies, intertwined –

‘She was blind and deaf,’ said Lacoste, knowing him enough to guess his reaction. ‘And dead.’

That certainly changed the image in his mind. He blinked to blank it out.

‘What a catch.’

‘She was also brilliant.’

‘But dead.’

‘True. It crippled the relationship, I’m afraid. But I still adore her. Amazing woman. She said, “Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence.”’ Lacoste remembered herself. ‘What were we talking about?’

‘Crushes,’ said Nichol and could have kicked herself. She wanted them to forget she was there.

Beauvoir and Lacoste turned to look at her, surprised she was there and surprised she’d said something helpful.

‘So you really had a crush on Helen Keller?’ said Nichol. ‘She was nuts, you know. I saw the movie.’

Lacoste shot her a look of complete dismissal. Not even disdain. She made Nichol disappear.

Darkness and silence, thought Nichol. It’s not always wonderful.

She watched as Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste turned their backs to her and walked away.