Cruelest Month

And still Gamache was silent. Was this not going to work, Lemieux wondered?

‘Oh, God. I’m a total screw-up. First the ephedra thing and now this.’

‘It was a mistake,’ said Gamache, his voice still hard but not as hard as before.

He’d won. What had Brébeuf said? ‘Everyone loves a sinner, but none more than Gamache. He believes he can save the drowning. Your job is to drown.’

And so he had. He’d purposely left the ephedra clue up on Gabri’s computer, to be caught and forgiven, and now he’d been caught again. Drawing his gun had been stupid, but he’d managed to turn a mistake into an advantage. And Gamache, pathetic, weak Gamache, was actually forgiving him for drawing his gun. That was Gamache’s drug of choice, his weakness. He loved to forgive.

‘Did you find anything, sir?’

‘Nothing. This house isn’t ready to give up its secrets.’

‘Secrets? The house has secrets?’

‘Houses are like people, Agent Lemieux. They have secrets. I’ll tell you something I’ve learned.’

Armand Gamache dropped his voice so that Agent Lemieux had to strain to hear.

‘Do you know what makes us sick, Agent Lemieux?’

Lemieux shook his head. Then out of the darkness and stillness he heard the answer.

‘It’s our secrets that make us sick.’

Behind him, a small creak broke the silence.

   THIRTY

‘What happened then?’ asked Lacoste. They were on their way back to the Incident Room. Once out of the canopy of trees they could see the storm cloud rising. It now blocked a quarter of the sky. Its progress was slow, but determined.

‘Pardon?’ Beauvoir asked, distracted by the sight of the cloud.

‘The Chief Inspector? He had the evidence against Arnot and the others, what’d he do with it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, come on. You must know. He told you all the other stuff. The story about the Cree woman never came out in court.’

‘No. They decided to keep that quiet, in case she became a target. You can’t tell anyone.’

Lacoste was about to protest that anyone who might care was locked up, but then she remembered the morning’s newspaper article. Someone still cared.

‘I won’t.’

Beauvoir nodded curtly and continued walking.

‘There’s more,’ Lacoste said, running to catch up. ‘What is it?’

‘Agent Nichol.’

‘What about her?’

Beauvoir knew he’d gone too far. Cautioned himself to stop. But still the words escaped, eager to find an accomplice, to find sympathetic company.

‘She was sent by Superintendent Francoeur to spy on the Chief Inspector.’

The words themselves seemed to stink.

‘Merde,’ said Lacoste.

‘Merde,’ agreed Beauvoir.

‘No, really. Shit.’ Lacoste pointed to the ground. Sure enough, a huge pile of shit steamed by the side of the road. Beauvoir tried to twist out of the way but still managed to step in the side of it.

‘God, it’s disgusting.’ He lifted his foot, all soft Italian leather and softer, stinking shit. ‘Aren’t people supposed to pick up after their dogs?’

He scraped the side of his shoe on the road, covering the leather with dirt as well as the shit.

‘It isn’t dog poop,’ said an authoritative voice.

Beauvoir and Lacoste looked around but saw no one. Beauvoir peered into the forest. Had one of the trees stopped singing and actually spoken? Was it possible the very first words he heard from a tree were ‘It isn’t dog poop’? He turned to see Peter and Clara Morrow walking toward them. Guess not, thought Beauvoir, and wondered how long they’d been there and what they’d heard.

Peter bent and examined the pile. Only country people, thought Beauvoir, were endlessly fascinated by shit. Country people and parents.

‘Bear,’ Peter said, straightening up. ‘We just walked by here minutes ago. You mean a bear was behind us?’

Were they kidding, Beauvoir wondered? But the couple was straight-faced and as serious as he’d ever seen them. Peter Morrow held a tightly rolled newspaper.

‘Is the Chief Inspector around?’

‘No, sorry. Can I help?’

‘He’s bound to see it eventually,’ said Clara to Peter.

Peter nodded and handed Beauvoir the paper.

‘We saw it this morning.’ Beauvoir offered it back.

‘Look again,’ said Peter. Beauvoir sighed and opened it up. The banner said Le Journal de Nous. Not La Journée, as he’d expected. And there in the very center was a large picture of the Chief Inspector and his son Daniel. They were in some sort of stone building. It looked like a crypt. And Gamache was pushing an envelope on Daniel. The caption read, Armand Gamache handing envelope to unknown man.

Beauvoir scanned the story then had to go back and try to read more slowly. He was so upset he could barely take it in. The words blurred and bobbed and drowned in a gush of anger. Finally, gasping for air, he lowered the paper and as he did he saw Armand Gamache crossing the bridge, accompanied by Robert Lemieux. Their eyes met and Gamache smiled warmly, but when he saw the paper and the look on his young inspector’s face the smile faded.