Cruelest Month

‘You’re kidding, because I believe it,’ said Brébeuf. ‘Of course it’s lies. We know Annie would never have an affair. Armand, this is getting dangerous. Someone’s going to believe this crap. Perhaps you should explain.’

‘To you?’

‘No, not to me, but to the reporters. That first picture was of you talking to Daniel. Why don’t you just call the editor and straighten him out? And I’m sure you have an explanation for the envelope. What was in it anyway?’

‘The one I gave to Daniel? Nothing significant.’

There was a pause. Finally Brébeuf spoke, seriously. ‘Armand, was it a crêpe?’

Gamache laughed. ‘How’d you guess, Michel? That’s exactly what it was. An old family crêpe my grand-mère made.’

Brébeuf laughed then grew silent. ‘If you don’t stop these insinuations they’ll just grow. Hold a news conference, tell everyone Daniel’s your son. Tell them what was in the envelope. Tell them about Annie. What’s the harm?’

What was the harm?

‘The lies will never end, Michel. You know that. It’s a monster with an endless supply of heads. Lop off one head and more appear, stronger and more vicious. If we respond they’ll know they have us. I won’t do it. And I won’t resign.’

‘You sound like a child.’

‘Children can be wise.’

‘Children are willful and selfish,’ Brébeuf snapped. There was silence. Michel Brébeuf forced himself to pause. To count to five. To give the impression of massive thought. Then he spoke.

‘You win, Armand. But will you let me work behind the scenes? I have some contacts at the papers.’

‘Thank you, Michel. I’d appreciate it.’

‘Good. Go to work, concentrate on the investigation. Keep your focus and don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of it.’

* * *

Armand Gamache dressed and headed downstairs, plunging deeper and deeper into the aroma of strong coffee. For a few minutes he sipped his coffee, ate a flaky croissant, and talked to Gabri. The disheveled man had toyed with the handle of his mug and told Gamache about coming out, about telling his family, about telling his co-workers at the investment house. And as he spoke Gamache realized Gabri knew how he was feeling. Naked, exposed, being made to feel shame for something not shameful. And in his oddly quiet way Gabri was saying he wasn’t alone. Thanking Gabri Gamache put on his rubber boots and waxed Barbour field coat and went for a walk. He had a lot to ponder and he knew that everything is solved by walking.

It was drizzling slightly, and all the joyous spring flowers were lying down, like young soldiers slaughtered on a battlefield. For twenty minutes he walked, his hands clasping each other behind his back. Round and round the quiet little village he went and watched as it came alive, as lights appeared at the windows, dogs were put out, fires were lit in grates. It was peaceful and calm.

‘Hello there,’ called Clara Morrow. She stood in her garden, a mug in her hand and a raincoat over her nightgown. ‘Just surveying the damage. Are you free for dinner tonight? We thought we might invite a few people over.’

‘Sounds wonderful, thank you. Would you join me?’ Gamache indicated his circular walk round the Commons.

‘Sure.’

‘How’s your art? I hear Denis Fortin’s coming to visit soon.’ Seeing her face he knew he’d stepped in something sticky and stinky. ‘Or shouldn’t I have said anything?’

‘No, no. It’s just that I’m struggling a little. Things that were so clear a few days ago are suddenly muddy and confused. You know?’

‘I know,’ he said ruefully.

She looked at him. She often felt foolish, ill constructed, next to others. Beside Gamache she only ever felt whole.

‘What did you think of Madeleine Favreau?’

Clara paused to collect her thoughts. ‘I liked her. A lot. Didn’t really know her all that well. She’d just joined the ACW. Lucky Hazel.’

‘How so?’

‘Hazel was supposed to take over from Gabri this September as president, but then Madeleine said she’d do it.’

‘Didn’t that upset Hazel?’

‘You’ve clearly never been an Anglican Church Woman.’

‘I’m not Anglican.’

‘It’s great fun. We hold church socials and teas and twice a year we have a sale of goods. But it’s hell to organize.’

‘So that’s hell,’ smiled Gamache. ‘Only mortal sinners run ACWs?’

‘Absolutely. Our punishment is to spend eternity begging for volunteers.’

‘So Hazel was happy to get out of it?’

‘Thrilled, I should think. Probably why she brought Madeleine into it in the first place. They were a good team, though quite different.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, Madeleine always made you feel good about yourself. She laughed a lot and listened well. She was a lot of fun. But if you were sick or in need, it was Hazel who’d show up.’

‘Was Madeleine superficial, do you think?’

Clara hesitated. ‘I think Madeleine was used to getting what she wanted. Not because she was greedy but just because it always happened.’

‘Did you know she had cancer?’

‘I did. Breast cancer.’

‘Do you know whether she was healthy?’

‘Madeleine?’ Clara laughed. ‘Healthier than you or me. She was in great shape.’

‘Had she changed at all in the last few weeks or months?’