Cruelest Month

She was scared, he could tell. But was she telling the truth?

As Gamache walked into the house he smelled toast and coffee. It felt very still and comfortable. The wide-plank wood floors were a deep amber. There was no fire in the grate, but Gamache saw ashes and a mostly consumed log. The room was cheerful and bright, even in the dull day, with large windows and French doors leading to a back garden. The furniture was old and comfortable and on the walls were landscapes from the area and a few portraits. Where there were no pictures there were bookshelves.

Gamache would have loved to spend time in this room, under other circumstances.

‘The room where Madeleine was killed was broken into two nights ago,’ said Gamache. ‘We know you did it.’

‘You’re right. It was me.’

‘Why?’

‘I wanted the house to take me too,’ said Monsieur Béliveau.

He told his story clearly, his dry hands rubbing each other as though needing human contact.

‘It was the day after Madeleine died. I don’t know if you’ve ever lost someone you love, Chief Inspector, but it’s as though everything familiar has changed. Food tastes different, home isn’t home any more, even friends have changed. Much as they might want to, they can’t follow you down that road. Everything seemed so far away, muffled. I couldn’t even understand what people were saying.’ He smiled unexpectedly. ‘Poor Peter and Clara. They had me over for dinner. I think they were worried about me and I don’t think I did anything to ease their minds. They wanted me to know I wasn’t alone, but I was.’

His hands stopped their rubbing and now one hand held the other.

‘About halfway through dinner I knew I had to die. It hurt too much. As Peter and Clara talked about gardening and cooking and the day’s events I cataloged ways to kill myself. Then it came to me. I would go back up there and sit in that room by myself and wait.’

Nothing stirred. Even the mariner’s clock on the mantelpiece seemed silent, as though time was standing still.

‘I knew if I waited in the dark long enough whatever is in that house would find me. And it did.’

‘What happened?’ Gamache asked.

‘The thing that killed Madeleine arrived.’ He said this without apology, without embarrassment. Just a fact. Something from another world arrived in his, and had come to drag him away. ‘It came down the hall. I could hear it, clawing and scraping. It was pitch black and I had my back to the door, but I knew it was there. Then it screamed, as it did that night. Shrieked right in my ear. I reached up to fight it off.’

He waved his thin arms in their gray wool sweater about his head, as though he imagined himself back in that room.

‘And then I ran away. I ran screaming from that room.’

‘You chose life,’ said Gamache.

‘No I didn’t. I was just too scared to die. Not like that anyway.’ He leaned forward, his eyes intense, staring at Gamache. ‘There’s something in that house. Something that attacked me.’

‘Not any more, monsieur. You killed it.’

‘I did?’ He leaned back as though shoved by this unexpected thought.

‘It was a baby robin. Probably as scared as you.’

It took Monsieur Béliveau a moment to understand.

‘I was right, then. The thing that brings death was in that room,’ he said. ‘It was me.’

   THIRTY-FIVE

‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ said Olivier as he set out the napkins and bowls at the old railway station. Putting the soup tureen on the filing cabinet under the list of murder suspects he was happy to see his name wasn’t there, and happier still to see Gabri’s was. Wait until he told him. Freak him out completely.

A steaming chicken stew with dumplings was placed in the middle of the conference table.

The Chief Inspector had stopped by the bistro to ask Olivier to bring them lunch.

‘How’s Monsieur Béliveau?’ Olivier had asked. He’d seen Gamache walk along the Common from his home.

‘He’s been better, I imagine,’ Gamache had said.

‘And worse. I remember how sad he was after Ginette died. Thank God for Hazel and Madeleine. Brought him out of himself. Invited him to everything, especially important days like Christmas. Saved his life.’

As he’d walked back to the Incident Room Gamache wondered whether Béliveau would thank them for that. He also thought of Hazel, alone now herself, and wondered whether eventually the two would gravitate together.

Once back at the old railway station Gamache was met by Beauvoir, just back from searching Hazel’s home. Within minutes Agent Lacoste arrived from Montreal and they gathered around the conference table. The meeting was in full swing when Olivier came with lunch.

He took his time, but still they didn’t say a word. Inspector Beauvoir ushered him to the door and closed it firmly behind him. Olivier leaned in to the cold metal for a moment but heard nothing.

There was, in fact, nothing to be heard, except serving spoons on porcelain as red lentil and curried apple soup and rich, chunky stew were served up. Soft drinks were popped open and Beauvoir had a beer.

‘Reports,’ said Gamache.