A Fatal Grace (36 page)

‘Ms Landers came over with some food,’ Lyon explained.

Crie was sitting at the table, a plate cooling in front of her.

‘She’s not eating much these days.’

‘Crie, it’s Chief Inspector Gamache again.’ Gamache sat in the chair next to her. He laid his large, expressive hand over her dimpled white one and left it there gently. ‘I just wanted to make sure you’re all right. Is there anything I can do?’ He waited a long minute for the answer, which never came. ‘I’d like to ask you a favor.’ His voice was even and friendly. ‘Could you eat some dinner? I know you don’t have much of an appetite, but it’s good for you, and we want to keep you healthy and beautiful.’

The room was silent. She stared straight ahead, her expression unchanging. Finally Gamache rose.

‘Goodnight, Crie. We’ll see you soon. If you need anything I’m staying just down the hill at the B. & B.’

Gamache turned and nodded to his men and Lyon, then left the room, all of them following including Lyon, who found it strangely relaxing to be around this man who took charge.

‘We believe we’ve found CC’s mother,’ he said to Lyon in the front hall.

‘Who is she?’

‘Well, we don’t know her name, but we think she was from Three Pines. What we do know is that she was murdered just before Christmas.’ Gamache watched closely and believed he saw a flicker of something race across Lyon’s face but then was gone.

‘Murdered? Both of them? CC and her mother? But what does that mean?’

‘It means someone might try to kill your daughter,’ said Gamache, his eyes hard on Lyon, full of meaning and warning. ‘The local police are sending a car – ’

‘It’s arrived sir,’ said Lemieux, who’d noticed the headlights.

‘ – so there’ll be a guard here twenty-four hours a day. Nothing will happen to that girl. Do I make myself clear?’

Lyon nodded. Things were happening so fast. Too fast. He needed time to think.

Gamache gave a brisk nod and left the house.

Olivier threw another log on the open fire at the bistro and stirred it. Jean Guy Beauvoir and Chief Inspector Gamache were talking quietly at their table by the fire. The bistro was half full, and a small murmur of conversation filled the room. Olivier picked up their bottle of red wine and refilled their glasses.

‘Here comes your dinner.
Bon appétit
.’ He smiled and left.

A steak frites was placed in front of Beauvoir, sizzling from the charcoal fire, the French fries thin and seasoned, a small dish of mayonnaise waiting for them on the side. Beauvoir sipped his wine, swirling the dark liquid around lazily and looked into the fire. This was heaven. It’d been a long, cold day but it was finally over. Now he and Gamache could talk and chew over the case. It was Beauvoir’s favorite part of the job. And if it came with a charcoal steak, fries, wine, and a lively fire, so much the better.

A rack of lamb, sending out an aroma of garlic and rosemary, sat in front of Gamache, tiny potatoes and green beans rounding out the plate. Between them on the table sat a basket of steaming rolls and a small dish of butter balls.

Across from him Gamache had moved his napkin so that the plate could be put down and now Beauvoir noticed the doodle Gamache had made. Upside down he read it.

B KLM. The L circled over and over again.

‘L’s box,’ said Beauvoir, recognizing the letters. ‘Must have been collecting those letters for years. Compulsive. Like her daughter. I wonder if those things run in families?’

‘I wonder.’ The warmth, the wine, the fire, the food were all seducing Gamache. He felt relaxed and pleased with the progress of the day, though worried about Crie. Still, he knew she’d be safe. He’d warned Lyon. They were watching. Armand Gamache was still convinced Richard Lyon was their man. Who else could it be? He ate his lamb, enjoying the subtle flavors. ‘Why did the murderer stop to take the necklace out of L’s hand, Jean Guy?’

‘It must have been important. Maybe it implicates him, gives him away.’

‘Maybe.’ Gamache took a roll and ripped it in two, sending a flurry of flakes falling onto the wooden table. ‘Why did he kill L? Why kill CC? Why kill them both? And why now? What happened that the murderer had to kill them both within days?’

‘CC was about to sign a contract with that American company. Maybe it was to stop her doing that.’

‘But why stop her? She’d be worth much more afterwards. Besides, I have a feeling that American contract was another of CC’s delusions. We’ll see. But even so, why kill her mother?’

‘Was L from Three Pines, do you think?’

‘I do, and we need to concentrate tomorrow on finding people who knew her. I have another one for you.’ Their plates were just about empty now and Beauvoir was mopping up the juices from his steak with a roll. ‘Why throw the video away? It was perfectly good, as we saw.’

A waitress took their plates and a cheese platter arrived.

‘These are all from the monastery at Saint-Benoît-du-Lac,’ said Olivier, waving a cheese knife over the platter. ‘Their vocation is making cheese and Gregorian chants. All their cheeses are named after saints. Here’s Saint-André, and this one’s Saint-Albray.’

‘And this one?’ Beauvoir pointed to a large wedge on the wooden platter.

‘That would be Saint-Blue Cheese,’ said Olivier. ‘And this is Saint-Cheddar. Damn. Another good theory blown.’ He cut them off slices of each and left a basket of baguette and crackers.

‘I know how he feels.’ Gamache smiled, spreading Saint-André on a thin cracker. They ate in silence and Gamache looked at the younger man across the table. ‘What’s bothering you?’

Beauvoir peered over the rim of his glass then drained the last of his wine just as their cappuccinos arrived. ‘Why’d you order Nichol to stay behind?’

‘Are you upset that I countermanded you?’

‘No,’ Beauvoir said, but knew that was indeed part of it. ‘I don’t like my orders contradicted, especially in front of the team.’

‘You’re right, Jean Guy. I wouldn’t normally do it.’

Beauvoir knew that to be the truth. In all the years they’d worked together it had only happened a handful of times, and then only in the most dire situations.

Was this a dire situation? Gamache was sitting forward now, his face suddenly weary. And Beauvoir could have kicked himself. Why hadn’t he seen it before?

‘You don’t trust her, do you? You don’t trust Nichol.’

‘Do you?’

Beauvoir thought for a moment, then nodded his head. ‘She’s impressed me. As you know, I have no love for the woman. I thought she was a complete disaster on her last case, but this time? I think it’s possible she’s changed. But you don’t?’

Gamache waved his hand slightly as though dismissing the suggestion. It wasn’t very convincing.

‘What is it?’ Beauvoir leaned forward now. ‘Tell me.’

But Gamache was silent. There was only one thing, in Beauvoir’s experience, that could produce that kind of silence in his boss.

‘My God. It’s not the Arnot case? Tell me that isn’t it.’ He could feel his anger, and his dinner, rising. He felt this way whenever he thought of Pierre Arnot and what he’d done. To others, to the Sûreté. To Gamache. Surely, though, it was past. And it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Nichol. Could it?

‘Tell me,’ he demanded. ‘Enough.’ Now the younger man was almost shouting. He caught himself, looked around to see if anyone else had heard, and lowered his voice to an urgent growl. ‘You can’t keep this from me. You can’t take this on yourself. You did the first time and Arnot almost killed you. What is it with Nichol and Arnot?’

‘Leave it be, Jean Guy.’ Gamache reached across the table and gently tapped Beauvoir’s hand. ‘There is no connection. I’m just wary of her, that’s all. Nichol is certainly more agreeable than she was last time. Maybe I’m being too hard on her.’

Beauvoir studied him for a moment. ‘Bullshit. You’re humoring me now. What do you really think?’

‘It’s just a feeling.’ Gamache smiled wryly, waiting for Beauvoir to roll his eyes.

‘Your feelings aren’t always delusional.’

‘Just sometimes? It’s not important, Jean Guy.’

Gamache sipped his cappuccino and wondered whether he was turning cynical at last, thinking people couldn’t and didn’t change. All the evidence was that Agent Yvette Nichol had shed her arrogance and that huge chip she lugged around. Since joining them the day before she’d proved she could take orders, could take guidance and criticism. She’d worked hard and proved herself a self-starter, and had done good work finding out about Crie. And she’d even booked herself into the B. & B., and had paid for it herself.

This was indeed a new Nichol.

So why don’t I trust her?

Gamache leaned back in his chair and signaled Olivier, then turned back to Beauvoir.

‘I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have countermanded your orders, and certainly not in front of the team. May I offer you a cognac?’

Beauvoir recognized the bribe, but was willing to take it. Olivier delivered the amber drinks in their plump glasses and the two men discussed the case, talking about everything but thinking about only one thing. Agent Yvette Nichol.

THIRTY-ONE

The alarm sounded at twenty past two in the morning. The siren blasted through the frozen air and into every house in the village, traveling through fieldstone and mortar, through thick pink insulation and clapboard, through sweet dreams and restless sleeps, and announced a nightmare.

Fire.

Gamache leaped out of bed. Through the wail he could hear footsteps and shouting and the phone ringing. Tugging on his dressing gown he looked down the corridor and saw the vague outline of someone else in the darkness.

Beauvoir.

Downstairs he heard a woman’s voice, high and strained.

‘What is it, what’s happening?’

Gamache took the stairs rapidly, Beauvoir silent and following.

‘I don’t smell smoke,’ said Gamache, striding up to Nichol who was standing in the door to her room wearing pink flannel pajamas. She was wild-eyed and hyper-alert. ‘Come with me.’ His voice was even and composed. Nichol could feel herself breathing again.

As they descended they heard Gabri and Olivier calling to each other.

‘It’s along the Old Stage Road. Ruth has the address,’ Olivier shouted. ‘I’m heading over.’

‘Wait,’ said Gamache. ‘What’s happening?’

Olivier stopped in his tracks as though seeing an apparition.

‘
Bon Dieu.
I’d forgotten you were here. There’s a fire. The siren’s coming from the train station telling all the volunteer firefighters to get there. Ruth just called to tell me where the fire is. I’m the driver of the pump truck. She’s going there directly with Gabri.’

Gabri jogged down the corridor from their mudroom in his insulated khaki and yellow firefighter’s garb, reflecting strips round his arms, legs and chest, a black helmet under his arm.

‘I’m off.’ He kissed Olivier on the lips and squeezed his arm before running into the bitter cold.

‘What can we do?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘Get into your warmest clothes and meet me at the old railway station.’ Olivier didn’t look back, disappearing into the night, his parka flapping as he ran. Lights were appearing at homes all round the village.

All three raced upstairs, reassembling in minutes near the front door. Running across the village green Beauvoir could barely breathe for the searing cold. With each breath his nostrils froze shut and the air was like an ice pick in his sinuses, shooting pain through his forehead and making his eyes tear and freeze. By the time they were halfway to the train station he could barely see. Of all nights for a fire, he thought, struggling to keep his eyes open and his breathing even. The cold was already inside him, as though he was naked, his sweaters and jeans and warm clothing useless against this barbarous chill. Beside him Nichol and Gamache were coughing, also trying to catch their breaths. It was like inhaling acid.

The siren stopped as they got partway across. Beauvoir didn’t know what was worse, the shriek of the alarm or the shriek of the ground as though the earth itself was crying out in pain with every step they took. In the dark he could hear invisible villagers coughing and stumbling, rushing like doughboys toward God knew what Hell.