The Cruellest Month (14 page)

Goddamned English. Trust them to choose a name like that. Like calling a village Royal Bank or Concrete Foundation. Always building, always bragging. And what was with this case? Didn’t anyone die a normal death in Three Pines? And even their murders weren’t normal. Couldn’t they just haul off and stab each other, or use a gun or a bat? No. It was always something convoluted. Complicated.

Very unQuébécois. The Québécois were straightforward, clear. If they liked you they hugged. When they murdered you they just whacked you over the head. Boom, done. Convicted. Next.

None of this ‘is it’ or ‘isn’t it’ shit.

Beauvoir was beginning to take this personally, though he was grateful the case had taken him away from the Easter egg hunt with his in-laws. There weren’t actually any children. Just him and his wife, Enid. Her parents had expected them to spend the morning searching for chocolate eggs they’d hidden all over the house. They’d even kidded that it should be easy for him since he was an investigator, after all. He thought the easiest way would be to simply put his gun to his father-in-law’s head and force him to say where the goddamned eggs were. But then the miraculous call had come. His calling.

He wondered how poor Enid was doing. Well, too bad. They were her crazy parents.

They were through the village of Notre-Dame-de-Roof Trusses in no time. Sure enough there was a huge faded sign in the yard of a small factory advertising ‘Roof Trusses’. Beauvoir shook his head.

The old brick house overlooked the road, a few large maples on the front lawn and what Gamache suspected would be lush perennial beds full of flowers in a few weeks close to the house and along the drive. It was a tiny, tidy home that today spoke of potential. Leaves not yet out, flowers not yet up, grass not yet growing.

Gamache loved to see inside the homes of people involved in a case. To look at the choices they made for their most intimate space. The colors, the decorations. The aromas. Were there books? What sort?

How did it feel?

He’d been in shacks in the middle of nowhere, carpets worn, upholstery torn, wallpaper peeling off. But stepping in he’d also noticed the smell of fresh coffee and bread. Walls were taken up with immense smiling graduation photos and on rusty pocked TV trays stood modest chipped vases with cheery daffodils or pussy willows or some tiny wild flower picked by worn hands for eyes that would adore it.

And he’d been in mansions that felt like mausoleums.

He was anxious to see how Madeleine Favreau’s home felt. From the outside it felt sad, but he knew most places felt just a little sad in spring, when the bright and playful snow had gone and the flowers and trees hadn’t yet bloomed.

The first thing that struck him on entering the house was that it was almost impossible to move. Even in the narrow mudroom they’d somehow managed to stuff an armoire, a bookcase and a long wooden bench under which piles of muddy boots and shoes had been thrown.

‘My name is Armand Gamache.’ He bowed slightly to the middle-aged woman who opened the door.

She was neatly dressed in slacks and a sweater. Comfortable, conventional. She smiled a little as he brought out his warrant card.

‘It’s all right, Chief Inspector. I know who you are.’ She stepped aside and let them in. Gamache’s first impression was of a decent person trying to find her way in an indecent situation. She spoke French to them, though with a heavy English accent. She was courteous and contained. The only sign of something amiss were dark circles under her eyes, as though grief had physically struck her.

But Armand Gamache knew something else. Grief sometimes took time to tell. The first days for relatives or close friends of murder victims were blessedly numb. They almost always held together, going through the motions of a normal life, so that a casual observer would never know disaster had just rammed into them. Most people fell to pieces gradually, like the old Hadley house.

As he watched Gamache could almost see the inevitable horsemen on the hill, above Hazel, snorting and pounding the ground, straining to be released. They brought the end of everything Hazel knew, all that was familiar and predictable. This contained woman was courageously holding off the marauding army of grief, but soon it would break free and sweep down and over her, and nothing familiar would be left standing.

‘Clara Morrow called to see how I was doing and offer some food. She told me you might be coming.’

‘I could have brought the food. I’m sorry.’ He was trying to get his coat off without whacking Beauvoir, who was crammed against the now closed door. A few books fell from the case and Gamache rapped his knuckles on the armoire, but eventually the coat came off.

‘No need to be,’ said Hazel, taking the coat and trying to open the armoire. ‘Told her we have plenty. In fact I can’t talk long. Poor old Madame Turcotte’s had a stroke and I need to take her dinner.’

They followed Hazel deeper into her home.

The dining room was barely passable and when they finally broke
through to the living room Gamache felt like an African explorer, having arrived in the Dark Continent. He hoped they could make camp here for a while. If they could clear enough space.

The small room held two sofas, including the largest one he’d ever seen, as well as an assortment of chairs and tables. The tiny brick house was stuffed, crammed, bloated and dark.

‘It’s a little cozy in here,’ she said as the three of them sat, Gamache and Beauvoir on the massive sofa and Hazel in the worn wing chair opposite. A bag of mending sat at her feet. Her chair, Gamache knew. But it wasn’t the best chair in the room. That one was empty and sat nearest the fireplace. A book was splayed open on the table under the lamp.

A book in French by a Québécois writer Gamache admired.

Madeleine Favreau’s seat. The best in the room. Now how was that decided? Did she just take it? Did Hazel offer? Was Madeleine Favreau a bully? Was Hazel a professional victim?

Or perhaps they were just good friends who decided things naturally and amicably and took turns taking ‘the best’.

‘I can’t believe she’s gone,’ said Hazel, sitting down as though her legs had given way. Loss was like that, Gamache knew. You didn’t just lose a loved one. You lost your heart, your memories, your laughter, your brain and it even took your bones. Eventually it all came back, but different. Rearranged.

‘Had you known Madame Favreau long?’

‘All my life, it seems. We met in high school. Had the same home room the first year and became friends. I was kind of shy but for some reason she took to me. Made my life easier.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Having a friend, Chief Inspector. All you need is one. Makes all the difference.’

‘You must have had friends before, madame.’

‘True, but not like Madeleine. When she was your friend something magical happened. The world became a brighter place. Does that make sense?’

‘It does,’ Gamache nodded. ‘A veil is lifted.’

She smiled at him gratefully. He did understand. But now, slowly, she could feel the veil lowering again. Madeleine was barely dead and already the dusk was approaching and with it that emptiness. It was spreading across her horizon.

One was dead and one was left behind. One. Again.

‘But you haven’t always lived together?’

‘Good Lord, no.’ Hazel actually laughed, surprising herself. Perhaps
the dusk was just a threat. ‘We went our separate ways after high school but met up again a few years ago. She’s lived here almost five years now.’

‘Was Madame Favreau ever overweight?’

He was getting used to seeing the baffled looks when he asked this question.

‘Madeleine? Not that I know of. She’d put on a few pounds over the years since high school, but that was twenty-five years ago. It’s natural. But she was never fat.’

‘Though you hadn’t seen her for a few years.’

‘True,’ Hazel admitted. ‘Why did Madame Favreau move in?’

‘Her marriage had failed. We were each living on our own so we decided to share. She was in Montreal at the time.’

‘Was it hard making space?’

‘Now I think you’re being diplomatic, Chief Inspector,’ and Hazel smiled. He realized he liked her. ‘Had she brought a toothpick we’d have been in trouble. Happily she didn’t. Madeleine brought herself, and that was enough.’

There it was. Simple, unforced, private. Love.

Across from him Hazel closed her eyes and smiled again, then her brows drew together.

The room suddenly ached. Gamache wanted to take her composed hands in his. Any other senior officer in the Sûreté would think this not only weakness, but folly. But Gamache knew it was the only way he could find a murderer. He listened to people, took notes, gathered evidence, like all his colleagues. But he did one more thing.

He gathered feelings. He collected emotions. Because murder was deeply human. It wasn’t about what people did. No, it was about how they felt, because that’s where it all started. Some feeling that had once been human and natural had twisted. Become grotesque. Had turned sour and corrosive until its very container had been eaten away. Until the human barely existed.

It took years for an emotion to reach that stage. Years of careful nurturing, protecting, justifying, tending and finally burying it. Alive.

Then one day it clawed its way out, something terrible.

Something that had only one goal. To take a life.

Armand Gamache found murderers by following the trail of rancid emotions.

Beside him Beauvoir squirmed. Not, Gamache thought, because he was impatient. Not yet anyway. But because the sofa seemed to have found a life of its own and was sending out tiny spikes.

Hazel opened her eyes and looked at him, smiling a little in thanks, he thought, for not interfering.

Upstairs they heard a thump.

‘My daughter, Sophie. She’s visiting from university.’

‘She was at the séance last night, I believe,’ said Gamache.

‘It was stupid, stupid.’ Hazel hit the arm of her chair with her fist. ‘I knew better.’

‘Then why did you go?’

‘I didn’t go to the first one, and tried to stop Madeleine—’

‘The first one?’ Beauvoir sat up and actually forgot that a million little pins were sticking into his bottom.

‘Yes, didn’t you know?’

Gamache was always amazed and a little disconcerted that people seemed to think they knew everything immediately.

‘Tell us, please.’

‘There was another séance on Friday night. Good Friday. At the bistro.’

‘And Madame Favreau was at that?’

‘Along with a bunch of other people. Nothing much happened though so they decided to try another. This time at that place.’

Gamache wondered whether Hazel Smyth deliberately didn’t name the old Hadley house, like actors who call
Macbeth
‘the Scottish Play’.

‘Do they do many séances in Three Pines?’ Gamache asked.

‘Never before as far as I know.’

‘So why two in one weekend?’

‘It was that woman’s fault.’ As she spoke a chunk fell from her facade and he glimpsed something inside. Not sorrow, not loss.

Rage.

‘Who, madame?’ Gamache asked, though he knew the answer.

The needles stuck deeper into Beauvoir’s bottom and were heading forward.

‘Why are you here?’ Hazel asked. ‘Was Madeleine murdered?’

‘Who are you talking about? What woman?’ Gamache repeated firmly.

‘That witch. Jeanne Chauvet.’

All roads lead back to her, thought Gamache. But where was she?

   FIFTEEN   

A
rmand Gamache opened the door to Madeleine Favreau’s bedroom. He knew this was as close as he would ever come to meeting the woman.

‘So, was Madeleine murdered?’

The words came along the upstairs hallway and met them at the bedroom door.

‘You must be Sophie,’ said Beauvoir, walking toward the young woman who’d spoken, her long dark hair moist from a recent shower. Even a few paces away he could smell the fruity, fresh fragrance of the shampoo.

‘Good guess.’ She smiled fully at Beauvoir and cocked her head to one side, extending her hand. Sophie Smyth was slim and dressed in a white terrycloth robe. Beauvoir wondered if the young woman knew the effect this had.