The Cruellest Month (28 page)

Gamache smiled as he saw
Parkman’s Works
, that odious history of Canada, taught in schoolhouses more than a century ago to kids willing to believe natives were shifty savages and Europeans actually brought civilization to these shores.

Gamache opened one of the volumes at random.

In the form of beasts or other shapes abominable and unutterably hideous, the brood of hell, howling in baffled fury, tore at the branches of the sylvan dwelling.

Gamache closed the book and looked again at the cover, astonished. Was this really
Parkman’s Works
? Parched and dry and guaranteed to kill of ennui? The brood of hell? It was
Parkman’s Works
, he confirmed. And the section he’d opened was about Quebec.

‘Agent Lacoste, could you come here?’

When she did he handed her the book. ‘Could you open it, please?’

‘Just open it?’

‘
S’il vous plaît.
’

Isabelle Lacoste held the cracked leather volume between her hands then slowly splayed the cover. The frail pages fanned then after a stunned moment they fell, until the book was open. Gamache leaned
over and read,
In the form of beasts or other shapes abominable and unutterably hideous
…

The book opened itself to that page.

Gamache stared then finally replaced it on the bookcase and took down the one next to it. A Bible. He wondered if it was coincidence, or whether the hand that placed the books together knew the one needed the other. But which needed which? He glanced at the Bible and slipped it into his pocket. He knew what he still needed to do, and every little bit helped. The dark slit in the bookcase, where the Bible had sat, revealed the cover of the next book. A book that was blank on its spine.

Lacoste was back at work and didn’t see Gamache slip the second book into his pocket too. But Lemieux did.

Gamache knew he was wasting time. The sun would soon set and he sure didn’t want to do it in the twilight.

‘I’m going to search the house. Are you all right here?’

Lacoste and Lemieux looked at him as his children Daniel and Annie had when he’d told them it was time they tried to swim across the bay without life jackets.

‘You’re strong enough swimmers.’

But still they couldn’t believe he’d ask this of them.

‘And I’ll be right beside you in the rowboat.’

He could still see the hesitation in Daniel’s eyes. But Annie dived right in. There was no way Daniel was going to be left behind so in he went too.

Daniel, sturdy and athletic, had swum the bay easily. Annie had barely made it. She was small and scrawny, as Reine-Marie had been at her age. But unlike Daniel, she lost no energy to fear. Still, she was so young and the bay so wide, she’d barely made it, sputtering the last few meters, her father encouraging her and practically dragging her to shore with his words, like ropes attached to the beloved little body. Twice he’d almost reached in and plucked her from the waters, but had waited and she’d found the strength to carry on.

Sun-warmed towels were wrapped around small excited bodies and Armand Gamache, holding and rubbing his children in his big, strong arms, had wondered if he’d made a mistake, having Annie try at the same time as Daniel. Not because Annie almost didn’t make it, but because she had. In his arms he could feel Daniel pull away at first, then finally subside and agree to be held and comforted and congratulated.

Daniel, for all his bulk and strength, was the fragile one. The needy one. And still was.

Looking at Lacoste and Lemieux he had the same impression. But which was strong and which was needy? And did it matter? As with his children, he believed in them both.

‘Would you like some help?’ Lacoste asked, resolved to the terrible task, if he wished it.

‘You have enough to do, thank you. When you’re finished go back to the Incident Room. I’m hoping the coroner will have something.’

Isabelle Lacoste watched him disappear into the darkness as though swallowed by the house.

He was gone and she was alone. With Lemieux. She liked Robert Lemieux. He was young and enthusiastic. There was never any struggle for power with him. Unlike Nichol, he was a pleasure to work with. Nichol was a complete disaster. Smug, sullen, self-absorbed. What disturbed Lacoste was why Chief Inspector Gamache kept her around. He’d fired her once, but when Nichol had been reassigned to homicide he’d simply given in. Without a fight.

And here she was again. Gamache could have assigned Nichol to cases in far-flung regions. He could have given her administrative jobs at Sûreté headquarters. But instead he assigned her to the most difficult field cases. With him.

Everything happens for a reason, Gamache said. Everything. And Lacoste knew there was a reason for this. She just wished she knew what it was.

‘How’re you doing?’ Lemieux asked.

‘Almost finished. You?’

‘A couple more things I need to do. Why don’t you head back?’

‘No, I’ll wait.’ Lacoste didn’t want to abandon Lemieux in this terrible place.

Lemieux’s phone had been vibrating for five minutes now. All he wanted to do was answer it. Why wouldn’t she leave? ‘Why?’

‘Can’t you feel it?’

He knew he should at least pretend to be uncomfortable but the truth was the old Hadley house did nothing to him. But he could see the others, even Gamache, perhaps especially Gamache, react to it.

‘It’s like there’s something here with us,’ said Lacoste. ‘As though something’s watching us.’

They stood still, Lacoste hyper-vigilant, paying attention to every creak, every cranny, Lemieux riveted on the phone vibrating in his pocket.

‘Careful,’ he said. ‘You’ll scare yourself to death.’

‘The murderer chose well. This place would scare the devil himself.’

‘Look, you have a ton of work back at the Incident Room. I’m fine. Really.’

‘Really?’ she asked, desperate to believe it.

Leave, he wanted to scream.

‘Really. I’m too stupid to be afraid.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t think the devil takes stupid people.’

‘I think he only takes stupid people,’ said Lacoste, and wished they weren’t standing in the old Hadley house talking about the devil. ‘Okay, I’ll see you later. You have your cell in case—’

‘In case?’ he smiled, teasing, and trying to get her to the door. ‘I do.’ Isabelle Lacoste stepped into the dark hallway with its worn carpet and smell of mold and decay. As soon as his back was turned she ran down the hallway, down the stairs almost tripping over her feet, and out the door, as though spewed from some gloomy womb into the world.

‘You knew Madeleine Favreau had breast cancer?’ Inspector Beauvoir asked.

‘Of course I knew,’ Hazel said, surprised.

‘But you didn’t tell us.’

‘I suppose I forgot. I never thought of her as a woman who’d had breast cancer and she didn’t either. Hardly ever spoke of it any more. Just got on with her life.’

‘It must have been a shock when she first discovered it. She’d have been in her early forties.’

‘True. Women are getting it younger and younger it seems. But I didn’t know her when she was first diagnosed. She looked me up when she was already in treatment. I think that happens a lot. Old friends become more important. We hadn’t kept in touch after high school but she suddenly called and came down. It was as though no time had passed. She was weak from the chemo but as lovely as ever. She looked like her eighteen-year-old self, only bald and that only made her more beautiful. It was strange. I sometimes wonder whether chemotherapy doesn’t take people almost to another world. So many seem so peaceful. Their faces become smooth, their eyes shine. Madeleine almost glowed.’

‘Sure she wasn’t having radiation?’ Nichol asked.

‘Agent Nichol,’ Beauvoir barked. He could feel the stone he’d found by the Bella Bella and put in his pocket yearning to fly. To smash bone, to grind into that head until it hit her tiny, atrophied brain. And replace it. And who would know the difference? ‘That was uncalled for.’

‘It was only a joke.’

‘It was cruel, Agent Nichol, and you know the difference. Apologize.’

Nichol turned to Hazel, her eyes hard. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right.’

Nichol knew she’d gone too far. But she’d been told to. To aggravate, to upset, to unsettle the team, that was her job.

For the sake of the Sûreté she was willing to do this. For her boss, whom she adored and loathed, she’d do this. Looking at Inspector Beauvoir’s handsome face, engorged and enraged, she knew she’d succeeded.

‘Madeleine went back to Montreal and finished her chemo,’ continued Hazel after an awkward silence. ‘But she came out every weekend after that. She wasn’t happy in her marriage. There weren’t any children, you know.’

‘Why was she unhappy?’

‘She said they just grew apart. She also thought it possible he couldn’t deal with a successful wife. She excelled at everything she did, you know. Always had. That was just Madeleine.’ Hazel looked to Beauvoir like a proud mother. He thought she’d be a good mother. Kind and caring. Supportive. And yet she’d raised that spoiled child upstairs. Some kids, he knew, were just ungrateful.

‘It must be hard,’ said Hazel.

‘What must be?’ Beauvoir had become lost in his own thoughts.

‘Being around someone who was always successful. Especially if you’re insecure. I think Mad’s husband must have been insecure, don’t you?’

‘Do you know how we can find him?’

‘He’s still in Montreal. François Favreau’s his name. Nice man. I’ve met him a few times. I have his address and phone number if you like.’

Hazel got up from the kitchen table and went over to a chest of drawers. Opening the top drawer she rummaged through it, her back to him.

‘Why did you go to the second séance, Madame Smyth?’

‘Madeleine asked me to,’ Hazel said, moving papers around in the drawer.

‘She asked you to the first and you didn’t go. Why the second?’

‘Found it.’ Hazel turned round and handed an address book to Beauvoir who handed it to Nichol. ‘What did you ask, Inspector?’

‘The second séance, madame.’

‘Oh, yes. Well it was a combination of things, as I remember. Madeleine actually seemed to have a good time at the first. Said it was silly, but in an amusement park kind of way. You know, the way we used to scare ourselves with the roller coaster and the haunted house? It sounded like fun and I kind of regretted missing the first.’

‘And Sophie?’

‘Well that was a given from the start. A bit of excitement in this burg, as she calls it. Sophie was excited about it all day.’

Hazel’s animated face fell, slowly. Beauvoir could chart the memory of that night as it made its way across Hazel’s face until the memory of Madeleine alive became the memory of Madeleine dead.

‘Who would want to kill her?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘No one.’

‘Someone did.’ He tried to make it soft and gentle, as Gamache would, but even to his own ears the words sounded like an accusation.

‘Madeleine was,’ Hazel moved her hands gracefully in front of her, as though conducting or gently mining the air for words, ‘she was sunshine. Every life she came into she brightened. Not because she tried. I try.’ Hazel’s hand now pointed to the casserole regiment. ‘I run around trying to help people, without even being asked. And I know that can be annoying. Madeleine made people feel better just by spending time with them. It’s hard to explain.’

And yet, thought Beauvoir, you’re alive and she’s dead.

‘We think the ephedra was given to Madeleine at dinner. Did she complain about any of the food?’

Hazel thought then shook her head.

‘Did she complain about anything that night?’

‘Nothing. She seemed happy.’

‘I understand she was seeing Monsieur Béliveau. What do you think of him?’

‘Oh, I like him. His wife and I were friends, you know. She died almost three years ago. Madeleine and I sort of adopted him after that. Ginette’s death tore him up.’

‘He seems to have recovered well.’

‘Yes, yes he does,’ she said with perhaps a bit too much effort to appear blasé.

He wondered what was going on behind that placid, somewhat sad face. What did Hazel Smyth really think of Monsieur Béliveau?

   TWENTY-EIGHT