The Cruellest Month (33 page)

‘The room where Madeleine died. It was in the bookcase.’

Myrna immediately put the book down, as though wickedness was communicable. It sat between them, its cover simple and striking. A small hand outlined in red. It looked like blood, but Gamache had satisfied himself it was ink.

‘It’s a book on magic,’ said Myrna. ‘Couldn’t see a publisher or ISBN number. Probably vanity printed in small numbers.’

‘Any idea how old it is?’

Myrna leaned over, but didn’t touch it again.

‘Leather’s cracking a bit at the spine and some pages look loose. Glue must have dried. I’d say it was made before the First World War. Is there an inscription?’

Gamache shook his head.

‘Ever seen anything like it in your store?’ he asked.

Myrna pretended to think but knew the answer. She’d remember something that macabre. She loved books. All books. She had some on the occult and some on magic. But if anything came in like the one sitting between them she’d give it away quick. To someone she didn’t like.

‘Nope, never.’

‘How about this one?’ Gamache reached into his inside pocket and brought out the book he’d recently read from cover to cover, and was loath to give up.

He’d expected a polite, curious look. Perhaps even amusement and recognition. He hadn’t expected horror.

‘Where’d you find that?’ She grabbed it out of his hand and shoved it down the side of the chair.

‘What is it?’ Gamache asked, astonished by her reaction.

But Myrna wasn’t listening. Instead her eyes scanned the room, resting on Monsieur Béliveau standing at the door, befuddled. Then he moved away.

Reaching down she brought out the book and placed it on the table. Now a small stack of books sat there. The strange leather-bound volume with the red hand, a Bible, and this new one with the comic cover that had created such turmoil.

‘Who is Sarah Binks?’ He tapped the top book.

‘She’s the Sweet Songstress of Saskatoon,’ said Myrna, as though that explained everything. Gamache had already searched the internet for Sarah Binks, and knew about the book, a supposed tribute to the worst poet ever born. It was big-hearted, warm and funny, and it had been hidden by Madeleine.

‘I found it in the back of a drawer in Madeleine’s bedroom.’

‘Madeleine had it?’

‘You expected someone else?’

‘I can never keep track of books. People lend them all over the place. Bane of a bookseller’s life. Instead of buying they borrow.’

And she did look put out, but not, he suspected, by rogue books. She was scanning the room, suddenly jumpy and ill at ease.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, then had his answer. Myrna’s eyes had stopped their travels and had settled back on the gaunt man at the bar. Monsieur Béliveau was looking sad and lost.

‘He’s always like that.’ She took a handful of nuts, spilling a bunch of cashews onto the table. Gamache absently picked them up and popped them into his mouth.

‘Meaning?’

Myrna hesitated for a moment. ‘I know he’s had reason. His wife was sick for a long time before she died. And now Madeleine’s death. And yet he’s able to go to work, open the store and function just fine.’

‘Maybe he’s used to grief. Maybe for him it’s become normal.’

‘Maybe. If you lost your wife would you go to work the next day?’

‘Madeleine wasn’t his wife,’ said Gamache, hurrying to drown out the image of Reine-Marie dead.

‘Ginette was and he opened his store the next day. Is he brave, or are we seeing the near enemy?’

‘The what?’

‘The near enemy. It’s a psychological concept. Two emotions that look the same but are actually opposites. The one parades as the other, is mistaken for the other, but one is healthy and the other’s sick, twisted.’

Gamache put his glass down. The condensation made his fingers slightly wet. Or was it the sweat that had suddenly appeared on his palms? The noises of the storm, the rain and hail pounding frantically on the window, the conversation and laughter inside the bistro receded.

He leaned forward and spoke, his voice low. ‘Can you give me an example?’

‘There are three couplings,’ said Myrna, herself leaning forward now, and whispering though she didn’t know why. ‘Attachment masquerades as Love, Pity as Compassion and Indifference as Equanimity.’

Armand Gamache was quiet for a moment, looking into Myrna’s eyes, trying to divine from them the deeper meaning of what she’d just said. There was a deeper meaning, he knew it. Something important had just been said.

But he hadn’t understood it fully. His eyes drifted to the fireplace while Myrna leaned back in her overstuffed chair and swirled her red wine in its bulbous glass.

‘I don’t understand,’ Gamache said finally, bringing his eyes back to Myrna. ‘Can you explain?’

Myrna nodded. ‘Pity and compassion are the easiest to understand. Compassion involves empathy. You see the stricken person as an equal. Pity doesn’t. If you pity someone you feel superior.’

‘But it’s hard to tell one from the other,’ Gamache nodded.

‘Exactly. Even for the person feeling it. Almost everyone would claim to be full of compassion. It’s one of the noble emotions. But really, it’s pity they feel.’

‘So pity is the near enemy of compassion,’ said Gamache slowly, mulling it over.

‘That’s right. It looks like compassion, acts like compassion, but is actually the opposite of it. And as long as pity’s in place there’s not room for compassion. It destroys, squeezes out, the nobler emotion.’

‘Because we fool ourselves into believing we’re feeling one, when we’re actually feeling the other.’

‘Fool ourselves, and fool others,’ said Myrna.

‘And love and attachment?’ asked Gamache.

‘Mothers and children are classic examples. Some mothers see their job as preparing their kids to live in the big old world. To be independent, to marry and have children of their own. To live wherever they choose and do what makes them happy. That’s love. Others, and we all see them, cling to their children. Move to the same city, the same neighborhood. Live through them. Stifle them. Manipulate, use guilt-trips, cripple them.’

‘Cripple them? How?’

‘By not teaching them to be independent.’

‘But it’s not just mothers and children,’ said Gamache.

‘No. It’s friendships, marriages. Any intimate relationship. Love wants the best for others. Attachment takes hostages.’

Gamache nodded. He’d seen his share of those. Hostages weren’t allowed to escape, and when they tried tragedy followed.

‘And the last?’ He leaned forward again. ‘What was it?’

‘Equanimity and indifference. I think that’s the worst of the near enemies, the most corrosive. Equanimity is balance. When something overwhelming happens in our lives we feel it strongly but we also have an ability to overcome it. You must have seen it. People who somehow survive the loss of a child or a spouse. As a psychologist I saw it all the time. Unbelievable grief and sorrow. But deep down inside people find a core. That’s called equanimity. An ability to accept things and move on.’

Gamache nodded. He’d been deeply affected by families who’d risen above the murder of a loved one. Some had even been able to forgive.

‘How’s that like indifference?’ he asked, not seeing the connection.

‘Think about it. All those stoic people. Stiff upper lip. Calm in the face of tragedy. And some really are that brave. But some,’ she lowered her voice even more, ‘are psychotic. They just don’t feel pain. And you know why?’

Gamache was silent. Beside him the storm threw itself against the leaded glass as though desperate to interrupt their conversation. Hail hammered the glass and snow plastered itself there, blotting out the village beyond until it felt as though he and Myrna were in a world all their own.

‘They don’t care about others. They don’t feel like the rest of us. They’re like the Invisible Man, wrapped in the trappings of humanity, but beneath there’s emptiness.’

Gamache felt his own skin grow cold and he knew goose bumps had sprung up on his arms under his jacket.

‘The problem is telling one from another,’ Myrna whispered, straining to keep an eye on the grocer. ‘People with equanimity are unbelievably brave. They absorb the pain, feel it fully, and let it go. And you know what?’

‘What?’ Gamache whispered.

‘They look exactly like people who don’t care at all, who are indifferent. Cool, calm and collected. We revere it. But who’s brave, and who’s the near enemy?’

Gamache leaned back in his seat, warmed by the fire. The enemy, he knew then, was near.

Agents Lacoste and Lemieux had left for the day and Inspector Beauvoir was alone in the Incident Room. Except for Nichol. She was hunched over her computer, her pasty face looking like something dead.

The clock said six. Time to go. He picked up his leather coat and opened the door. Then closed it quickly.

‘Holy shit.’

‘What?’ Nichol wandered over. Beauvoir stepped back and invited her to open the door. She looked at him with suspicion then quickly did so.

A blast of ice-cold rain hit her, and something else. As she leaped further back she noticed something bouncing. Hail. Fucking hail? The door was banging now in the wind and as she reached to shut it she noticed snow swirling in the light as well.

Fucking snow?

Rain, hail and snow? Where’re the frogs?

Just then a phone rang. It was the tinny tune of a cell phone. A
familiar tune, but not one Beauvoir could place. It certainly wasn’t his. He looked at Nichol who finally had some blood in her face. She looked made up by a vindictive mortician, great red splotches on her cheeks and forehead. The rest remained waxy.

‘I believe your phone is ringing.’

‘Not mine. Lacoste must have left hers.’

‘It’s yours.’ Beauvoir stepped toward her. He had a pretty good idea who would be on the other end of the line. ‘Answer it.’

‘It’s a wrong number.’

‘If you won’t I will.’ He advanced on her and she backed up.

‘No. I’ll get it.’ She opened it slowly, obviously hoping the ringing would stop before she had to hit the button. But the phone kept ringing. Beauvoir advanced. Nichol jumped back but wasn’t quick enough. In a flash Beauvoir had grabbed the phone.

‘
Bonjour?
’ he said.

The line was dead.

The bistro was nearly empty. The fire crackled softly in the grate, sending amber and crimson light spilling into the room. It was warm and comfortable, and quiet, except for the occasional thud as the storm produced a particularly violent blast.

Beauvoir brought a book from his satchel.

‘Wonderful,’ said Gamache, reaching for the yearbook. He leaned back in his chair, put on his glasses, reached for his red wine and disappeared. Beauvoir didn’t think he ever saw the chief as happy as when he had a book in his hands.

Beauvoir took a slice of crisp baguette, smeared it thickly with pâté and ate. Outside the wind howled. Inside all was calm and relaxed.

A few minutes later the door opened and Jeanne Chauvet blew in, her hair and a look of shock plastered to her face. Gamache rose from his seat and bowed to her slightly. She chose a table well away from them.

‘What do you want to bet Nichol chased her out of the B. & B. and into the storm? Only she could scare a woman who raises the dead for a living.’

Their starters arrived. Gabri put a lobster bisque in front of Gamache and a French onion soup before Beauvoir.

The two men ate and continued their conversation. This was Beauvoir’s favorite part of any investigation. Putting his head together with the Chief Inspector. Tossing around thoughts, ideas. Nothing formal, no notes taken. Just thinking out loud. With food and drink.

‘What struck you?’ asked Gamache, tapping the yearbook. His soup was smooth with a rich taste of lobster and lightly flavored with cognac.

‘I thought her grad photo caption might be significant.’

‘That Tanguay prison remark. Yes, I caught that too.’

Gamache turned once more to the grad photos, this time looking at Hazel. She’d obviously just been to the beauty shop before the picture. Her hair was puffy, her eyes black with too much liner and bulging. Her inscription read,
Hazel enjoyed sports and the drama club. She never got mad.

She never got mad, thought Gamache and wondered whether that was an example of equanimity or indifference. Who never got mad?

He turned to the Drama Society page. And there was Hazel, smiling, her arm round a heavily made-up actress. Underneath the picture was written,
Madeleine Gagnon as Rosalind in
As You Like It. A description of the school play, a singular success, was written by its producer. Hazel Lang.

‘Wonder how Madeleine had time for it all. Sports, school play,’ said Beauvoir. ‘She was even a cheerleader.’ He flipped through the book until he found the page. ‘Here, see? There she is.’

Sure enough, there was Madeleine, full smile, hair gleaming even in the black and white photo. All wore short kilts. Tight little sweaters. Fresh and cheerful faces. All young, all lovely. Gamache read the names of the squad. Monique, Joan, Madeleine, Georgette. And one missing. A girl named Jeanne. Jeanne Potvin.

‘Did you notice the name of the missing cheerleader?’ Gamache asked. ‘Jeanne.’

He turned the book around for Beauvoir then looked over at the solitary woman at her table.

‘You don’t really think…’ Beauvoir jerked his head in that direction.

‘Stranger things have happened.’

‘Like séances and ghosts? You think maybe she magically transformed herself from a beautiful cheerleader into that?’

Both men looked at the mousy woman dressed in a drab sweater and slacks.

‘
I have seen flowers come in stony places, And kind things done by men with ugly faces
,’ Gamache said, watching Jeanne Chauvet.

Just then Olivier appeared with their dinner. Beauvoir was doubly pleased. Not only did he get his food, but it stopped the chief from reciting more poetry. Beauvoir was growing tired of pretending to understand stuff that totally went over his head. Gamache’s
coq au vin
filled the table with a rich, earthy aroma and an unexpected hint of maple. Delicate young beans and glazed baby carrots sat in their own white serving dish. A massive charbroiled steak smothered in panfried onions
was placed in front of Beauvoir. A mound of
frites
sat in his serving dish.