The Cruellest Month (43 page)

But, of course, her feelings had to come out somehow, and so in her sixties the string of words she’d coiled inside came out. In poetry.

Jeanne was right, of course, thought Ruth. I do believe. In God, in Nature, in magic. In people. She was the most credulous person she knew. She believed in everything. She looked down at what she’d written.

Having been hanged for something

I never said,

I can now say anything I can say.

Ruth Zardo picked up the little bird, no longer needing her warm, new towel. Lilium’s head fell to one side, her eyes staring at her mother. Ruth lifted the tiny wings, hoping, maybe, she’d see a flutter.

But Lilium was gone. Killed by kindness.

Before, I was not a witch.

Now I am one.

*

Clara had been in her studio since midnight. Painting. A feeling had crept over her since the party. Not yet an idea, not even a thought. But
a feeling. Something significant had happened. It wasn’t what was said, not totally. It was more. A look, a sense.

She’d sneaked out of bed and practically run to her canvas. She’d stood back from it, staring for many minutes, seeing it as it was and as it could be.

Then she’d picked up her brush.

God bless Peter for suggesting the party. Without it she was sure she’d still be blocked.

   THIRTY-NINE   

T
he next morning was splendid, a green and golden day. The early and young sun hit the village and everything shone, made fresh and clean by the rain of the day before. Despite being up for a couple of hours in the middle of the night Gamache rose early and went for his morning walk, tiptoeing between the worms on the road, another sign of spring. They at least were silent. After twenty minutes he was joined by Jean Guy Beauvoir, who jogged across the green to join him on his walk.

‘We should wrap it up today,’ said Beauvoir, watching Gamache appear to sneak along the road.

‘Think so?’

‘We’ll get the report on the ephedra then question Sophie again. She’ll tell us everything.’

‘She’ll confess? Do you think she did it?’

‘Nothing’s changed, so yes, I think she did it. I take it you don’t?’

‘I think she had motive, opportunity and probably has the anger.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

Gamache stopped tiptoeing and turned to look at Beauvoir. It felt as though the day belonged to them. No one else was stirring yet in the pretty village. For a moment Gamache indulged in a fantasy. Of giving the Arnot people what they wanted. It would be so easy to drive into Montreal today and hand in his resignation. Then he’d pick up Reine-Marie from her job at the Bibliothèque Nationale and drive down here. They’d have lunch on the
terrasse
of the bistro overlooking the Rivière Bella Bella, then go house-hunting. They’d find a place in the village, and he’d buy one of Sandon’s lyrical rocking chairs and he’d
sit in it reading his paper each morning and sipping his coffee and villagers would come to him when they had little problems. A sock missing from the clothes line. A family recipe mysteriously made by a neighbor for a party. Reine-Marie would join Arts Williamsburg and finally sign up for those courses she was longing to take.

No more murder. No more Arnot.

It was so tempting.

‘Did you look at
The Dictionary of Magical Places
?’

‘I did. You so subtly told me to look at the stuff on France.’

‘I’m very clever,’ agreed Gamache. ‘And did you?’

‘All I saw were caves they discovered about fifteen years ago. Had all these weird drawings of animals. Apparently cave men drew them thousands of years ago. I read for a while but frankly didn’t see why it was so important. There’re other caves with drawings. It’s not as if that was the first they found.’

‘True.’

Gamache could still see the images. Elegant, plump bison, horses, not one at a time but a lively herd, flowing across the rock face. Archeologists had been astonished by the images when they were first discovered, less than twenty years ago, by hikers in the woods of France. So detailed, so alive were the drawings archeologists first thought they must be the very pinnacle of the cave man’s art. The last stage before man evolved further.

And then came the astonishing discovery. The drawings were actually twenty thousand years older than anything they’d found before. It wasn’t the last, it was the first.

Who were these people who managed what their descendants couldn’t? To shade, to make three-dimensional images, to so gracefully depict power and movement? And then the final, staggering discovery.

Deep inside one of the caves they found a hand, outlined in red. Never before in all the other cave drawings was there an image of the artist, or the people. But the person who created these had a sense of self. Of the individual.

In the book last night,
The Dictionary of Magical Places
, Armand Gamache had stared at that one image. Of the hand, outlined in red. As though the artist was declaring himself alive, after thirty-five thousand years.

And Gamache had thought of another image, not quite so old, on a book he’d found in a damned and decaying house.

‘What makes them different is that they seem to be art for the pleasure of it. And magic. Scientists think the drawings were meant to conjure the actual beasts.’

‘But how do they know?’ asked Beauvoir. ‘Don’t we always say something’s magic when we don’t understand?’

‘We do. That’s what the witch-hunts were about.’

‘What was it Madame Zardo called it? The burning times?’

‘I’m not so sure they’re over,’ said Gamache, looking up at the old Hadley house then dragging his eyes back to the lovely and peaceful village. ‘What interested me most, though, about those cave drawings was the name of the cave itself. Do you remember it?’

Beauvoir thought. But he knew no answer would be coming.

The chief turned back to his walk, and continued to tiptoe between the squiggling worms. Beauvoir watched him for a moment, the tall, elegant, powerful man, avoiding the worms. Then he too started walking, tiptoeing, so that from any of the mullioned windows around the village green they looked like two grown men in an awkward, though familiar, ballet.

‘Do you remember the name?’ Beauvoir asked when he caught up with the chief.

‘Chauvet. They’re the caves at Chauvet.’

When they got back to the B. & B. they were met by the aroma of fresh-brewed
café au lait
, maple-cured back bacon and eggs.

‘Eggs Benedict,’ announced Gabri, rushing to greet them and take their coats. ‘Yummy.’

He pushed them along through the living room and into the dining room where their table was set up. Gamache and Beauvoir sat down and Gabri placed two steaming, frothy
bols
of coffee in front of them.

‘
Patron
, did you see a stack of books in the living room when you came down?’ Gamache asked, taking a sip of the rich brew.

‘Books? No.’

Gamache put his
bol
down and walked into the living room. Through the archway Beauvoir watched as he walked round and finally returned, replacing his white linen napkin on his lap.

‘They’re gone,’ he said, though he didn’t look upset.

‘The yearbooks?’

Gamache nodded and smiled. He hadn’t planned it, but this was good. Someone was rattled. Rattled enough to sneak into the B. & B., which everyone knew was never locked, and take the yearbooks from twenty-five years ago.

‘Yummy, yummy,’ said Gabri, placing the platters in front of his guests. Each held two eggs on a thick slice of Canadian back bacon which in turn rested on a golden toasted English muffin. Hollandaise
sauce was drizzled over the eggs and fruit salad garnished the edges of each plate.

‘
Mangez
,’ said Gabri. Gamache reached out his hand and took Gabri’s wrist lightly. He looked up at the large, disheveled man. Gabri stood stock-still, staring. Then he lowered his eyes.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Gamache asked.

‘Eat. Please.’

‘Tell me.’

Beauvoir’s fork with a massive mound of egg, dripping hollandaise, stopped almost at his mouth. He stared at the two men.

‘There’s more. It’s the papers, isn’t it?’ said Beauvoir, suddenly knowing.

Both men followed Gabri into the living room. He pulled a newspaper out from where he’d stuffed it behind a cushion on the sofa. Handing it to Gamache he walked over to the television and turned it on. Then he walked to the stereo and turned the radio on.

Within seconds the room was full of accusations. Blaring from the stereo, from the morning news programs, from the newspaper headlines.

Daniel Gamache under investigation. Criminal record.

Annie Gamache on leave, her lawyer’s license suspended.

Armand Gamache suspected of everything from murder to running a puppy mill.

The picture on the front page this time wasn’t of Gamache, but of his son, in Paris, Roslyn behind him carrying Florence. All being jostled by reporters. Daniel looking angry and furtive.

Gamache could feel his heart pounding against his chest. He took a huge, ragged breath, realizing he’d been holding it. On the television was a live picture of a young woman leaving an apartment building, her briefcase up to her face.

Annie.

‘Oh, God,’ whispered Gamache.

Then she lowered the case and stood still. This seemed to stun the reporters who preferred their prey on the run. She smiled at them.

‘No, don’t,’ whispered Beauvoir.

Annie raised her arm and gave them the finger.

‘Annie,’ Gamache mouthed, but no sound came out. ‘I need to go.’

He rushed upstairs and grabbed his cell phone. He was surprised to see his finger shaking, barely able to connect with the speed dial. It was answered on the first ring.

‘Oh, Armand, have you seen?’

‘Just now.’

‘I just got off the phone with Roslyn. They’ve taken Daniel into custody in Paris. He’s suspected of drug-dealing.’

‘All right,’ said Gamache, some calm returning. ‘All right. Let me think.’

‘They won’t find anything,’ said Reine-Marie.

‘They might.’

‘But that was years ago, Armand. He was a kid, experimenting.’

‘It’s possible someone’s planted something on him,’ said Gamache. ‘How was Roslyn?’

‘Stressed.’

Reine-Marie didn’t say it, would never want to add to his burden, but Gamache knew she was worried for the unborn baby. Women can miscarry after a blow like this.

There was silence.

This was so much more than Gamache had dreamed would happen. What was Brébeuf doing? Was this his idea of trying to stop it? With an effort he stopped raging against Brébeuf. He knew that was just a convenient target. He knew his friend was doing his best but that their adversaries were far more vicious than Gamache had expected and than Brébeuf could hope to control.

Someone had done their homework. Knew his family, knew Daniel’s conviction years ago on drug possession. Knew Daniel was in Paris and perhaps even knew of the pregnancy.

‘This has gone too far,’ said Gamache, finally.

‘What’re you going to do?’

‘I’m going to stop it.’

After a moment Reine-Marie asked, ‘How?’

‘I’ll resign if necessary. They win. I can’t endanger the family.’

‘I’m afraid they’ll no longer be satisfied with your resignation, Armand.’

He’d thought of that too.

Gamache called Michel Brébeuf and asked him to call a meeting of the senior Sûreté council for that afternoon.

‘Don’t be a fool, Armand,’ Brébeuf had said. ‘It’s what they want.’

‘I’m not a fool, Michel. I know what I’m doing.’

Both men hung up, Gamache grateful his friend would help, and Brébeuf knowing Gamache was indeed a fool.

The morning meeting was brief and tense.

Agent Lacoste reported on her conversation with Madeleine’s doctor. She’d had an appointment two weeks before she was killed. The doctor confirmed that Madeleine’s cancer had returned and spread to her liver.
She’d told Madame Favreau. She’d arranged for palliative treatments, but those hadn’t started by the time she was killed.