Louise Penny - Cruelest Month

‘Was Madeleine murdered?’ Clara asked.

‘We think so,’ he said. After a moment to allow her to absorb the information he asked, ‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, wait. Please think about it. I know at first everyone’s surprised by murder. But I want you to really think about the question. If Madeleine Favreau was murdered, would it surprise you?’

Clara turned to Gamache. His deep brown eyes were thoughtful, his moustache was trim and graying, the hair under his cap groomed and curling slightly. His face was strong with laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. He spoke to her in English, as a courtesy, she knew. His English was perfect and, strangely, he had a British accent. She’d been meaning each time they’d met to ask him about that.

‘Why do you speak with an English accent?’

His eyebrows rose and he turned a mildly surprised face to her.

‘Is that the answer to my question?’ he asked with a smile.

‘No, professor. But it’s something I’ve been meaning to ask and keep forgetting.’

‘I went to Cambridge. Christ’s College. Studied history.’

‘And honed your English.’

‘Learned my English.’

Now it was Clara’s turn to be surprised.

‘You didn’t speak English before arriving in Cambridge?’

‘Well, I could say two things.’

‘And those were…’

‘Fire on the Klingons, and My God, Admiral, it’s horrible.’

Clara snorted.

‘I watched American television when I could. Particularly two shows.’

‘ Star Trek and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea ,’ said Clara.

‘You’d be surprised how useless those phrases are in Cambridge. Though “My God, Admiral, it’s horrible” could be used in a pinch.’

Clara laughed and imagined young Gamache in Cambridge. Who goes across the world to a foreign country to go to university without knowing the language?

‘Well?’ Gamache’s face had turned serious.

‘Madeleine was lovely, in every sense. She was easy to like and I suspect easy to love. I could see loving her, had we had more time. I can’t believe someone killed her.’

‘Because of who she was, or because of who someone wasn’t?’

That was the question, thought Clara. Accepting murder meant accepting there was a murderer. Among them. Close. Someone in that room, almost certainly. One of those smiling, laughing, familiar faces hid thoughts so vile they had to kill.

‘How long has Madeleine lived here?’

‘Well, she actually lives outside the village, off that way.’ Clara pointed into the rolling hills. ‘With Hazel Smyth.’

‘Who was also there last night, with someone named Sophie Smyth.’

‘Her daughter. Madeleine came to live with them about five years ago. They’d known each other for years.’

Just then Lucy gave a yank on her leash and Clara looked over to see Peter walking through their gate and across the dirt road, waving. She looked around for cars then unclipped Lucy. The elderly dog bounded across the green and right into Peter, who doubled over. Gamache winced.

Straightening up Peter limped over to their bench, two muddy pawprints on his crotch.

‘Chief Inspector.’ Peter put out his hand with more dignity than Gamache had thought possible. Gamache rose and shook hands warmly with Peter Morrow. ‘Sad time,’ said Peter.

‘It is. I was just saying to Clara we think it’s possible Madame Favreau didn’t die naturally.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘You weren’t there, were you?’ Gamache ignored Peter’s question.

‘No, we’d had people for dinner last night and I stayed to clean up.’

‘Would you have gone if you could?’

Peter barely hesitated. ‘No. I didn’t approve.’ Even to his own ears he sounded like a Victorian vicar.

‘Peter tried to talk me out of going,’ said Clara. All three were standing now and Clara took Peter’s hand. ‘He was right. We shouldn’t have done it. Had we all stayed away from there,’ Clara cocked her head toward the house on the hill, ‘Madeleine would still be alive.’

It was probably true, thought Gamache. But for how long? There were some things you couldn’t escape and death was one.

* * *

Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir watched as the last of the Crime Scene team packed up then he backed out of the bedroom and closed the door. Ripping a length of tape from a yellow roll he stuck it across the door. He repeated that several times more than he normally would. Something in him felt the need to seal away whatever was in that room. He’d never admit it, of course, but Jean Guy Beauvoir had felt something growing. The longer he stayed the more it grew. Foreboding. No, not foreboding. Something else.

Emptiness. Jean Guy Beauvoir felt he was being hollowed out. And he suddenly knew that if he stayed there would be just a chasm and an echo where his insides had been.

He ached to get out. He’d looked over at Agent Lacoste, wondering whether she felt the same. She knew altogether too much about that witchcraft bullshit for his liking. Murmuring a Hail Mary as he sealed the room, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

Had he known how the artist Christo had wrapped the Reichstag he might have seen a similarity. Yellow Crime Scene tape smothered the door.

Taking the stairs two at a time he was out into the sunshine in a flash. The world was so much brighter, the air so much fresher, for having come from that tomb. Even the roar of the Rivière Bella Bella was comforting. Natural.

‘Great, you haven’t left yet.’

Beauvoir turned and saw Agent Robert Lemieux striding toward him, a smile on his young and eager face. Lemieux hadn’t been with them long, but he was already Beauvoir’s favorite. He liked young agents who idolized him.

Still, Beauvoir was surprised.

‘Did the Chief Inspector call you in?’ Beauvoir knew Gamache’s plan was to keep the investigation simple until they knew for sure it was murder.

‘No. Heard about it from one of my cop friends down here. I’m visiting my parents over in Ste-Catherine-de-Hovey. Thought I’d drop in.’

Beauvoir looked at his watch. One o’clock. Now that he was out of the damned house he wondered if the emptiness he’d felt was just hunger pangs. Yes, that must be it.

‘Come with me. The chief’s in the bistro, probably having the last croissant.’ Even though he was kidding Beauvoir could feel his anxiety rising. Suppose it was true? He hurried to the car and the two men drove the hundred yards or so into Three Pines.

* * *

Armand Gamache sat in front of the open fireplace sipping a Cinzano and listening. Even in late April a warm fire was welcome. Olivier had greeted him with a hug and a licorice pipe.

‘ Merci, patron ,’ said Gamache, returning the hug and accepting the pipe.

‘It’s just too shocking to absorb,’ said Olivier, beautifully dressed in corduroys and oversized cashmere sweater. Not a fine blond hair out of place, not a crease or smudge to mar the look. By contrast his partner had forgotten to put his dentures in and was unshaven. A thick black stubble had rubbed Gamache’s cheek when he and Gabri embraced.

Peter, Clara and Gamache followed Gabri to the sun-faded sofa by the fire while Olivier got their drinks, and now Myrna joined them just as they settled in.

‘I’m glad to see you.’ She took a seat in a nearby wing chair.

Gamache looked at the large black woman with affection. She ran his favorite bookstore.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked, her intelligent eyes kind and trying to soften the bluntness of the question.

He felt a certain empathy for the telegraph man on his wobbly bicycle during the war. The bearer of catastrophic news. Viewed always with suspicion.