Louise Penny - Cruelest Month

Gilles looked at them. ‘Said I’d kill the whole tree by taking off the branch. That was a risk, I admitted, but told him the tree was in pain and it would be more merciful for it to either live healthy or die quickly.’

‘But he didn’t believe you?’

He shook his head. ‘Took four years for that tree to die. I could hear it crying for help. I begged Béliveau but he wouldn’t hear of it. Thought the tree was getting better.’

‘He didn’t know,’ said Gamache. ‘He was afraid.’

Gilles shrugged, dismissive.

‘And the fact he was seeing Madeleine wasn’t part of it?’ asked Gamache.

‘He should have protected her. He should have protected the tree. He looks so gentle but he’s a bad one.’

What had Monsieur Béliveau called himself? Gamache tried to remember. The thing that brings death. That was it. First his wife, then Madeleine, then the bird. And the tree. Things died around Monsieur Béliveau.

The men were silent, inhaling the sweet, musty aroma of moist pines and autumn leaves and new buds.

‘Now I come out here and find trees already dead and turn them into furniture.’

‘Give them new life,’ said Gamache.

Sandon looked at him. ‘I don’t suppose you hear the trees?’

Gamache cocked his head, listening, then shook it. Sandon nodded.

‘Are there any ginkgo trees around?’ Gamache asked.

‘Ginkgo? A few, not many. They’re mostly from Asia, I think. Very old trees.’

‘You mean they live a long time?’ asked Beauvoir.

‘That too, though not as long as sequoias. Some of them are thousands of years old, can you believe it? Love to have a conversation with one of them. No, a ginkgo doesn’t last that long, but it’s the oldest tree known. Prehistoric. Considered a living fossil. Imagine that.’

Gamache was impressed. Sandon knew a lot about the ginkgo tree. The ancient ginkgo family that produced ephedra.

A newspaper was folded neatly at his desk when they arrived back at the Incident Room. It was five o’clock and Robert Lemieux was working on his computer. He looked up and waved as they came in, his eyes falling on the newspaper as though commiserating with Gamache.

Jean Guy Beauvoir stood beside the chief as he reached for the paper. Gamache was reminded of a nature show he once saw about gorillas. When threatened they ran forward, focusing on the attacker, screaming and pounding their chests. But every now and then they’d reach out to touch the gorilla next to them. To make sure they weren’t alone.

Beauvoir was the gorilla next to him.

There, on the front page, was a picture of Gamache looking foolish, his eyes half-closed, his mouth in a strange grimace.

SOÛL! insisted the type underneath, in capital letters. Drunk!

‘I see you’re a drunken, blackmailing, pimping murderer,’ said Beauvoir.

‘A Renaissance man,’ said Gamache, shaking his head. But he was relieved. He first skimmed the article looking for Daniel, Annie, Reine-Marie. But all he found was his own name and Arnot’s. Always linked, as though one didn’t exist without the other.

He called his family and spent the next half-hour catching up with them, making sure all was as well as could be.

It was a strange world, he realized as he and Beauvoir made their way back to the B. & B. with their dossiers and yearbooks, when a good day was one where he was only accused of drunken incompetence.

THIRTY-SEVEN

For the first time in twenty-five years Clara Morrow closed the door to her studio. Olivier and Gabri were arriving. Armand Gamache and his inspector, Jean Guy Beauvoir, had just walked in. Myrna had arrived earlier with shepherd’s pie and a massive arrangement of flowers, branches in bud and what looked like a bonnet

‘There’s a gift in there for you,’ she said to Gamache.

‘Really?’ He hoped she didn’t mean the bonnet.

Clara showed Jeanne Chauvet into the living room where everyone was massed. Gamache caught Clara’s eye and smiled his thanks. She smiled back but he thought she looked tired.

‘Are you all right?’ He took the tray of drinks from her and placed it on its normal spot on the piano.

‘Just a little stressed. Tried to paint this afternoon but Peter was right. Best not to try too hard if the muse isn’t there. Fortunately I had the dinner to concentrate on.’

Clara looked as though she’d rather gnaw off her foot than be at this dinner party.

Olivier took the ceramic bowl of home-made pâté from Gabri, who was supposed to circulate with it but had decided to stand by the fire and talk to Jeanne instead.

‘Pâté?’ he asked Beauvoir, who took a large slice of baguette and smeared it thickly.

‘So, I hear you’re a witch,’ Gabri said to Jeanne, and the room fell silent.

‘I prefer Wicca, but yes,’ said Jeanne matter-of-factly.

‘Pâté?’ asked Olivier, grateful to have the appetizers to hide behind. Would that they’d brought a horse.

‘Thank you,’ said Jeanne.

Ruth arrived, stomping into the cheery living room. Beauvoir took the distraction as a chance to speak to Jeanne privately.

‘Agent Lemieux looked up your high school,’ he said, guiding her into a quiet corner.

‘Really? That’s interesting,’ though she didn’t look interested.

‘It was actually. There was no school.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘No Gareth James High in Montreal.’

‘But that’s impossible. I went to it.’ She seemed agitated, just the way Beauvoir wanted his suspects. He didn’t like this woman, this witch.

‘The school burned down twenty years ago. Convenient, don’t you think?’ He got up before she could respond.

‘Where’s my drink?’ Ruth limped over to the piano. ‘Wanted to get here earlier before you drank it all,’ she said to Gamache. Olivier was deeply grateful someone more maladroit than Gabri was finally in the room.

‘I’ve hidden bottles all over the house and if you’re nice to me, Madame Zardo,’ said Gamache, bowing slightly, ‘I might tell you where some are.’

Ruth considered then seemed to conclude it was too much trouble. She grabbed what was a tumbler for water and handed it to Peter.

‘Scotch.’

‘How can you be a poet?’ Peter asked.

‘I’ll tell you how, I don’t waste good words on the likes of you.’ She took the tumbler and swallowed a gulp.

‘So why do you drink?’ she asked Gamache.

‘ Voyons ,’ said Beauvoir. ‘That newspaper article was a lie. He doesn’t drink.’

‘What newspaper article?’ asked Ruth. ‘And what’s that?’ She pointed to the Scotch in Gamache’s hand.

‘I drink to relax,’ said Gamache. ‘Why do you?’

Ruth stared at him but what she saw were the two baby birds, tucked into their little beds in her oven, snug in warmed towels and water bottles she’d bought at Canadian Tire. She’d fed Rosa and tried to feed Lilium, but she hadn’t taken very much.

Ruth had kissed them softly on their little fluffy heads, getting a slight film of dander on her thin, old lips. It’d been a while since she’d kissed anything. They smelled fresh and felt warm. Lilium had bent down and pecked at her hand slightly, as though kissing back. Ruth had meant to leave for Peter and Clara’s earlier, but had waited until Rosa and Lilium were asleep. She grabbed her kitchen timer and put two and a half hours on it, then slipped it into her moth-eaten cardigan.

She took a deep sip of her Scotch, and thought about it. Why did she drink?

‘I drink so I don’t get mad,’ she said finally.