Louise Penny - A Fatal Grace

Again she’d nodded, eager to hear what he might say.

‘Let it go. You have your own life. Not Uncle Saul’s, not your parents’.’ His face had grown very serious then, his eyes searching. ‘You can’t live in the past and you certainly can’t undo it. What happened to Uncle Saul has nothing to do with you. Memories can kill, Yvette. The past can reach right up and grab you and drag you to a place you shouldn’t be. Like a burning building.’

He’d looked out again at the hungry, licking flames, then back at her. He’d leaned forward then until their heads were almost touching. It was the most intimate moment she’d known. In a soft voice he’d whispered, ‘Bury your dead.’

Now she lay in bed, warm and safe. It’s going to be all right, she said to herself, noticing the soft snow falling on the windowsill. She brought the duvet up to her chin and buried her nose in the bedding. It smelled of smoke.

And with the smell came a ragged phrase, shouted through the smoke. Cutting through and finding her curled on the floor, terrified and alone. She was going to die, she knew. Alone. And instead of the rescuers finding her, their words did.

She’s not worth it.

She was going to burn to death, alone. Because she wasn’t worth saving. The voice had belonged to Beauvoir. What didn’t chase those words down that corridor, through the acrid smoke, was Gamache’s voice saying, ‘Yes she is.’

All she’d heard was the roar of the approaching fire, and her own heart howling.

Fucking Gamache would have left her to die. He wasn’t looking for her, he wanted to find Petrov. Those were the first words out of his mouth when he’d found her. ‘Where’s Petrov?’ Not ‘Are you all right,’ not ‘Thank God we found you’.

And he’d tricked her into telling him about Uncle Saul. Into betraying her father. Her family. Now he knew everything. Now he knew for sure she wasn’t worth it.

God damn Gamache.

‘It must have been arson,’ said Beauvoir, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. He was famished.

‘Ruth doesn’t think so,’ said Gamache, spreading strawberry jam on his croissant and sipping his strong, hot coffee. They were in the dining room of the B. & B., a warm, cozy room dominated by a huge fireplace and a window with a view of the forests and the mountains beyond, obscured now by the heavily falling snow.

Both men were whispering, their throats raw from the smoke and the shouting of the night before. Gabri looked like hell, and Olivier had closed the bistro and would only reopen for lunch.

‘You’re getting what you’re getting this morning. No special orders,’ Gabri had snapped when they’d shown up. Then he’d produced an exquisite breakfast of eggs and maple-cured back bacon, French toast and syrup. And steaming, buttery croissants. ‘Fortunately for you, I cook when I’m stressed. What a night. Tragic.’

After he’d retreated to the kitchen Beauvoir turned back to Gamache.

‘What d’you mean she thinks it wasn’t arson? What else could it be? A main suspect, at the very least a witness in a murder case, dies in a fire and it isn’t murder?’

‘She says the neighbor saw flames shooting out the chimney.’

‘So? Flames were shooting out everywhere. They were almost shooting out my ass.’

‘The neighbor thinks it was an accident, a chimney fire. We’ll see. The fire inspector’ll be there now. We’ll get a report by this afternoon. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Jean Guy.’

‘And when it bursts into flames, what is it then? No, sir. That was arson. Saul Petrov was murdered.’

The rest of the day was spent in slow motion, as everyone recovered from the fire and waited for the results of the fire marshal’s investigation. Lemieux had found out that Saul Petrov’s next of kin was a sister in Quebec City. An agent was despatched to break the news and gather more background.

After breakfast Beauvoir trudged through the knee-deep fluffy snow, kicking it ahead of him as he went house to house, interviewing villagers in the hope of finding someone who knew a woman with a name beginning with L who’d lived in the area forty-five years before. Lemieux searched the parish records.

It was a quiet, almost dream-like day, their lives muffled by exhaustion and the thick layer of gathering snow. Gamache sat at his desk. Behind him the volunteer firefighters cleaned the pumper truck and put their equipment in order. Occasionally he nodded off, his feet on his desk, his eyes closed and his hands folded over his stomach.

She’s not worth it.

He startled awake. Beauvoir’s voice, panicked, filled his head again, and again he smelt smoke. He dropped his feet to the floor, his heart racing. The volunteers were slowly going about their work on their side of the large room, but he was alone on his side. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to join the volunteers, to retire to Three Pines and buy one of the old village homes. To put out his shingle. A. Gamache, Détective privé.

But then he noticed that he wasn’t alone after all. Sitting quietly at a terminal was Agent Nichol. He thought for a moment, wondering whether he was about to do something very foolish. He got up and walked over to her.

‘At the height of the fire, when we were trying to save you…’ He sat down, forcing her to look at him. She was pale and radiated smoke as though it had seeped beneath her skin. Her clothes were ill fitting and slightly dirty, a grease stain on her lapel, dark smudges round her cuffs. Her hair was badly cut and falling into her eyes. He felt like giving her his credit card with instructions to buy nice clothes. He felt like passing his large, tired hand in front of her brow to sweep the dull hair from her angry eyes. He did neither, of course. ‘Something was said. I suspect you heard it. One of us yelled, “She’s not worth it.”’

Now she looked at him straight on, her face full of bitterness.

Gamache stared back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s time for the truth, for both of us.’

He told her what he had in mind, his plan. And she listened. When he’d finished he asked her to keep it to herself. She agreed and thought two things. That he was probably smarter than she’d given him credit for, and that he was going down. After he was gone she brought out her cell phone and made a quick, discreet call.

‘I decided to tell him about Uncle Saul,’ she whispered. ‘I know, I know. It wasn’t part of the plan. Yes sir. But I’m on the ground here and it was a decision I had to make at the last moment,’ she lied. She couldn’t possibly admit it had slipped out in a vulnerable moment. He’d think her weak. ‘Yes, it was a risk, I agree. I was afraid he’d take it the wrong way, but I think it worked. It seemed to appeal to him.’ At least that part was true. Then she told him everything Gamache had said to her.

By the end of the day more than eight inches of puffy snow had fallen. Not the kind that made good snowmen, but it made for great snow angels and Gamache could see kids flinging themselves into the fluffy whiteness, flapping their arms and legs.

The fire inspector had just left.

It would take a while, of course, but his initial finding was that the fire was caused by creosote.

‘So someone set fire to creosote and killed Petrov,’ said Beauvoir.

‘Exactly,’ confirmed the fire inspector. ‘Petrov set fire to the creosote.’

‘What?’

‘When Petrov lit the fire that day he was killing himself, though he didn’t know it. Creosote is a natural substance. It comes from wood that hasn’t dried long enough. I suspect the chimney hadn’t been cleaned in years and the wood was young, and…’ The inspector raised his palms to the ceiling indicating the inevitable and not uncommon.