Louise Penny - A Fatal Grace

Their coffees arrived.

‘Have you recovered from the fire?’ she asked. Em had been there, along with Mother and even Kaye. They’d spent the night serving sandwiches and hot drinks and providing blankets for the freezing volunteers. They’d all been exhausted and Gamache had decided to wait until this morning before speaking to Émilie.

‘It was a horrible night,’ he said. ‘One of the worst I can remember.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A man named Saul Petrov.’ Gamache waited to see if there was any reaction. There was only polite interest. ‘A photographer. He was taking pictures of CC.’

‘Why?’

‘For her catalogue. She was planning to meet with an American company in hopes of interesting them in her project. She had aspirations of becoming a style guru, though her aspirations seemed to have gone beyond style.’

‘A kind of “one-stop” shop,’ suggested Em. ‘She’d refurbish you inside and out.’

‘CC de Poitiers dreamed big, that’s certain,’ agreed Gamache. ‘You said you met CC a few times, but did you ever meet her family? Her husband and daughter?’

‘Only from a distance, not to speak to. They were at the Boxing Day curling, of course.’

‘And the Christmas Eve service at the church here, I understand.’

‘ C’est vrai. ’ Em smiled at the memory. ‘She’s deceptive, the daughter.’

‘How so?’ Gamache was surprised to hear this.

‘Oh, not in a devious way. Not like her mother, though CC wasn’t as deceptive as she would have liked to believe. Far too transparent. No, Crie was shy, withdrawn. Never looked you in the eye. But she had the most enchanting voice. Quite took our breath away.’

Émilie cast her mind back to the Christmas Eve service in the crowded chapel. She’d looked over at Crie and seen a girl transformed. Joy had made her lovely.

‘She looked just like David when he played Tchaikovsky.’

And then that scene outside the church.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Gamache asked quietly, noticing a troubled look settling on Em’s face.

‘After the service we were standing outside. CC was on the other side of the church. It’s a short cut to their home. We couldn’t see her, but we could hear her. There was also the strangest sound.’ Émilie pursed her lips, trying to recall it. ‘It was like Henri on the wood floors when I don’t clip his nails. A clicking, only louder.’

‘I think I can solve that mystery for you,’ said Gamache. ‘I believe those were her boots. She’d bought a pair of baby sealskin mukluks as a Christmas present for herself. They had metal claws attached to the soles.’

Em looked surprised and disgusted.

‘ Mon Dieu , what must He think of us?’

‘You said you could hear more than her boots?’

‘She screamed at her daughter. Tore into her. It was awful.’

‘What about?’ asked Gamache.

‘What Crie was wearing. True, it was unconventional. A pink sundress I believe, but CC’s main complaint seemed to be Crie’s voice, her singing. Her voice was divine. Not the way Gabri uses the word, but really divine. And CC mocked her, belittled her. No, it was more than that. She eviscerated her. It was horrible. I heard it all and did nothing. Said nothing.’

Gamache was silent.

‘We should have helped her.’ Émilie’s voice was quiet, calm. ‘We all stood there on Christmas Eve and witnessed a murder, because that’s what it was, Chief Inspector. I’m under no illusion about that. CC killed her daughter that night, and I helped.’

‘You go too far, madame. Don’t mistake dramatics for a conscience. I know you feel badly about what happened and I agree, something should have been done. But I also know what happened outside the church wasn’t isolated. The tragedy of Crie’s life is that’s all she’s known. It became like the snow outside.’ They both looked out the window. ‘The insults piling up until Crie disappeared under them.’

‘I should have done something.’

They were both silent for a moment, Émilie looking outside and Gamache looking at her.

‘Blizzard coming tomorrow, I hear,’ said Em. ‘There’s a storm warning out.’

‘How much’s expected?’ This was news to him.

‘The weather channel said we might get thirty centimeters. Have you ever been caught in a snowstorm?’ she asked.

‘Once, driving to the Abitibi region. It was dark and the roads were empty. I got disoriented.’ He saw again the swarm of snow in his headlights, the world narrowing to that brilliant funnel. ‘I made a wrong turn and ended up in a cul de sac. The road kept narrowing. It was my own fault, of course.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘I was stubborn. Shh.’ He looked around.

Émilie smiled. ‘It’ll be our little secret. Besides, I’m sure no one would believe it. What happened?’

‘The track got narrower and narrower.’ He demonstrated with his hands, guiding them to a point until he looked like a man at prayer. ‘It was nearly impossible to make out the road any more. By then it was really a path, and then,’ he turned his hands over, palm up, ‘nothing. All that was left was forest and snow. The drifts were up to the car doors. I couldn’t go forward and couldn’t go back.’

‘What did you do?’

He hesitated, not sure which answer to give. All the answers that sprang to mind were true, but there were levels to the truth. He knew what he was about to ask her and decided she was owed the same respect.

‘I prayed.’

She looked at this large man, confident, used to command, and nodded. ‘What did you pray?’ She wasn’t letting him off the hook.

‘Just before this happened Inspector Beauvoir and I had been on a case in a small fishing village called Baie des Moutons, on the Lower North Shore.’

‘The land God gave to Cain,’ she said unexpectedly. Gamache was familiar with the quote, but he hadn’t run across many others who were. In the 1600s when the explorer Jacques Cartier first set eyes on that desolate outcropping of rocks at the mouth of the St Lawrence River, he’d written in his diary, This must be the land God gave to Cain.

‘Perhaps I’m attracted to the damned.’ Gamache smiled. ‘Maybe that’s why I hunt killers, like Cain. The area’s barren and desolate; practically nothing grows, but to me it’s almost unbearably beautiful, if you know where to look. Out here it’s easy. Beauty is all around. The rivers, the mountains, the villages, especially Three Pines. But in Mutton Bay it’s not so obvious. You have to go looking for it. It’s in the lichen on the rocks and the tiny purple flowers, almost invisible, you have to get on your knees to see. It’s in the spring flowers of the bakeapples.’

‘Did you find your murderer?’

‘I did.’

But his inflection told her there was more. She waited, but when nothing more came she decided to ask.

‘And what else did you find?’

‘God,’ he said simply. ‘In a diner.’

‘What was he eating?’

The question was so unexpected Gamache hesitated then laughed.

‘Lemon meringue pie.’

‘And how do you know He was God?’

The interview wasn’t going as he’d imagined.

‘I don’t,’ he admitted. ‘He might have been just a fisherman. He was certainly dressed like one. But he looked across the room at me with such tenderness, such love, I was staggered.’ He was tempted to break eye contact, to stare at the warm wooden surface where his hands now rested. But Armand Gamache didn’t look down. He looked directly at her.

‘What did God do?’ Émilie asked, her voice hushed.

‘He finished his pie then turned to the wall. He seemed to be rubbing it for a while, then he turned back to me with the most radiant smile I’d ever seen. I was filled with joy.’