The Cruelest Month

‘Maybe,’ said Gamache.



‘That first séance, Gabri,’ said Clara, ‘you put up posters saying Madame Blavatsky would be contacting the dead. You lied about her name –’



‘Artistic license,’ explained Gabri.



‘It must be exhausting being him,’ said Myrna.



‘– but you knew Jeanne was a psychic. How’d you know?’



‘She told me.’



After a moment Jeanne spoke. ‘It’s true. I keep telling myself not to say anything, and of course it’s the first thing out of my mouth. I wonder why?’



‘You want to be special,’ said Myrna, not unkindly. ‘We all do. You’re just more open about it.’



‘Well,’ said Gabri, in a voice uncharacteristically small, ‘I did kinda wheedle it out of her. I ask all my guests what they do. What passions they have. It’s interesting.’



‘And then you put them to work,’ said Sandon, still smarting from the time he lost two hundred dollars to Gabri’s poker champ guest.



‘A village gets quiet,’ Gabri explained to Gamache with dignity. ‘I bring culture to Three Pines.’



No one chose to mention the shrieking opera singer.



‘When Jeanne checked in she read my palm,’ Gabri continued. ‘In my past life I was the Keeper of the Light at the Acropolis, but don’t tell anyone.’



‘I promise,’ said Clara.



‘But before that I walked around the village,’ said Jeanne. ‘Sensing the energy of the place. The funny thing is, whoever wrote that,’ she pointed to the brochure in Gamache’s hand, ‘was almost right. There are ley lines here, but they run parallel to Three Pines. It’s quite unusual to have them so close together. But they don’t meet. You don’t actually want them to meet. Too much energy. Good for sacred places, but you notice no one actually lives in Stonehenge.’



‘Not that we can see anyway,’ said Gamache, to everyone’s surprise. ‘Whoever sent the brochure knew that Gabri would find out that his guest was a psychic, and from there it was a guarantee he’d put her to work. A séance was a sure thing.



‘At Peter and Clara’s last night you brought me a book, Myrna. The Dictionary of Magical Places. I looked at it and do you know what I found?’



No one spoke. He turned to Jeanne. ‘I think you know what I found. You looked upset when the book was produced, especially since it was the latest edition. Olivier asked if they were finding new magical places. He was joking, of course, but it turned out to be quite true. They did find a new magical place in the last twenty years. In France. A series of caves named after the region they were found. The Chauvet caves.’



Another creak was heard and Gamache knew time was running out. Something dark and personal was approaching.



‘Jeanne Chauvet. A psychic and self-proclaimed Wicca with the name of a medieval woman burned for witchcraft and a magical cave. There was no way it was your real name. But something else happened last night. Inspector Beauvoir and I couldn’t sleep for the frogs. We were in the living room looking at yearbooks from Hazel and Madeleine’s high school when Jeanne showed up. This morning the books were gone. There was only one person who could have taken them. Why did you, Jeanne?’



Jeanne stared off into the darkness then after a moment she spoke.



‘Something’s coming.’



‘Pardon?’ Gamache asked.



She turned to him, her eyes finally catching the candlelight. They were glowing now. It was unnatural, unnerving.



‘You can feel it, I know. It’s the thing I warned you about that morning in the church. It’s arrived.’



‘Why did you take the yearbooks, Jeanne?’ Gamache needed to remain focused, to not let his mind wander to the other thing. But he knew time was short. He needed to finish this now.



She stared openly at the door and remained silent.



‘I stopped at the high school on my way back this afternoon and picked up two things. Another yearbook and an alumni list. I’d like to read something from Hazel and Madeleine’s grad book.’ He reached down and brought a book onto his lap. He opened it to a spot marked by a Post-it. ‘Joan Cummings. Cheerleader. Joan of Arc plans to set the world on fire.’



He softly closed it.



‘You’re Joan Cummings?’ said Hazel, rousing herself. ‘From school?’



‘Didn’t recognize me, did you? Mad didn’t either.’



‘You’ve changed,’ said Hazel, sputtering a little in embarrassment.