The Cruelest Month

‘God, Hazel,’ said Myrna. ‘Has anyone spoken to her today?’



‘I called,’ said Clara, looking at the platter, but not really hungry. ‘Spoke to Sophie. Hazel was too upset to speak.’



‘Hazel and Madeleine were close?’ Gamache asked.



‘Best friends,’ said Olivier. ‘Since high school. They lived together.’



‘Not as lovers,’ said Gabri. ‘Well, not as far as I know.’



‘Don’t be absurd, of course they’re not lovers,’ said Myrna. ‘Men. They think if two grown women live together and show affection they’re lesbians.’



‘It’s true,’ said Gabri, ‘everyone makes that assumption about us.’ He patted Olivier’s knee. ‘But we forgive you.’



‘Was Madeleine Favreau ever heavy?’



Gamache’s question was so unexpected he was met with blank stares, as though he’d spoken Russian.



‘Fat, you mean?’ Gabri asked. ‘I don’t think so.’



The others shook their heads.



‘But she hadn’t lived here all that long, you know,’ said Peter. ‘What would you say? Five years?’



‘About that,’ Clara agreed. ‘But she fit in immediately. Joined the Anglican Church Women with Hazel—’



Gabri groaned. ‘Merde. She was supposed to take over this summer. Now what am I supposed to do?’



He was screwed, though not, he had to admit, quite as much as Madeleine herself.



‘Pauvre Gabri,’ said Olivier. ‘A personal tragedy.’



‘Well, you try running the ACW. Talk about murder,’ he said to Gamache. ‘Maybe Hazel’ll do it? You think?’



‘No I don’t “tink”,’ said Olivier. ‘And you’d better not ask her now.’



‘Is it possible someone else was in that house?’ Gamache asked. ‘Most of you heard sounds.’



Clara, Myrna and Gabri were quiet then, remembering the ungodly noises.



‘What do you believe, Clara?’ Gamache asked.



What do I believe? she asked herself. That the devil killed Madeleine? That evil lives in that house, possibly even put there by us? Perhaps the psychic was right and every unkind, every malevolent thought they’d ever had had been expelled from their idyllic village and eaten by that monstrosity. And it was ravenous. Maybe bitter thoughts were addictive. Once tasted you wanted more.



But had everyone really let go of all their bitter thoughts? Was it possible someone was holding on to theirs, hoarding them? Devouring them, swallowing them until they were bloated with bitterness and had become a walking, breathing version of the house on the hill?



Was there a human version of that wretched place, walking among them?



What do I believe? she asked herself again. She had no answer.



After a moment Gamache got up. ‘Where can I find Madame Chauvet, the medium?’ He reached into his pocket to pay for the sandwiches and drinks.



‘She’s staying at the B. & B.,’ said Olivier. ‘Should I get her?’



‘No, we’ll walk over. Merci, patron.’



‘I didn’t go,’ Olivier whispered to Gamache as he handed him his change at the till on the long wooden bar, ‘because I was too afraid.’



‘I don’t blame you. There’s something about that house.’



‘And that woman.’



‘Madeleine Favreau?’ Gamache found himself whispering now.



‘No. Jeanne Chauvet, the psychic. Do you know what she said to Gabri as soon as she arrived?’



Gamache waited.



‘She said, “You won’t get laid here.”’



Gamache absorbed the unlikely words.



‘Are you sure? It seems a strange thing for a psychic to worry about. It’s not—’



‘True? Of course not. In fact – well, never mind.’



Gamache walked out the door into the splendid day with Olivier’s last whispered warning in his ears.



‘She’s a witch, you know.’



The three Sûreté officers walked along the road that circled the village green.



‘I’m confused,’ Agent Lemieux said, running a little to keep up with Gamache’s strides. ‘Was it murder?’



‘I’m confused too, young man,’ said Gamache, stopping to look at him. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t call you out.’



Lemieux was taken aback by the question. He’d expected the Chief Inspector to be delighted, thanking him even. Instead Gamache was looking at him with patience and slight puzzlement.