The Cruelest Month

He opened his eyes and stared at Gamache.



‘Those two sitting at the bistro table must have something to do with the murder,’ he whispered. Then he heard ‘ephedra’ again. This time from the direction of Monsieur Béliveau’s general store.



‘Agent, perhaps you can tell me how you did your research yesterday.’ Gamache was looking at him quite sternly.



‘Well, I was waiting for the psychic to return and noticed a computer on the desk, so I looked it up.’



‘Using Gabri’s computer.’



‘Yes.’



‘And did you close the sites you looked at?’ Inspector Beauvoir asked.



‘I’m sure I did.’



‘I’d never use ephedra, far too dangerous,’ a villager was saying to her companion as they walked by the men, pausing to smile at Gamache, who raised his hat to them. ‘But I hear Gabri used to use it, or was it Olivier? And frankly, Myrna could use a pill or two.’



Gamache replaced his cap and stared at Lemieux. It was one of the most disconcerting looks he’d ever had. Part demanding and part searching.



‘Maybe I didn’t erase it. I’m sorry. What a fool.’ Robert Lemieux dropped his head and shook it. He all but stomped his foot. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’



‘You do know what this means,’ said Beauvoir.



‘Yes sir. It means everyone in the village, probably in the county, now knows we’re interested in ephedra. They’re smart enough to figure out why.’



‘It means the murderer knows we know and will certainly dispose of the pills if he hadn’t already,’ said Gamache. ‘This is probably the only ephedra-free community in Quebec now.’



Lemieux lifted his head and let it flop back so that his nose was pointing to the blue sky. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t even think.’



‘How could you not think? Well, think now. What do you think we’re about?’ Beauvoir hissed, trying not to raise his voice for the villagers to hear. ‘Someone here is a murderer. Someone here isn’t afraid to kill. Do you know what stops most people from killing? Fear. Fear of getting caught. We’re dealing with someone who’s fearless. Very scary person, Lemieux. And you just handed them a huge advantage.’



Gamache listened with interest, though without agreement. Fear might stop some people from committing murder, but he knew for certain fear was what drove most people to kill. It was what nested below all the other emotions. It was what twisted and turned the other emotions into something sick. It was an alchemist and could turn daylight into night, joy into despair. Fear, once taken root, blocked the sun. And Gamache knew what grew in that darkness. He searched for it every day.



‘You’re right, you’re absolutely right,’ said Lemieux. ‘I’m sorry.’



He looked squarely at Gamache, who stared back sternly. Then Lemieux saw the slightest softening. Lemieux relaxed. Brébeuf was right. Intentionally leak the ephedra information, get them angry at you, apologize like hell.



Everyone loves a sinner, but none more than Gamache. And why not? After all the sinning he himself had done. After setting up Arnot and almost destroying the Sûreté, of course the great Gamache would love sinners.



Lemieux wondered what it would be like when he himself was head of homicide. Not right away, of course. But Brébeuf would have to reward him. And he’d move up quickly. And when this was over there’d be promotions to be had.



‘Be careful,’ Gamache said softly and for a terrible instant Lemieux wondered whether Gamache’s searching look could actually penetrate the skin. Did he know?



‘What do you mean?’ he asked.



‘You must pay better attention,’ said Gamache, still staring at him.



I won’t be weak, like him, thought Lemieux. And I won’t stop at Chief Inspector.



‘We’re going to have to cover more ground more quickly,’ said Gamache. ‘Inspector, I’d like you and Agent Lemieux to split up and interview everyone who witnessed the murder.’



‘You?’ asked Beauvoir.



‘I’ll be with Jeanne Chauvet.’



Beauvoir took his chief by the elbow and led him a step or two away from Lemieux.



‘I should come along,’ said Beauvoir.



‘To interview the psychic, Jean Guy? Why?’



‘Well.’ Beauvoir looked up at the old Hadley house then away. ‘It just might be better. That wasn’t simply a regular tarot card reading or Ouija board my mother and her friends used to do. Jeanne Chauvet’s a witch.’