The Cruelest Month

But there was a reason she was on this case now. A reason he had to keep to himself.



He watched as Yvette Nichol leaned so close to her soup her hair dipped into it. It hung down and created an almost impenetrable curtain. But between the clumps he could just see her spoon sputter and spill its contents as it shook its way to her mouth.



‘You’ve probably all seen this.’ He held up a copy of La Journée.



They nodded.



‘They’re referring to me, of course, but it means nothing. It’s just a slow news day after a long weekend and they decided to resurrect the Arnot case. That’s all. I don’t want this interfering with your work. D’accord?’



He looked around. Agent Lemieux was nodding agreement, Agent Nichol was soaking soup from the ends of her hair with a paper napkin and appeared not to have heard. Inspector Beauvoir was looking at him intently, then nodded curtly and picked up a huge roast beef and horseradish sandwich on a croissant.



‘Agent Lacoste?’



Isabelle Lacoste was staring at him, unmoving. Not eating, not nodding, not speaking. Just staring.



‘Tell me,’ said Gamache, folding his hands in his lap, away from his food, giving her his full attention.



‘I think it’s something, sir. You always say everything happens for a reason. I think there’s a reason that was put into the paper.’



‘And what would that be?’



‘You know, sir, what that reason is. It’s what it’s always been. They want to get rid of you.’



‘Who are “they”?’



‘The people in the Sûreté still loyal to Arnot.’ She didn’t even hesitate, didn’t have to think about that. It helped, of course, that she’d spent all morning thinking about it and coming to that conclusion.



She watched as he absorbed her words.



Armand Gamache looked across the table and straight into her eyes. His own brown eyes were steady and thoughtful and calm. Through all the chaos, through all the threats and stress, through all the attacks, verbal and physical, they’d endured in trying to find murderers, this was what she always remembered. Chief Inspector Gamache, calm and strong and in charge. He was their leader for a reason. He never flinched. And he didn’t flinch now.



‘Their reasons are their own,’ he finally said. ‘I don’t have to care.’ He looked around at the others. Even Agent Nichol was looking at him, her mouth slightly open.



‘What about others?’ asked Lacoste. ‘The people here? Or other agents in the Sûreté? People will believe it.’



‘So?’



‘Well, it could hurt us.’



‘What would you have me do? Take out an ad saying it’s not true? There are two things I can do. I can get upset and worry about it, or I can let it go. Guess which one I choose?’



He smiled now. The tension left the room for the first time and they were able to get on with their lunch and their reports. By the time Olivier cleared their plates and brought in the cheese course Beauvoir and Gamache had brought them up to speed. Robert Lemieux had reported on his interview with Monsieur Béliveau.



‘What do we know of his wife?’ Beauvoir asked. ‘Ginette was her name?’



‘Nothing yet,’ said Lemieux, ‘except that she died a few years ago. Is it important?’



‘Could be. Gilles Sandon seemed to be hinting it was no coincidence that two women Monsieur Béliveau was involved with should die.’



‘Yeah, a tree probably told him that,’ mumbled Nichol.



‘What was that, Agent?’ Beauvoir turned on her.



‘Nothing,’ she said. Soup had dripped from her hair onto the padded shoulders of her cheap suit and crumbs clung to her chest. ‘It’s just that I don’t think we can take seriously anything Sandon says. He’s obviously nuts. He talks to trees, for God’s sake. The same with that witch woman. She spreads salt, lights candles and talks to the dead. And you’re paying attention to anything she says?’ She directed this at Armand Gamache.



‘Come with me, Agent Nichol.’ Gamache carefully put his napkin on the table and rose. Without another word he opened the French doors to the flagstone patio at the back of the bistro, overlooking the river.



Beauvoir had a brief fantasy of the chief tossing her in, his last sight of Nichol flailing hands disappearing into the white foam, to be dumped into the poor Atlantic Ocean a week from now.



Instead the team watched Nichol gesturing wildly and actually stomping her feet while Gamache listened, face stern and serious. They could hear nothing over the roar of the river. Once he lifted his hand and she quieted down, grew very still. Then he spoke. She nodded, turned and walked away.