The Cruelest Month

‘He seems to have recovered well.’



‘Yes, yes he does,’ she said with perhaps a bit too much effort to appear blasé.



He wondered what was going on behind that placid, somewhat sad face. What did Hazel Smyth really think of Monsieur Béliveau?



TWENTY-EIGHT



Gamache hummed a little as he walked through the kitchen of the old Hadley house. The hum was neither loud enough to scare a ghost, nor tuneful enough to be comforting. But it was human and natural and company.



Then Gamache ran out of kitchen and comfort. He faced another closed door. As a homicide officer he’d grown wary of closed doors, both literal and figurative, though he knew answers lived behind closed doors.



But sometimes something else lurked there. Something old and rotted and twisted by time and necessity.



Gamache knew people were like homes. Some were cheerful and bright, some gloomy. Some could look good on the outside but feel wretched on the interior. And some of the least attractive homes, from the outside, were kindly and warm inside.



He also knew the first few rooms were for public consumption. It was only in going deeper that he’d find the reality. And finally, inevitably, there was the last room, the one we keep locked, and bolted and barred, even from ourselves. Especially from ourselves.



It was that room Gamache hunted in every murder investigation. There the secrets were kept. There the monsters waited.



‘What took you so long?’ Michel Brébeuf spoke into his phone, frustrated and angry. He didn’t like being kept waiting. And he sure as hell didn’t like it when junior officers ignored his calls. ‘You must have known it was me.’



‘I did, but I couldn’t answer. There’re other things happening.’



Robert Lemieux’s tone had stopped being obsequious. Since that last interview in Brébeuf’s office something had changed. The power had somehow shifted and Brébeuf couldn’t figure out how. Or why. Or what to do about it.



‘Don’t let it happen again.’



Brébeuf had meant it to be a warning, but instead it had come out petulant and whiny. Lemieux solidified his position by ignoring the comment.



‘Where are you now?’ Brébeuf asked.



‘In the old Hadley house. Gamache is searching the rest of the house and I’m in the room where the murder happened.’



‘Is he close to solving the case?’



‘Are you kidding? A few minutes ago he was communing with a dead bird. The Chief Inspector’s a long way from figuring this out.’



‘Have you?’



‘Have I what?’



‘Figured out who murdered the woman.’



‘That’s not my job, remember?’



Superintendent Brébeuf noticed there was no longer any pretense about who was in charge. Even the ‘sir’s had disappeared. The likeable, malleable, ambitious but slightly stupid young officer had turned into something else.



‘How’s Agent Nichol doing?’



‘She’s a disaster. I don’t know why you wanted her here.’



‘She serves a purpose.’ Brébeuf felt his shoulders drop from where they’d crept up around his ears. He had one secret from Lemieux anyway. Yvette Nichol.



‘Look, you need to tell me why she’s here,’ said Lemieux, then after a pause, ‘Sir.’



Now Brébeuf was smiling. God bless Agent Nichol. Wretched, lost Agent Nichol.



‘Has the Chief Inspector seen the newspaper?’



There was a pause as Lemieux struggled with letting the Nichol thing go. ‘Yes. He talked about it at lunch.’



‘And?’



‘Didn’t seem to bother him. Even laughed.’



Gamache laughed, thought Brébeuf. He’d been clearly and personally attacked, and he’d laughed.



‘That’s all right. What I expected, actually.’



And it was. But he’d hoped for something else. In his daydreams he’d seen that familiar face stunned and hurt. Had even imagined Gamache phoning his best friend for support and advice. And what advice had Michel Brébeuf prepared and practiced?



‘Don’t let them win, Armand. Focus on the investigation and leave the rest to me.’



And Armand Gamache would relax, knowing his friend would protect him. He’d turn his attention fully to finding the killer, and not see what was creeping up behind him. Out of the long, dark shadow he himself created.



So far Gamache had peered into the attic, shining his light and scaring a few bats, and himself. He’d glanced around all the bedrooms and bathrooms and closets. He’d stridden purposefully through the cobwebbed living room with its heavy mantelpiece and moldings and into the dining room.