The Cruelest Month

‘Armand?’



‘I’m here. Tell me what the paper says, please.’



As he listened the sorrow of the old Hadley house closed in. It crept toward him and ate the last of his light, until finally he was standing in the bowels of the old Hadley house in complete darkness.



‘Natives killing each other wasn’t enough for Arnot,’ said Beauvoir. He and Lacoste walked side by side through the late afternoon sun as it dappled the dirt road at their feet. ‘Arnot ordered his two top officers into the reserves to stir up trouble. Agents provocateurs.’



‘And then?’ It was almost unbearable, but she had to know. She listened to the terrible words as they walked through the tranquil forest.



‘And then Pierre Arnot ordered his officers to kill.’



Beauvoir found it hard to say. He stopped and looked into the forest, and after a moment or two the roar between his ears settled and he could make out the singing again. A robin? A blue jay? A pine? Was that what made Three Pines remarkable? Did the three giant trees on the village green sometimes sing together? Was Gilles Sandon right?



‘How many died?’



‘Arnot’s men never kept track. There’s a team from the Sûreté still trying to find all the remains. The murderers killed so many they couldn’t remember where they put all the bodies.’



‘How did they get away with it? Didn’t the families complain?’



‘To whom?’



Lacoste dropped her head and looked at the ground between her feet. The betrayal was complete.



‘The Sûreté,’ she said, in a small voice.



‘One mother from the Cree nation kept trying. For three months she held bake sales and sold hats and mitts she’d knitted and finally raised enough money for a plane ticket. One way. To Quebec City. She’d made a sign and went to the provincial government to protest. She spent all day in front of the National Assembly but no one stopped. No one paid attention. Eventually some men kicked her off the property, but she went back. Every day for a month she’d show up, sleeping on a park bench every night. And every day she was told to leave.’



‘The National Assembly? But they can’t do that. That’s public property.’



‘She wasn’t at the National Assembly. She thought she was, but she was actually picketing in front of the Château Frontenac Hôtel. No one told her. No one helped her. All they did was laugh.’



Lacoste knew Quebec City well, and could see the turreted, majestic hotel rising from the cliffs overlooking the St Lawrence river. She could see how someone unfamiliar with the city could make that mistake, but surely there was a sign. Surely she’d ask directions. Unless.



‘She spoke no French?’



‘And no English. Only Cree,’ Beauvoir confirmed. In the silence Lacoste saw the formidable hotel, and Beauvoir saw the tiny, etched old woman with the shining eyes. A mother desperate to know what happened to her son, without the words to ask.



‘What happened?’ asked Lacoste.



‘Can’t you guess?’ asked Beauvoir. They’d stopped again and Beauvoir was looking at Lacoste, her face troubled. Then her expression cleared.



‘Chief Inspector Gamache found her.’



‘He was staying at the Château Frontenac,’ said Beauvoir. ‘He’d seen the woman when he’d gone out in the morning, and noticed she was still there when he returned. He spoke to her.’



Isabelle Lacoste could see the whole scene. The chief, solid and courtly, approaching the solitary native woman. Lacoste could see the fear in her dark eyes as yet another official approached and wanted to move her along, out of sight of decent people. And she wouldn’t understand Chief Inspector Gamache. He’d try French then English and she’d just stare up at him, wizened and worried. But one thing she would understand. He was kind.



‘Her placard was in Cree, of course,’ Beauvoir continued. ‘The chief left her and brought back tea and sandwiches and an interpreter from the Aboriginal Center. It was early fall and they sat on the side of the fountain in front of the hotel. You know it?’



‘In the park? Under the old maple trees? I know it well. I sit there too whenever I visit Vieux Québec. The street performers are just down the hill in front of the cafés.’



‘They sat there,’ Beauvoir nodded, ‘drinking tea and eating sandwiches. The chief said the elderly woman said a little prayer before eating, blessing their food. She was obviously starving, but she paused for prayer.’



Beauvoir and Lacoste were no longer looking at each other. They were facing each other on the dirt road, in the sunshine, but staring in opposite directions. Off into the woods, each in their own thoughts, playing out in their heads the scene in Old Quebec.