The Cruelest Month

‘You knew I was here.’



Gamache wasn’t crumbling before this wretched display.



‘And I was looking for you, sir. I heard something. Voices, and I knew you wouldn’t be talking to anyone so I thought maybe there was someone else. Maybe the person who broke the police tape. Maybe you needed help. But,’ Lemieux hung his head and shook it, ‘there’s no excuse. I could have killed you. Do you want my gun?’



‘I want the truth. Don’t lie to me, son.’



‘I’m not lying, sir, really. I know it sounds pathetic, but I just got scared.’



And still Gamache was silent. Was this not going to work, Lemieux wondered?



‘Oh, God. I’m a total screw-up. First the ephedra thing and now this.’



‘It was a mistake,’ said Gamache, his voice still hard but not as hard as before.



He’d won. What had Brébeuf said? ‘Everyone loves a sinner, but none more than Gamache. He believes he can save the drowning. Your job is to drown.’



And so he had. He’d purposely left the ephedra clue up on Gabri’s computer, to be caught and forgiven, and now he’d been caught again. Drawing his gun had been stupid, but he’d managed to turn a mistake into an advantage. And Gamache, pathetic, weak Gamache, was actually forgiving him for drawing his gun. That was Gamache’s drug of choice, his weakness. He loved to forgive.



‘Did you find anything, sir?’



‘Nothing. This house isn’t ready to give up its secrets.’



‘Secrets? The house has secrets?’



‘Houses are like people, Agent Lemieux. They have secrets. I’ll tell you something I’ve learned.’



Armand Gamache dropped his voice so that Agent Lemieux had to strain to hear.



‘Do you know what makes us sick, Agent Lemieux?’



Lemieux shook his head. Then out of the darkness and stillness he heard the answer.



‘It’s our secrets that make us sick.’



Behind him, a small creak broke the silence.



THIRTY



‘What happened then?’ asked Lacoste. They were on their way back to the Incident Room. Once out of the canopy of trees they could see the storm cloud rising. It now blocked a quarter of the sky. Its progress was slow, but determined.



‘Pardon?’ Beauvoir asked, distracted by the sight of the cloud.



‘The Chief Inspector? He had the evidence against Arnot and the others, what’d he do with it?’



‘I don’t know.’



‘Oh, come on. You must know. He told you all the other stuff. The story about the Cree woman never came out in court.’



‘No. They decided to keep that quiet, in case she became a target. You can’t tell anyone.’



Lacoste was about to protest that anyone who might care was locked up, but then she remembered the morning’s newspaper article. Someone still cared.



‘I won’t.’



Beauvoir nodded curtly and continued walking.



‘There’s more,’ Lacoste said, running to catch up. ‘What is it?’



‘Agent Nichol.’



‘What about her?’



Beauvoir knew he’d gone too far. Cautioned himself to stop. But still the words escaped, eager to find an accomplice, to find sympathetic company.



‘She was sent by Superintendent Francoeur to spy on the Chief Inspector.’



The words themselves seemed to stink.



‘Merde,’ said Lacoste.



‘Merde,’ agreed Beauvoir.



‘No, really. Shit.’ Lacoste pointed to the ground. Sure enough, a huge pile of shit steamed by the side of the road. Beauvoir tried to twist out of the way but still managed to step in the side of it.



‘God, it’s disgusting.’ He lifted his foot, all soft Italian leather and softer, stinking shit. ‘Aren’t people supposed to pick up after their dogs?’



He scraped the side of his shoe on the road, covering the leather with dirt as well as the shit.



‘It isn’t dog poop,’ said an authoritative voice.



Beauvoir and Lacoste looked around but saw no one. Beauvoir peered into the forest. Had one of the trees stopped singing and actually spoken? Was it possible the very first words he heard from a tree were ‘It isn’t dog poop’? He turned to see Peter and Clara Morrow walking toward them. Guess not, thought Beauvoir, and wondered how long they’d been there and what they’d heard.



Peter bent and examined the pile. Only country people, thought Beauvoir, were endlessly fascinated by shit. Country people and parents.



‘Bear,’ Peter said, straightening up. ‘We just walked by here minutes ago. You mean a bear was behind us?’