‘We’d been curling for almost an hour. It was a funspiel, so it was shorter than regular games, and being outside we didn’t want everyone to get too cold.’
‘Didn’t work. It was freezing. Coldest I remember,’ said Kaye.
‘We were losing, as usual,’ Em continued. ‘At some point I realized the other team had put a whole lot of rocks in the house.’
Seeing Beauvoir’s expression she explained. ‘The house is the bull’s-eye, those red rings painted on the ice. That’s where you want your rocks to end up. The other team had done a good job and the house was full of their stones. So I asked Mother to do what’s called “clearing the house”.’
‘I wind up and toss my stone down the ice.’ Mother stood up and moved her right arm out in front of her, then swung it behind her, then in one fast movement brought it down and out in front again, pantomiming a pendulum swinging. ‘The stone shoots down the ice and hits as many of the rocks out of the house as possible.’
‘It sounds like doing the break in pool,’ said Beauvoir and realized by their faces that made about as much sense to them as ‘clearing the house’ had to him.
‘It’s a lot of fun,’ said Mother.
‘In fact,’ added Em, ‘it’s so much fun it’s become a tradition at the Boxing Day funspiel. I’m convinced most people go just to see Mother clear the house.’
‘It’s very dramatic, rocks banging everywhere,’ said Mother.
‘Noisy,’ said Kaye.
‘It normally signals the end of the match. After that we give up,’ said Em. ‘Then we all go back to the Legion for a hot buttered rum.’
‘Except yesterday,’ said Beauvoir. ‘What happened yesterday?’
‘I didn’t know there was any problem until everyone started running toward where Kaye and CC de Poitiers were,’ said Mother.
‘Neither did I,’ said Em. ‘I was watching Mother’s stone. Everyone was. Then there was a huge cheer, but that suddenly stopped. I thought—’
‘What did you think, madame?’ Gamache asked, seeing her stricken face.
‘She thought I’d keeled over,’ said Kaye. ‘Didn’t you?’
Em nodded.
‘No such luck. She’ll outlive us all,’ said Mother. ‘She’s a hundred and forty-five years old already.’
‘That’s my IQ,’ said Kaye. ‘I’m actually ninety-two. Mother’s seventy-eight. You don’t meet many people whose age is greater than their IQ.’
‘When did you realize something had happened?’ Beauvoir asked Kaye, casually, trying not to show that this was the key question. Sitting in front of them was really the only witness to the crime.
Kaye thought about it for a moment, her small, wrinkled face looking like a Mrs Potato Head that had been left too long in the sun.
‘That woman who died, CC? She was sitting in Em’s chair. We always brought our own lawn chairs and put them under the heat lamp. People were very kind and allowed us the warmest seats. Except that horrible woman—’
‘Kaye,’ said Émilie, a reproach in her voice.
‘She was and we all know it. Always bossing people about, moving things, straightening things. I’d put the salt and pepper on the tables for the Legion breakfast and she went around moving them. And complained about the tea.’
‘That was my tea,’ said Mother. ‘She’d never had natural, organic, herbal tisane even though she pretended to have been in India.’
‘Please,’ said Émilie. ‘The poor woman’s dead.’
‘CC and I were sitting side by side, about five feet apart. As I said, it was quite cold and I was wearing a lot of clothing. I think I might have dozed off. The next thing I know CC’s standing at Mother’s chair gripping the back of it as though she’s going to pick it up and throw it. But she’s kind of trembling. Everyone around is cheering and clapping but then I realized CC wasn’t cheering at all, but screaming. Then she lets go of the chair and falls down.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I got up to see what had happened, of course. She was lying on her back and there was a strange smell. I think I must have called out because the next thing I knew there were all these people around. Then Ruth Zardo took over. Bossy woman. Writes horrible poetry. Nothing rhymes. Give me a good bit of Wordsworth any time.’
‘Why did she get out of her chair?’ Beauvoir asked hastily before Kaye or Gamache or both started quoting.
‘How should I know?’
‘Did you see anyone else around the chairs? Anyone bending over them, say? Or maybe spilling a drink?’
‘Nobody,’ said Kaye, firmly.
‘Did Madame de Poitiers speak to you at all?’ Gamache asked.
Kaye hesitated. ‘She seemed disturbed by Mother’s chair. There was something about it that was upsetting her, I think.’
‘What?’ Mother said. ‘You never told me that. What could possibly upset her about my chair, except the fact it was mine? She was out to get me, that woman. And now she died holding my chair.’
Mother’s face matched her caftan and her bitter voice filled the calm and tranquil room. She seemed to realize how she sounded and regained herself.
‘What do you mean, madame?’ asked Gamache.
‘About what?’
‘You said Madame de Poitiers was out to get you. What did you mean by that?’
Mother looked at Émilie and Kaye, as though suddenly lost and frightened.
‘She means,’ said Kaye, jumping in to save her friend, ‘that CC de Poitiers was a stupid, vapid, vindictive woman. And she got what she deserved.’
Agent Robert Lemieux was deep in the bowels of Sûreté headquarters in Montreal, a building he’d seen in recruitment posters, but never actually visited. In recruitment posters he’d also seen a whole lot of happy Québecois gathered respectfully round a Sûreté officer in uniform. That was something else he’d never seen in real life.
He’d found the door, closed, and the name Chief Inspector Gamache had given him stenciled onto the frosted glass.
He knocked and adjusted the leather of his satchel over his shoulder.
‘Venez,’ the voice barked. A thin, balding man looked up from his slanting desk. A pool of light from a small lamp shining on it was the only light in the room. Lemieux had no idea whether the room was tiny or cavernous, though he could guess. He felt claustrophobic.
‘You Lemieux?’
‘Yes sir. Chief Inspector Gamache sent me.’ He took a step further into the room with its formaldehyde smell and intense occupant.
‘I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t be seeing you. I’m busy. Give me what you’ve got.’
Lemieux dug into his satchel and pulled out the photograph of Elle’s dirty hand.
‘So?’
‘Well, here, you see?’ Lemieux waved an index finger over the middle of the hand.
‘You mean these bloodstains?’
Lemieux nodded, trying to look authoritative and praying to God this curt man didn’t ask him why.
‘I see what he means. Extraordinary. Right, tell the Chief Inspector he’ll get it when he gets it. Now go away.’
Agent Lemieux did.
‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Beauvoir as the two men walked through the gathering snow back to the Incident Room.
‘What struck you as interesting?’ Gamache asked, his hands behind his back as he walked.
‘Mother. She’s hiding something.’
‘Perhaps. But could she be the murderer? She was curling the whole time.’
‘But she might have wired up the chair before the curling began.’
‘True. And she might have spilled windshield washer fluid. But how did she get CC to touch the chair before anyone else? There were children running around. Any of them might have grabbed the chair. Kaye might have.’
‘Those two fought the whole time we were there. Maybe Madame Thompson was supposed to get electrocuted. Maybe Mother killed the wrong person.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Gamache. ‘But I don’t
think Madame Mayer would risk other lives.’
‘So the curlers are out?’ Beauvoir asked, disappointed.
‘I think so, but when we meet Madame Longpré tomorrow at the lake we’ll have a better idea.’
Beauvoir sighed.
He was frankly astonished the entire community hadn’t died of boredom. Just talking about curling was sucking the will to live right out of him. It was like some Anglo joke, an excuse to wear plaid and yell. Most Anglos, he’d noticed, didn’t like to raise their voices. Francophones were constantly gesturing and shouting and hugging. Beauvoir wasn’t sure why Anglos even had arms, except perhaps to carry all their money. Curling at least gave them an excuse to vent. He’d watched the Briar once on CBC television, for a moment. All he remembered was a bunch of men holding brooms and staring at a rock while one of them screamed.
‘How could someone have electrocuted CC de Poitiers and no one notice?’ Beauvoir asked as they entered the warm Incident Room, stomping their boots to get the worst of the snow off.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Gamache, walking right past Agent Nichol, who was trying to catch his eye. She’d been sitting at an empty desk when he’d left and she was still there.
Shaking his coat off Gamache hung it up. Beside him Beauvoir was fastidiously brushing the small drift from the shoulders of his own coat.
‘Glad I don’t have to shovel this.’
‘Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable,’ said Gamache. Seeing Beauvoir’s puzzled expression he added, ‘Emerson.’
‘Lake and Palmer?’
‘Ralph and Waldo.’
Gamache walked back to his desk, knowing his mind should be on the case, but finding it lingering on Nichol, wondering whether they were both in too deep.
Emerson, Ralph and Waldo? What was that? thought Beauvoir. Some obscure hippy group from the ’60s probably. The lyrics didn’t even make sense.
While Beauvoir hummed ‘Lucky Man,’ Gamache downloaded his messages, read for half an hour, listened to reports, then put his coat, tuque and gloves back on and took himself off.
Round and round the village green he walked, through the falling snow. He passed people on snowshoes and others gliding along on cross-country skis. He waved at villagers shoveling their paths and driveways. Billy Williams came by, driving a snowplow, throwing cascades of snow off the road and onto people’s lawns. No one seemed to mind. What’s another foot?
But mostly Gamache thought.
EIGHTEEN
‘Sir.’
‘Sir.’
‘Sir.’
As Gamache walked back into the Incident Room he was met with a chorus of people wanting to speak to him.
‘Sir, Agent Lemieux’s on the line from Montreal.’
‘Ask him to hold for a moment. I’ll take it in there.’ He nodded to the small office.
‘Sir,’ Agent Isabelle Lacoste called across the room. ‘I’ve got a problem here.’
‘Sir.’ Beauvoir came up beside him. ‘We’ve called the lab about the photos. They don’t have them yet, but will let us know as soon as they arrive.’
‘Good. Go see if you can help Agent Lacoste. I’ll be there shortly. Agent Nichol?’
All activity in the room stopped. It seemed impossible that the cacophony could cease so quickly, but it did. All eyes turned to Nichol, then swung back to Gamache.
‘Come with me.’
All eyes, and Nichol, followed Gamache into the tiny office.
‘Please sit.’ Gamache nodded to the only chair in the room, then picked up the phone. ‘Put Lemieux through, please.’ He waited a moment. ‘Agent? Where are you?’
‘I’m at the Old Brewery Mission. But I just came from headquarters. He’ll do what you asked.’
‘Any idea when?’
‘No sir.’
Gamache smiled. He could imagine Lemieux in that horrible room with that brilliant, gifted, horrible man. Poor Lemieux.
‘Good work.’
‘Thank you. You were right, though. They knew the vagrant here at the Mission.’ He sounded excited, as though he’d just split the atom.
‘As Elle?’
‘Yes sir. They have no other name. But you were right about the other thing. I have the director of the Mission with me. Should I put him on?’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Terry Moscher.’
‘Oui, s’il vous plaît. Put Mr Moscher on.’
After a pause a deep, authoritative voice came down the line.
‘Bonjour, Chief Inspector.’
‘Monsieur Moscher, I want to make it clear this is not our jurisdiction. This is a murder in Montreal, but we’ve been invited to make certain discreet inquiries.’
‘I understand, Chief Inspector. In answer to your question, Elle stuck to herself a lot. Most do here, so I didn’t know her well; none of the staff did. But I asked around and a few of the kitchen staff remember her having a pendant round her neck, some old silver thing they think.’
Gamache closed his eyes in a small prayer for the answer to the next question.
‘Did anyone remember what it looked like?’
‘No. I asked and one of the cooks said she’d once commented on it to Elle, by way of making conversation, and Elle immediately covered it up. It seemed important to her, but then the strangest things can seem important to street people. They get fixations, obsessions. This seemed to be one of Elle’s.’
‘One? Did she have others?’
‘Probably, but if she did we don’t know about it. We try to respect their privacy.’
‘I’ll let you go, Monsieur Moscher. You must be busy.’
‘Winter’s always busy. I hope you find out who killed her. Normally it’s the weather that gets them. It’ll be a killing cold tonight.’
Both men hung up thinking it would be nice to meet the other.
‘Sir.’ Beauvoir poked his head in the door. ‘Could you come out and see what Agent Lacoste has?’
‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
Beauvoir closed the door but not before glancing at Agent Nichol sitting like a statue on the chair, her clothes dull and ill fitting, her hairstyle ten years out of date, her eyes and complexion gray. Most women in Quebec, certainly the Québecoises, were stylish and even elegant. The younger ones were often daring in their dress. Even in the Sûreté. Agent Lacoste, for instance, was only slightly older than Nichol but she seemed a world away. She carried herself with élan. Her hair was always clean and cut in a casually elegant fashion, her clothes were simple with a dash of color and individuality. Of course, Nichol’s attire and demeanor were also unique. Their dullness set her apart. Beauvoir wished he could stay and hear the chief give her hell for daring to show up again.
Once the door closed, Gamache turned to consider the young woman sitting in front of him.
She annoyed him. Just looking at her pathetic, ‘poor-me’ demeanor set his skin on edge. She was manipulative and bitter and arrogant. He knew that.
But he also knew he’d been wrong.
That’s what he’d been considering as he’d circled the village green. Round and round he’d gone but always came back to the same place.
He’d been wrong.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking her directly in the eye. She looked back expectantly, as though bracing herself for more. I’m sorry, but you’re fired. I’m sorry, but you’re going home. I’m sorry, but you’re a pathetic loser and I don’t want you anywhere close to this investigation.
And she was right. There was more.
‘I ignored you and that was wrong.’
Still she waited, watching his face. Watching those deep brown eyes, so stern and thoughtful. He looked down at her, his hands folded casually in front of him, his hair and moustache well groomed. The small room smelled slightly of sandalwood. It was so subtle she wondered whether she was imagining it, but thought not. All her senses were heightened, waiting for the execution. The next sentence that woul
d send her back to Montreal in disgrace. Back to narcotics. And back to her tiny, immaculate home in east end Montreal, with its front vegetable garden now under snow, and her father, so proud of her successes.
How could she tell him she’d been fired, again? This was her last chance. Too many people were counting on her. Not just her father, but also the Superintendent.
‘I’m going to give you another chance, agent. I want you to look into the backgrounds of Richard Lyon and his daughter Crie. School, finances, friends, family. I’d like the information by tomorrow morning.’
Nichol rose as though in a dream. In front of her Chief Inspector Gamache had a small smile on his face and warmth in his eyes for the first time since she’d shown up.
‘You said you’ve changed?’
Nichol nodded. ‘I know I was horrible last time. I’m so sorry. I’ll do better this time. Really.’
He looked at her closely and nodded. Then extended his hand. ‘Good. Then maybe we can begin again. A fresh start.’
She slipped her small hand into his.
The asshole believed her.
Outside in the Incident Room Beauvoir saw the handshake and fervently hoped they were saying goodbye, but he had his doubts. Nichol left the room and he hurried over.
‘You didn’t.’
‘Didn’t what, Jean Guy?’
‘You know perfectly well. You didn’t put her back on the team?’
‘I had no choice. Superintendent Francoeur assigned her to me.’
‘You could have refused.’
Gamache smiled. ‘Choose your battles, Jean Guy. This isn’t one I need to fight. Besides, she might have changed.’
‘Oh, God. How many times are you going to try to kick that football?’
‘You think I’m making the same mistake?’
‘Don’t you?’
Gamache looked out the window to Nichol already on a computer.
‘Well, at least I’ll know when to cringe.’
‘You’re cringing a little now, sir. You don’t really believe her, do you?’