A Fatal Grace

  Gamache hauled him out of the hole.

  The noise was mounting as the flames approached. Outside the shouts were growing ever more frantic.

  ‘These old houses almost always have a second stairway up,’ said Gamache, sending his flashlight beam around the kitchen. ‘It’ll be small and maybe boarded up.’

  Beauvoir yanked open cupboards while Gamache pounded on the tongue-in-groove walls. Beauvoir had forgotten the home of his grand-mère in Charlevoix, with its tiny secret staircase off the kitchen. He hadn’t thought of it in years. Hadn’t wanted to. Had buried it deep and covered it over, but here he was in a strange house, on fire, and now the memory decided to come back. Like that smoke in the basement it rolled inexorably toward him, slowly engulfing him, and suddenly he was back in that house, in that secret stairway. Hiding from his brother. Or so he thought until he’d grown bored and tried to leave. The door had been locked from the outside. He had no light and suddenly he had no air. The walls closed in, crushing him. The stairs moaned. The house, so comforting and familiar, had turned on him. His brother had said it was an accident when the hysterical child had been found and removed but Jean Guy had never believed it, and had never forgiven him.

  Jean Guy Beauvoir had learned at the age of six that nowhere was safe and no one could be trusted.

  ‘Here,’ he shouted, staring into the half doorway. He’d taken it for a broom closet, but now his flashlight showed a set of steep, narrow steps leading up. Shining his light to the top he saw the trap door was closed. Please God, not locked.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Gamache moved ahead of Beauvoir into the stairway. ‘Come on.’ He looked back, puzzled, as Beauvoir hesitated then entered the dark, narrow space.

  The stairs were built for tiny people from a century ago, undernourished Québecois farmers, not the well-fed Sûreté officers of today, wearing outsized winter firefighting clothing. There was barely enough room to crawl. Gamache took off his helmet, and Beauvoir did the same, relieved to be free of the cumbersome piece of equipment. Gamache edged up the narrow steps, his coat scraping the walls. It was black up ahead and their flashing lights played on the closed trap door. Beauvoir’s heart was pounding and his breathing fast and shallow. Was the smoke getting thicker? It was. He was sure he could feel flames at his back and turned to stare behind him, but saw only darkness. It wasn’t much of a comfort. Please, let’s just get out of here. Even if the entire second floor was in flames, that was better than being entombed in the stairway.

  Gamache put his shoulder to the trap door and shoved.

  Nothing happened.

  He shoved again, harder. It didn’t budge.

  Beauvoir looked back down to where they’d been. Smoke was seeping under the door below. And the door above was locked.

  ‘Here, let me through.’ He tried to shove past Gamache, even though a piece of paper wouldn’t get by. ‘Use the axe,’ he said, his voice rising. He could feel his skin tingling and his breathing coming in quick shallow gulps. His head felt light and he thought he might pass out.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ he said, hitting the walls with his fist. The stairway had him by the throat and was choking him. He could hardly breathe now. Trapped.

  ‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache called. His cheek was on the ceiling, his body pressed against it. He couldn’t go forward and he couldn’t go back and he couldn’t comfort Jean Guy, who was panicking.

  ‘Harder, push harder,’ Beauvoir shouted, his voice rising in hysteria. ‘God, the smoke’s coming in.’

  Gamache could feel Beauvoir cramming his body against his in an effort to get further from the smoke and flames.

  We’re going to die here, Beauvoir knew. The walls were closing in, dark and narrow, binding and suffocating him.

  ‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache shouted. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘She’s not worth it. For God’s sake, let’s go.’ He was shouting and tugging at Gamache’s arm, dragging him back down into the darkness. ‘She’s not worth it. We have to get out of here.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Gamache commanded. He turned as much as he could in the tight area, Beauvoir’s flashlight hitting his face, blinding him. ‘Listen to me. Are you listening?’ he barked. The frantic tugging eased. The stairwell was filling up with smoke now. Gamache knew there wasn’t much time. He strained to look past the light and catch the face beyond.

  ‘Who do you love, Jean Guy?’

  Beauvoir thought he must be hallucinating. Dear God, was the chief about to quote poetry? He didn’t want to die with Ruth Zardo’s dreary words in his ears.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Think of someone you love.’ The chief’s voice was insistent and steady.

  I love you. The thought came to Beauvoir without hesitation. Then he thought of his wife, his mother. But first was Armand Gamache.

  ‘Imagine we’re here to save them.’ This wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order.

  Beauvoir imagined Gamache trapped in this burning house, injured, calling his name. Suddenly the narrow staircase wasn’t so narrow, the darkness not as threatening.

  Reine-Marie, thought Gamache, over and over, and had thought ever since he’d known he had to enter the burning building. Not after Agent Yvette Nichol. Not Saul Petrov. But Reine-Marie. The idea of saving her erased all thoughts of personal safety. No fear existed or could exist. All that mattered was finding her. Nichol became Reine-Marie and terror became courage.

  He shoved and shoved against the door. He coughed now and could hear Beauvoir coughing as well.

  ‘It moved,’ he shouted to Beauvoir, and redoubled his efforts. Someone, he realized, must have put a piece of furniture on it. A refrigerator by the feel of it.

  He stepped back for a split second and gathered himself. He stared at the door and was silent. Then he closed his eyes. Opening them, he gave it a mighty heave. It moved enough to wedge the axe into the gap. Using it as leverage he forced the trap door up, the smoke pouring in and blinding him. He buried his face in his shoulder, trying to breathe through the clothing. He heard and felt the piece of furniture tumble to the ground and the door flew open.

  ‘Nichol,’ he bellowed, taking in a lungful of smoke then coughing it out again. He could barely see but the flashlight told him he was in a small bedroom. A chest of drawers was on its side beside the trap door. Beauvoir scrambled out after him, noticing that the smoke was heavier here than in the stairway. Time was almost up.

  Beauvoir could hear the fire close now and feel its warmth. He’d gone from freezing cold to blistering hot in no time, something his grand-mère said would be the death of him.

  ‘Nichol! Petrov!’ both men shouted.

  They listened, then moved into the corridor and there it was. The wall of flames licking the ceiling then contracting as though drawing breath. Gamache moved quickly down the corridor away from it, crouching, and ducked into the next room, tripping over something as he stepped across the threshold.

  ‘I’m here.’ Nichol got to her knees and threw herself at Gamache. ‘Thank you, thank you.’ It felt as though she was trying to crawl into his skin. ‘I am worth it. I really am. I’m sorry.’ She clung to him as though drowning.

  ‘Petrov? Listen to me. Where’s Petrov?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Right. Take this.’ He handed her his light. ‘Beauvoir, lead the way.’

  Beauvoir turned and all three crouched and raced back down the corridor, toward the flames and smoke. Ducking into the small bedroom Beauvoir almost fell into the hole in the floor. It was hot. He shone his light down and could see a froth of smoke and flames beneath.

  ‘We can’t,’ he shouted. The roaring was close now. Almost upon them. Gamache went to the window and broke it with his elbow.

  ‘There,’ he heard Ruth shout. ‘Up there. Get the ladders.’

  Within moments Billy Williams’s face appeared at the window. Soon all three were staggering away from the building. Gamache turned to see the building swallowed up, bright orange embers, smoke and
Saul Petrov shooting heavenward.

  THIRTY-TWO

  They woke up late the next morning to an enchanted day. The cold spell had broken and snow was falling heavily, lying thick upon the cars, the houses, the people as they languidly went about their lives. From his room Gamache could see Peter Morrow at the birdfeeder, pouring seed into it. As soon as he left black-capped chickadees and blue jays descended, followed quickly by hungry squirrels and chipmunks. Billy Williams was shoveling the rink, a rearguard action at best as the snow piled up behind him. Émilie Longpré was walking Henri. Slowly. Everyone seemed to be at half speed this day. Strange, thought Gamache as he showered and got into his corduroys, turtleneck and warm pullover, the village seemed more diminished by the death of the unknown photographer than by CC’s.

  It was ten in the morning. They’d gotten back to the B. & B. at six thirty. Gamache had run a long, hot bath and had lain in it, trying not to think. But one phrase kept coming back.

  ‘I’m worth it, I really am,’ Nichol had said, slobbering and weeping and grabbing at him. I’m worth it.

  Gamache didn’t know why, but it gave him pause.

  Jean Guy Beauvoir had gone to bed after a quick shower, pumped. He felt as though he’d just run a triathlon and won. He wondered, briefly, whether curlers ever felt that way. He was physically at his limit. Cold, exhausted. But he was mentally buzzing.

  They’d lost Petrov, but they’d gone into the burning building and saved Nichol.

  Ruth Zardo had bathed then sat at her plastic kitchen table, sipping Scotch and writing poetry.

  Now here’s a good one: you’re lying on your deathbed.

  You have one hour to live.

  Who is it, exactly, you have needed

  all these years to forgive?

  Yvette Nichol had gone straight to bed, filthy, stinking, exhausted, but feeling something else. She lay in bed, safe and warm.

  Gamache had saved her. Literally. From a burning building. She was beyond buoyant, she was overjoyed. Finally, someone cared for her. And not just anyone, but the Chief Inspector.

  Could this be hope?

  The thought had warmed her and sent her off to sleep wrapped in the promise of belonging, of finally taking a seat in the living room.

  She’d told Gamache about Uncle Saul.

  ‘Why did you go in there?’ he’d asked when they were warming up in the school bus, elderly volunteers handing out sandwiches and hot drinks.

  ‘To save him,’ she’d said, feeling herself falling into his eyes, wanting to curl up in his arms. Not as a lover, but as a child. Safe and loved. He’d saved her. He’d fought his way through the fire, for her. And now he offered her something she’d longed for and looked for all her life. Belonging. He wouldn’t have saved her if he didn’t care for her. ‘You’d said the photographer was in there and I wanted to save him.’

  Gamache had sipped his coffee and continued to stare at her. He’d waited until no one else was around then lowered his voice. ‘It’s all right, Yvette. You can tell me.’

  And she had. He’d listened closely, never interrupting, never laughing or even smiling. At times his eyes seemed full of sympathy. She told him things that had never left the walls of her immaculate home. She’d told him about stupid Uncle Saul in Czechoslovakia, who’d flunked out of the police and failed to save his family. Had he succeeded he’d have been able to warn them of the putsch, to protect them. But he couldn’t, he didn’t and he died. They all died. They died because they didn’t belong.

  ‘You went in there because his name was Saul?’ Gamache had asked, not mocking, but wanting to be clear.

  She’d nodded, not even feeling defensive or needing to explain or blame. He’d sat back in the seat, staring out the window at the still burning house, the efforts of the firefighters no longer to save it but to let it burn itself out.

  ‘May I give you a piece of advice?’

  Again she’d nodded, eager to hear what he might say.

  ‘Let it go. You have your own life. Not Uncle Saul’s, not your parents’.’ His face had grown very serious then, his eyes searching. ‘You can’t live in the past and you certainly can’t undo it. What happened to Uncle Saul has nothing to do with you. Memories can kill, Yvette. The past can reach right up and grab you and drag you to a place you shouldn’t be. Like a burning building.’

  He’d looked out again at the hungry, licking flames, then back at her. He’d leaned forward then until their heads were almost touching. It was the most intimate moment she’d known. In a soft voice he’d whispered, ‘Bury your dead.’

  Now she lay in bed, warm and safe. It’s going to be all right, she said to herself, noticing the soft snow falling on the windowsill. She brought the duvet up to her chin and buried her nose in the bedding. It smelled of smoke.

  And with the smell came a ragged phrase, shouted through the smoke. Cutting through and finding her curled on the floor, terrified and alone. She was going to die, she knew. Alone. And instead of the rescuers finding her, their words did.

  She’s not worth it.

  She was going to burn to death, alone. Because she wasn’t worth saving. The voice had belonged to Beauvoir. What didn’t chase those words down that corridor, through the acrid smoke, was Gamache’s voice saying, ‘Yes she is.’

  All she’d heard was the roar of the approaching fire, and her own heart howling.

  Fucking Gamache would have left her to die. He wasn’t looking for her, he wanted to find Petrov. Those were the first words out of his mouth when he’d found her. ‘Where’s Petrov?’ Not ‘Are you all right,’ not ‘Thank God we found you’.

  And he’d tricked her into telling him about Uncle Saul. Into betraying her father. Her family. Now he knew everything. Now he knew for sure she wasn’t worth it.

  God damn Gamache.

  ‘It must have been arson,’ said Beauvoir, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. He was famished.

  ‘Ruth doesn’t think so,’ said Gamache, spreading strawberry jam on his croissant and sipping his strong, hot coffee. They were in the dining room of the B. & B., a warm, cozy room dominated by a huge fireplace and a window with a view of the forests and the mountains beyond, obscured now by the heavily falling snow.

  Both men were whispering, their throats raw from the smoke and the shouting of the night before. Gabri looked like hell, and Olivier had closed the bistro and would only reopen for lunch.

  ‘You’re getting what you’re getting this morning. No special orders,’ Gabri had snapped when they’d shown up. Then he’d produced an exquisite breakfast of eggs and maple-cured back bacon, French toast and syrup. And steaming, buttery croissants. ‘Fortunately for you, I cook when I’m stressed. What a night. Tragic.’

  After he’d retreated to the kitchen Beauvoir turned back to Gamache.

  ‘What d’you mean she thinks it wasn’t arson? What else could it be? A main suspect, at the very least a witness in a murder case, dies in a fire and it isn’t murder?’

  ‘She says the neighbor saw flames shooting out the chimney.’

  ‘So? Flames were shooting out everywhere. They were almost shooting out my ass.’

  ‘The neighbor thinks it was an accident, a chimney fire. We’ll see. The fire inspector’ll be there now. We’ll get a report by this afternoon. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Jean Guy.’

  ‘And when it bursts into flames, what is it then? No, sir. That was arson. Saul Petrov was murdered.’

  The rest of the day was spent in slow motion, as everyone recovered from the fire and waited for the results of the fire marshal’s investigation. Lemieux had found out that Saul Petrov’s next of kin was a sister in Quebec City. An agent was despatched to break the news and gather more background.

  After breakfast Beauvoir trudged through the knee-deep fluffy snow, kicking it ahead of him as he went house to house, interviewing villagers in the hope of finding someone who knew a woman with a name beginning with L who’d lived in the area forty-five years before.
Lemieux searched the parish records.

  It was a quiet, almost dream-like day, their lives muffled by exhaustion and the thick layer of gathering snow. Gamache sat at his desk. Behind him the volunteer firefighters cleaned the pumper truck and put their equipment in order. Occasionally he nodded off, his feet on his desk, his eyes closed and his hands folded over his stomach.

  She’s not worth it.

  He startled awake. Beauvoir’s voice, panicked, filled his head again, and again he smelt smoke. He dropped his feet to the floor, his heart racing. The volunteers were slowly going about their work on their side of the large room, but he was alone on his side. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to join the volunteers, to retire to Three Pines and buy one of the old village homes. To put out his shingle. A. Gamache, Détective privé.

  But then he noticed that he wasn’t alone after all. Sitting quietly at a terminal was Agent Nichol. He thought for a moment, wondering whether he was about to do something very foolish. He got up and walked over to her.

  ‘At the height of the fire, when we were trying to save you…’ He sat down, forcing her to look at him. She was pale and radiated smoke as though it had seeped beneath her skin. Her clothes were ill fitting and slightly dirty, a grease stain on her lapel, dark smudges round her cuffs. Her hair was badly cut and falling into her eyes. He felt like giving her his credit card with instructions to buy nice clothes. He felt like passing his large, tired hand in front of her brow to sweep the dull hair from her angry eyes. He did neither, of course. ‘Something was said. I suspect you heard it. One of us yelled, “She’s not worth it.”’

  Now she looked at him straight on, her face full of bitterness.

  Gamache stared back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s time for the truth, for both of us.’

  He told her what he had in mind, his plan. And she listened. When he’d finished he asked her to keep it to herself. She agreed and thought two things. That he was probably smarter than she’d given him credit for, and that he was going down. After he was gone she brought out her cell phone and made a quick, discreet call.