Louise Penny is the New York Times-bestselling author of the Chief Inspector Gamache novels, the first of which, Still Life, won the CWA John Creasey Dagger in 2006. Recipient of virtually every other existing award for crime fiction, she lives in a small village south of Montreal.
The Chief Inspector Gamache series by Louise Penny
Still Life
Dead Cold
The Cruellest Month
The Murder Stone
The Brutal Telling
Bury Your Dead
COPYRIGHT
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-748-12965-2
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Louise Penny
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Published in Canada and the United States as A Rule Against Murder
Excerpt from The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service used with permission of the estate of John Masefield.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
COPYRIGHT
THE CHIEF INSPECTOR GAMACHE SERIES BY LOUISE PENNY
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For my parents, in love and memory
PROLOGUE
More than a century ago the Robber Barons discovered Lac Massawippi. They came with purpose from Montreal, Boston, New York, and burrowing deep into the Canadian wilderness they built the great lodge. Though, of course, they didn’t actually dirty their own hands. What clung to them was something else entirely. No, these men hired men with names like Zoétique, Télesphore and Honoré to hack down the massive and ancient forests. At first the Québécois were resistant, having lived in the forest all their lives. They balked at destroying a thing of such beauty and a few of the more intuitive recognized the end when they saw it. But money took care of that and slowly the forest receded and the magnificent Manoir Bellechasse rose. After months of cutting and stripping and turning and drying the huge logs were finally stacked one on top of the other. It was an art, this building of log homes. But what guided the keen eyes and rough hands of these men wasn’t aesthetics but the certainty that winter’s bite would kill whoever was inside if they didn’t choose the logs wisely. A coureur du bois could contemplate the stripped trunk of a massive tree for hours, as though deciphering it. Walking round and round, sitting on a stump, filling his pipe and staring until finally this coureur du bois, this man of the woods, knew exactly where that tree would sit for the rest of its life.
It took years, but finally the great lodge was completed. The last man stood on the magnificent copper roof like a lightning rod and surveyed the forests and the lonely, haunting lake from a height he’d never achieve again. And if that man’s eyes could see far enough he’d make out something horrible approaching, like the veins of summer lightning. Marching towards not merely the lodge, but the exact place he stood, on the gleaming metal roof. Something dreadful was going to happen on that very spot.
He’d laid copper roofs before, always with the same design. But this time, when everyone else had thought it was finished, he’d climbed back up and added a ridge, a cap along the peak of the roof. He had no idea why, except that it looked good and felt right. And he’d had the copper left over. He’d use the same design again and again, in great buildings across the burgeoning territory. But this was the first.
Having hammered the final nail he slowly, carefully, deliberately descended.
Paid off, the men paddled away, their hearts as heavy as their pockets. And looking back the more intuitive among them noticed that what they’d created looked a little like a forest itself, but one turned unnaturally on its side.
For there was something unnatural about the Manoir Bellechasse from the very beginning. It was staggeringly beautiful, the stripped logs golden and glowing. It was made of wood and wattle and sat right at the water’s edge. It commanded Lac Massawippi, as the Robber Barons commanded everything. These captains of industry couldn’t seem to help it.
And once a year men with names like Andrew and Douglas and Charles would leave their rail and whiskey empires, trade their spats for chewed leather moccasins and trek by canoe to the lodge on the shore of the isolated lake. They’d grown weary of robbery and needed another distraction.
The Manoir Bellechasse was created and conceived to allow these men to do one thing. Kill.
It made a nice change.
Over the years the wilderness receded. The foxes and deer, the moose and bears, all the wild creatures hunted by the Robber Barons, crept away. The Abinaki, who often paddled the wealthy industrialists to the great lodge, had retired, repulsed. Towns and villages sprang up. Cottagers, weekenders, discovered the nearby lakes.
But the Bellechasse remained. It changed hands over the generations and slowly the stunned and stuffed heads of long-dead deer and moose and even a rare cougar disappeared from the log walls and were tossed into the attic.
As the fortunes of its creators waned, so went the lodge. It sat abandoned for many years, far too big for a single family and too remote for a hotel. Just as the forest was emboldened enough to reclaim its own, someone bought the place. A road was built, curtains were hung, spiders and beetles and owls were chased from the Bellechasse and paying guests invited in. The Manoir Bellechasse became one of the finest auberges in Quebec.
But while in over a century Lac Massawippi had changed, Quebec had changed, Canada had changed, almost everything had changed, one thing hadn’t.
The Robber Barons were back. They’d come to the Manoir Bellechasse once again, to kill.
ONE
At the beginning of summer the guests descended on the isolated lodge by the lake, summoned to the Manoir Bellechasse by identical vellum invitations, addressed in the familiar spider scrawl as though written in cobwebs. Thrust through mail slots, the heavy paper had thudded to the floor of impressive homes in Vancouver and Toronto, and a small brick cottage in Three Pines.
The mailman had carried it in his bag through the tiny Quebec village, taking his time. Best not to exert yourself in this heat, he told himself, pausing to remove his hat and wipe his dripping head. Union rules. But the actual reason for his lethargy wasn’t the beating and brilliant sun, but something more private. He always lingered in Three Pines. He wandered slowly by the perennial beds of roses and lilies and thrusting bold foxglove. He helped kids spot frogs at the pond on the green. He sat on warm fieldstone walls and watched the old village go about its business. It added hours to his day and
made him the last courier back to the terminal. He was mocked and kidded by his fellows for being so slow and he suspected that was the reason he’d never been promoted. For two decades or more he’d taken his time. Instead of hurrying, he strolled through Three Pines talking to people as they walked their dogs, often joining them for lemonade or thé glacé outside the bistro. Or café au lait in front of the roaring fire in winter. Sometimes the villagers, knowing he was having lunch at the bistro, would come by and pick up their own mail. And chat for a moment. He brought news from other villages on his route, like a travelling minstrel in medieval times, with news of plague or war or flood, someplace else. But never here in this lovely and peaceful village. It always amused him to imagine that Three Pines, nestled among the mountains and surrounded by Canadian forest, was disconnected from the outside world. It certainly felt that way. It was a relief.
And so he took his time. This day he held a bundle of envelopes in his sweaty hand, hoping he wasn’t marring the perfect, quite lovely thick paper of the top letter. Then the handwriting caught his eye and his pace slowed still further. After decades as a mail carrier he knew he delivered more than just letters. In his years, he knew, he’d dropped bombs along his route. Great good news: children born, lotteries won, distant, wealthy aunts dead. But he was a good and sensitive man, and he knew he was also the bearer of bad news. It broke his heart to think of the pain he sometimes caused, especially in this village.
He knew what he held in his hand now was that, and more. It wasn’t, perhaps, total telepathy that informed his certainty, but also an unconscious ability to read handwriting. Not simply the words, but the thrust behind them. The simple, mundane three-line address on the envelope told him more than where to deliver the letter. The hand was old, he could tell, and infirm. Crippled not just by age, but by rage. No good would come from this thing he held. And he suddenly wanted to be rid of it.
His intention had been to wander over to the bistro and have a cold beer and a sandwich, chat with the owner Olivier and see if anyone came for their mail, for he was also just a little bit lazy. But suddenly he was energized. Astonished villagers saw a sight unique to them, the postman hurrying. He stopped and turned and walked briskly away from the bistro, towards a rusty mailbox in front of a brick cottage overlooking the village green. As he opened the mouth of the box it screamed. He couldn’t blame it. He thrust the letter in and quickly closed the shrieking door. It surprised him that the battered metal box didn’t gag a little and spew the wretched thing back. He’d come to see his letters as living things, and the boxes as kinds of pets. And he’d done something terrible to this particular box. And these people.
Had Armand Gamache been blindfolded he’d have known exactly where he was. It was the scent. That combination of woodsmoke, old books and honeysuckle.
‘Monsieur et Madame Gamache, quel plaisir.’
Clementine Dubois waddled around the reception desk at the Manoir Bellechasse, skin like wings hanging from her outstretched arms and quivering so that she looked like a bird or a withered angel as she approached, her intentions clear. Reine-Marie Gamache met her, her own arms without hope of meeting about the substantial woman. They embraced and kissed on each cheek. When Gamache had exchanged hugs and kisses with Madame Dubois she stepped back and surveyed the couple. Before her she saw Reine-Marie, short, not plump but not trim either, hair greying and face settling into the middle years of a life fully lived. She was lovely without being actually pretty. What the French called soignée. She wore a tailored deep blue skirt to mid-calf and a crisp white shirt. Simple, elegant, classic.
The man was tall and powerfully built. In his mid-fifties and not yet going to fat, but showing evidence of a life lived with good books, wonderful food and leisurely walks. He looked like a professor, though Clementine Dubois knew he was not that. His hair was receding and where once it had been wavy and dark, now it was thinning on top and greying over the ears and down the sides where it curled a little over the collar. He was clean-shaven except for a trim moustache. He wore a navy jacket, khaki slacks and a soft blue shirt, with tie. Always immaculate, even in the gathering heat of this late June day. But what was most striking were his eyes. Deep, warm brown. He carried calm with him as other men wore cologne.
‘But you look tired.’
Most innkeepers would have exclaimed, ‘But you look lovely.’ ‘Mais, voyons, you never change, you two.’ Or even, ‘You look younger than ever,’ knowing how old ears never tire of hearing that.
But while the Gamaches’ ears couldn’t yet be considered old, they were tired. It had been a long year and their ears had heard more than they cared to. And, as always, the Gamaches had come to the Manoir Bellechasse to leave all that behind. While the rest of the world celebrated the New Year in January, the Gamaches celebrated at the height of summer, when they visited this blessed place, retreated from the world, and began anew.
‘We are a little weary,’ admitted Reine-Marie, subsiding gratefully into the comfortable wing chair at the reception desk.
‘Bon, well we’ll soon take care of that. Now.’ Madame Dubois gracefully swivelled back behind the desk in a practised move and sat at her own comfortable chair. Pulling the ledger towards her she put on her glasses. ‘Where have we put you?’
Armand Gamache took the chair beside his wife and they exchanged glances. They knew if they looked far enough back in that same ledger they’d find their signatures, once a year, stretching back to a June day more than thirty years ago when young Armand had saved his money and brought Reine-Marie here. For one night. In the tiniest of rooms at the very back of the splendid old Manoir. Without a view of the mountains or the lake or the perennial gardens lush with fresh peonies and first-bloom roses. He’d saved for months, wanting that visit to be special. Wanting Reine-Marie to know how much he loved her, how precious she was to him.
And so they’d lain together for the first time, the sweet scent of the forest and kitchen thyme and lilac drifting almost visible through the screened window. But the loveliest scent of all was her, fresh and warm in his strong arms. He’d written a love note to her that night. He’d covered her softly with their simple white sheet then sitting in the cramped rocking chair, not daring to actually rock in case he whacked the wall behind or barked his shins on the bed in front, disturbing Reine-Marie, he’d watched her breathe. Then on Manoir Bellechasse notepaper he’d written, My love knows no –
How can a man contain such –
My heart and soul have come alive –
My love for you –
All night he wrote and next morning, taped to the bathroom mirror, Reine-Marie found the note.
I love you.
Clementine Dubois had been there even then, massive and wobbly and smiling. She’d been old then and each year Gamache worried he’d call for a reservation to hear an unfamiliar crisp voice say, ‘Bonjour, Manoir Bellechasse. Puisje vous aider?’ Instead he’d heard, ‘Monsieur Gamache, what a pleasure. Are you coming to visit us again, I hope?’ Like going to Grandma’s. Albeit a grander grandma’s than he’d ever known.
And while Gamache and Reine-Marie had certainly changed, marrying, having two children and now a granddaughter and another grandchild on the way, Clementine Dubois never seemed to age or diminish. And neither did her love, the Manoir. It was as though the two were one, both kind and loving, comforting and welcoming. And mysteriously and delightfully unchanging in a world that seemed to change so fast. And not always for the better.
‘What’s wrong?’ Reine-Marie asked, noticing the look on Madame Dubois’s face.
‘I must be getting old,’ she said and looked up, her violet eyes upset. Gamache smiled reassuringly. By his calculations she must be at least a hundred and twenty.
‘If you have no room, don’t worry. We can come back another week,’ he said. It was only a two-hour drive into the Eastern Townships of Quebec from their home in Montreal.
‘Oh, I have a room, but I’d hoped to have something better.
When you called for reservations I should have saved the Lake Room for you, the one you had last year. But the Manoir’s full up. One family, the Finneys, has taken the other five rooms. They’re here—’
She stopped suddenly and dropped her eyes to the ledger in an act so wary and uncharacteristic the Gamaches exchanged glances.
‘They’re here … ?’ Gamache prompted after the silence stretched on.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter, plenty of time for that,’ she said, looking up and smiling reassuringly. ‘I’m sorry about not saving the best room for you two, though.’
‘Had we wanted the Lake Room, we’d have asked,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘You know Armand, this is his one flutter with uncertainty. Wild man.’
Clementine Dubois laughed, knowing that not to be true. She knew the man in front of her lived with great uncertainty every day of his life. Which was why she deeply wanted their annual visits to the Manoir to be filled with luxury and comfort. And peace.
‘We never specify the room, madame,’ said Gamache, his voice deep and warm. ‘Do you know why?’
Madame Dubois shook her head. She’d long been curious, but never wanted to cross-examine her guests, especially this one. ‘Everyone else does,’ she said. ‘In fact, this whole family asked for free upgrades. Arrived in Mercedes and BMWs and asked for upgrades.’ She smiled. Not meanly, but with some bafflement that people who had so much wanted more.
‘We like to leave it up to the fates,’ he said. She examined his face to see if he was joking, but thought he probably wasn’t. ‘We’re perfectly happy with what we’re given.’
And Clementine Dubois knew the truth of it. She felt the same. Every morning she woke up, a bit surprised to see another day, and always surprised to be here, in this old lodge, by the sparkling shores of this freshwater lake, surrounded by forests and streams, gardens and guests. It was her home, and guests were like family. Though Madame Dubois knew, from bitter experience, you can’t always choose, or like, your family.