Gamache walked over to the bins with labels like Devil’s Claw, St John’s Wort, Ginkgo biloba. He took a plastic bag, but instead of using the scoop provided he reached into his pocket for tweezers then carefully dropped some in the bag. He then labeled it.
‘I’d like to buy this, s’il vous plaît.’
Odile looked as though she could have used a Ruth-sized drink.
‘It’s so small you can just take it.’
‘No, madame. I need to pay.’ Gamache handed the small sample to her to weigh.
The label said Ma Huang.
‘The Chinese herb Lemieux told us about that first morning,’ said Beauvoir when they were back in the car. ‘It’s ephedra.’
‘Used for hundreds, maybe thousands of years for other purposes,’ said Gamache. ‘Until the pharmaceuticals found it and turned it into a killer. Ma Huang. The coroner, Dr Harris, told me about it too. Every time we discussed ephedra with someone who actually knew anything they talked about it being an herb. Used in Chinese medicines and others. But I was so focused on the diet supplements I barely heard. It was here all along.’
‘Well, you’re ahead of me,’ said Beauvoir, trying to avoid a frog on the wet road, though Gamache wasn’t sure if he was trying to avoid it or swerved to get it. ‘I had visions of Sandon boiling down a ginkgo tree.’
‘The caul doesn’t always work, I guess.’
‘Seems to slip over my eyes, it’s true,’ said Beauvoir. ‘What does this Ma Huang mean? Did Odile use it to kill Madeleine? And what about the psychic? Is it just a coincidence she has the same name as those magical caves in France? I’m confused.’
‘We see through a glass darkly,’ said Gamache. ‘But soon we’ll see all.’
‘I know that one,’ said Beauvoir, as though he’d won a game show. ‘First Corinthians. We read it at our wedding. It’s the one on love. But it’s not the same passage Ruth read last night. What should we do with that?’ He gestured to the bag of Ma Huang.
‘I’ll take it to the lab when I go into Montreal,’ said Gamache.
‘Careful. The media sees you with that they’ll think you’re Daniel’s best customer.’
Beauvoir shut up, appalled at himself for making a joke like that.
‘On days like this I wish that was true,’ Gamache laughed.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’ll all work out.’
‘Through a glass darkly,’ said Beauvoir, almost to himself. ‘What a great description. You really think that window will soon be clear?’
‘I do,’ said Gamache. But he also knew St Paul wasn’t talking about a window, but a mirror.
FORTY
The conference room on the top floor of the Sûreté headquarters was familiar to Gamache. How many coffees had turned cold as he’d struggled with the ethical and moral issues facing the Sûreté? The constant barrage of questions that finally reduced to one: how far to go to protect a society? Safety versus freedom.
He had great respect for the people in this room. Except one.
A wall of windows looked out over east end Montreal and the thrusting arm of the Olympic stadium, like some prehistoric creature come to agonizing life. Inside, the oblique wooden table was surrounded by comfortable captain’s chairs. Each equal.
That was the conceit.
Though seats were never assigned each man knew his place. A few of the senior officers looked at Gamache, a couple shook his hand, but most ignored him. He’d expected nothing more. These were people he’d worked with all his life, but he’d betrayed them. Gone public with the Arnot case. He’d known even as he did it what it meant. He’d be cast out. Sent from the tribe.
Well, he was back.
‘Alors,’ said Superintendent Paget, their titular leader. ‘You’ve asked us here, Armand, and we’ve come.’
He sounded so matter-of-fact, as though they were about to discuss vacation schedules. Gamache had seen this moment coming from a long way off, like a storm at sea. He’d been an anxious mariner, waiting. But the wait was finally over.
‘What do you want?’ Superintendent Paget asked.
‘This must stop. The attacks on my family must stop.’
‘That’s nothing to do with us,’ said Superintendent Desjardins.
‘Of course it is,’ said Brébeuf, turning to the man beside him. ‘We can’t stand by while a senior officer is attacked.’
‘The Chief Inspector has always made it clear he doesn’t need our advice or help.’ The voice was deep and reasonable. Calming even. Most of the men turned to look at the speaker, a few stared down at their notes.
Superintendent Francoeur sat next to Gamache. As Gamache knew he would. It was, after all, Francoeur’s place, and Gamache had chosen the seat right next to him. He hadn’t come this far to hide. He was damned if he’d cower in a corner or behind Brébeuf.
He’d taken the seat right next to the man who wanted him gone. Preferably right off the planet. Pierre Arnot’s best friend, confidant, protégé. Sylvain Francoeur.
‘I’m not here to fight old battles,’ said Gamache, ‘I’m here to ask that these attacks stop.’
‘And what makes you think we can stop them? The press has a right to print what it wants and I can’t imagine they’d actually print anything they haven’t thoroughly researched,’ said Superintendent Francoeur. ‘If they’ve done something wrong maybe you should sue them.’
A few guffaws were heard. Brébeuf looked furious but Gamache smiled.
‘Perhaps I will, though I don’t think so. We all know they’re lies—’
‘How do we know that?’ Francoeur asked.
‘Voyons, what are the chances Armand Gamache would prostitute his daughter?’ demanded Brébeuf.
‘What were the chances Pierre Arnot was a killer?’ asked Francoeur. ‘But according to the Chief Inspector, he is.’
‘According to the courts, you mean,’ said Gamache equably, leaning in to Francoeur’s personal space. ‘But perhaps that’s a part of our system you’re not familiar with.’
‘How dare you?’
‘How dare you attack my family?’
Both men stared at each other. Then Gamache blinked and Francoeur smiled, throwing himself back comfortably in his chair.
Gamache looked steadily at Francoeur. ‘I’m sorry, Superintendent. That wasn’t called for.’
Francoeur nodded as a knight might to a peasant.
‘I haven’t come here to fight with any of you. You’ve all read the papers, seen the television reports. And it’ll only get worse, I know. As I said before, they’re lies, but I don’t expect you to believe me or trust me. Not after what I did in the Arnot case. I crossed the Rubicon. There’s no going back.’
‘Then what do you expect, Chief Inspector?’ Superintendent Paget asked.
‘I’d like you to accept my resignation.’
Those not already sitting up did so now. All chairs tipped forward, some so quickly they threatened to spill their distinguished contents onto the table. Now all eyes were on Gamache. It was as though Mont Royal had begun to subside, to sink into the earth. Something remarkable was about to disappear. Armand Gamache. Even those who loathed him recognized he’d become legend, had become a hero both inside and outside the Sûreté.
But sometimes heroes fall.
And they were witnesses to that now.
‘Why should we?’ asked Francoeur. All eyes swung to the Superintendent. ‘Wouldn’t that let you off the hook? It’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to run away just as you did from the Arnot decision. As soon as things get difficult that’s what you do.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Brébeuf.
‘You believe one of us is responsible for planting those stories in the paper, don’t you?’ Francoeur said, comfortable and in command, the natural, if not assigned, leader of the group.
‘I do.’
‘Voilà. See what he thinks of us?’
‘Not all, only one.’ Gamache stared back at Franco
eur.
‘How dare you—’
‘That’s the second time you’ve asked me that and I’m tired of it. I dare because someone has to.’ He looked around the room. ‘The Arnot case isn’t over, you all know that. Someone in this room is continuing his work. Not quite to the murder stage, but it won’t be long. I know it.’
‘Know it? Know it? How can you?’ Francoeur shot to his feet, leaning over Gamache now. ‘It’s ridiculous to even be listening to you. A waste of time. You don’t have thoughts, you have sentiments.’
A few chuckles were heard.
‘I have both, Superintendent,’ said Gamache. Francoeur towered above him, one hand on the back of Gamache’s chair, the other on the table, as though to imprison the man.
‘You’re fucking arrogant,’ Francoeur yelled. ‘You’re the worst sort of officer. Full of yourself. You’ve created your own little army of underlings. People who’ll worship you. The rest of us choose the best of the police grads for the Sûreté, you deliberately choose the worst. You’re a dangerous man, Gamache. I’ve known it all along.’
Gamache stood up too, slowly, forcing Francoeur to back away.
‘My team has solved almost every murder it’s investigated. They’re brilliant and dedicated and courageous. You set yourself up as judge and you toss out those who don’t conform. Fine. But don’t blame me for picking up your garbage and seeing value in it.’
‘Even Agent Nichol?’ Francoeur had lowered his voice and now the rest had to strain to hear the words, but not Gamache. They were loud and clear.
‘Even Agent Nichol,’ he said, staring into the cold, hard eyes.
‘You tossed her back once as I remember,’ said Francoeur, his voice almost a hiss. ‘Fired her and she landed in my division. Narcotics. She took to it.’
‘Then why send her back to me?’ Gamache asked.
‘What is it you like to say, Chief Inspector? There’s a reason for everything. Very deep. There’s a reason for everything, Gamache. Figure it out. Now I have a question for you.’ His voice lowered even further. ‘What was in that envelope you were passing so secretively to your son? Daniel’s his name, I believe. Daughter, Florence. Wife. Did I hear she’s pregnant?’
Now no one else in the room could hear, the words were spoken so softly. Gamache had the strangest impression Francoeur hadn’t even spoken out loud, but had inserted them directly into his head. Sharp, stabbing, intended to wound and warn.
He inhaled sharply and tried to contain himself, to not bring his fist up and smash the leering, smug, wretched face.
‘Do it, Gamache,’ hissed Francoeur. ‘To save your family, do it.’
Was Francoeur inviting him to attack? So that he’d be arrested, imprisoned? Exposed to any ‘accident’ that might happen in the cells? Was that the price Francoeur was proposing for backing off his family?
‘Fucking coward.’ Francoeur smiled and stepped back, shaking his head. ‘I think the least Chief Inspector Gamache can do is explain himself,’ he said in a normal voice. The faces, strained and nervous, relaxed a little now that they could hear again. ‘I think before we can even consider acting on his behalf, or accepting his resignation, we need to know a few things. Like what was in the envelope he was passing to his son. Voyons, Chief Inspector, it’s a reasonable question.’
Around the conference table there were nods of agreement. Gamache looked over at Brébeuf who cocked his brow as though to say it was a strangely benign request. They’d get off easy if this was all the council wanted.
Gamache remained silent for a moment, thinking. Then he shook his head.
‘I’m sorry. It’s private. I can’t tell you.’
It was over, Gamache knew. He bent down and placed his papers in his satchel, then made for the door.
‘You’re a stupid man, Chief Inspector,’ Superintendent Francoeur called after him, smiling broadly. ‘You walk out of here now your life will be in ruins. The media will keep picking at you and your children until even the bones are gone. No careers, no friends, no privacy, no dignity. All because of your pride. What was it one of your favorite poets said? Yeats? Things fall apart. The center cannot hold.’
Gamache stopped, turned and deliberately walked back. With each step he seemed to expand. The officers around the table, wide-eyed, leaned out of his way. He walked to Francoeur, whose smile had disappeared.
‘This center will hold.’ Gamache pronounced each word slowly and clearly, his voice strong and low and more menacing than anything Francoeur had ever heard. He tried to recover himself as Gamache turned and walked through the door, but it was too late. Everyone in the room had seen fear on Francoeur’s face and more than one wondered whether they’d backed the wrong man.
But it was too late.
As Gamache strode down the corridor, men and women on each side smiling hello and nodding to him, his mind settled. Something Francoeur said had jogged something loose. Some piece of information had twisted in that instant and he’d seen it in a different way. But in the stress of the moment Gamache had lost it. Was it to do with Arnot? Or was it the case in Three Pines?
‘Well, that went well. For Francoeur,’ said Brébeuf, catching up with him as they waited for the elevator. Gamache said nothing, but stared at the numbers, trying to recall what had struck him as so significant. The elevator came and the two men stepped in, alone.
‘You could have told him what was in the envelope, you know,’ said Brébeuf. ‘It can’t possibly be that important. What was in it anyway?’
‘I’m sorry, Michel, what did you say?’ Gamache brought himself back to the present.
‘The envelope, Armand. What was in it?’
‘Oh, nothing much.’
‘For God’s sake, man, why not tell him?’
‘He didn’t say please.’ Gamache smiled.
Brébeuf scowled. ‘Do you ever listen to yourself? All the advice you give others, does any of it penetrate your own thick skull? Why keep this secret? It’s our secrets that make us sick. Isn’t that what you always say?’
‘There’s a difference between secrecy and privacy.’
‘Semantics.’
The elevator door opened and Brébeuf stepped out. The meeting had gone better than he’d dared dream. Gamache was almost certainly out of the Sûreté, but more than that, he was humiliated, ruined. Or soon would be.
Inside the elevator Armand Gamache stood rooted like one of Gilles Sandon’s trees. And had Sandon been there he might have heard what no one else could, Armand Gamache screaming as though felled.
Behold I show you a mystery.
The haunting words of St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians swirled around Gamache’s head. The words had been prophetic. In the twinkling of an eye his world had changed. He could see clearly something that had been hidden. Something he never wanted to see.
He’d stopped at the high school in Notre-Dame-de-Grâce and just caught the secretary as she left for the day. Now he sat in the parking lot staring at the two things she’d given him. An alumni list and another yearbook. She’d wondered why in the world he needed so many, but Gamache had mumbled apologies and she’d relented. He thought she might assign him lines. I will not lose another yearbook.
But it hadn’t been lost. It’d been stolen. By someone who’d been at school with Madeleine and Hazel. Someone who’d chosen to keep their identity secret. Now, looking at the alumni list and the yearbook, Gamache knew exactly who that was.
Behold I show you a mystery. Ruth’s crumbling voice came to him as she’d read the magnificent passage. And hard on that another voice. Michel Brébeuf. Accusing, angry. It’s our secrets that make us sick.
It was true, Gamache knew. Of all the things we keep inside the worst are the secrets. The things we are so ashamed of, so afraid of, we need to hide them even from ourselves. Secrets lead to delusion and delusion leads to lies, and lies create a wall.
Our secrets make us sick because they separate us from other people. Keep us alone. Turn us into
fearful, angry, bitter people. Turn us against others, and finally against ourselves.
A murder almost always began with a secret. Murder was a secret spread over time.
Gamache called Reine-Marie, Daniel and Annie, and finally he called Jean Guy Beauvoir.
Then he started his car and turned it toward the country. As he drove the sun went down and by the time he arrived in Three Pines it was dark. In his headlights he saw the dirt road thick with bouncing frogs, trying to get across the road for a reason he knew would remain a mystery to him. He slowed right down and tried not to run over them. Up they jumped into his headlights as though joyfully greeting him. They looked exactly like the frogs on Olivier’s rather silly old plates. For a moment Gamache wondered whether he might buy a couple of them, to remind him of the spring and the dancing frogs. But then he knew he probably wouldn’t. He’d want nothing that would remind him of what happened today.
‘I’ve called everyone,’ said Beauvoir as soon as Gamache walked into the Incident Room. ‘They’ll be there. Are you sure you want to do it this way?’
‘I’m sure. I know who killed Madeleine Favreau, Jean Guy. It seems right that this case that started with a circle should come full circle. We meet at the old Hadley house at nine tonight. And we find a murderer.’
FORTY-ONE
Clara’s heart was in her throat, in her wrists, at her temples. Her whole body was throbbing with the pounding of her heart. She couldn’t believe they were back in the old Hadley house.
In the darkness, except for the puny candlelight.
When Inspector Beauvoir had called and told her what Gamache wanted she’d thought he must be kidding, or drunk. Certainly delusional.
But he’d been serious. They were to meet at nine in the old Hadley house. In the room where Madeleine died.
All evening she’d watched the clock creep forward. At first excruciatingly slowly, then it had seemed to race, the hands flying round the face. She’d been unable to eat and Peter had begged her not to go. And finally her terror had found purchase, and she’d agreed to stay behind. In their little cottage, by the fire, with a good book and a glass of Merlot.