'He won't even come to trial if he continues in this ludicrous confession. And even if he's eventually released, you and I know what happens to people arrested for a crime. Especially a violent crime. They're stigmatised for the rest of their lives. Whether they did it or not. We'd be inflicting on Matthew Croft a wound that will stay with him for ever.'
'You're wrong. He's inflicting it on himself.'
'No, he's challenging us to do it. Goading us into it. But we don't have to react. That's what I'm saying. A police force, like a government, should be above that. Just because we're provoked doesn't mean we have to act.'
'So, what are you telling me, Chief Inspector? From now on you'll only arrest people if you're guaranteed a conviction? You've arrested people before who turned out not to have committed the crime. Just last year, remember the Gagne case? You arrested the uncle, but it turned out the nephew had done it?'
'True, I was wrong. But I believed the uncle had done it.
That was a mistake. This is different. This would be deliberately arresting someone I believe did not commit the crime. I can't do it.'
Brebeuf sighed. He'd known from the first minute of this conversation that Gamache wouldn't change his mind. But he had to try. Really, a most annoying man.
'You know what I'm going to have to do?'
'I do. And I'm prepared for it.'
'So as punishment for insubordination you'll walk through Surete Headquarters wearing Sergeant LaCroix's uniform?' Mai LaCroix was the immense desk Sergeant who presided over the entry to HQ like Buddha gone bad. To add to the dimension of the horror, she wore a Surete-issue skirt some sizes too small.
Gamache laughed at the image. 'I'll make you a deal, Michel. If you can get that uniform off her. I'll wear it.'
'Never mind. I guess I'll just have to suspend you.' Michel Brebeuf had come close to doing this once before, after the Arnot case. His own superiors had ordered him to suspend Gamache, again for insubordination. That case had almost ended both their careers, and the stink still stuck to Gamache. He'd been wrong then, too, in Brebeuf's opinion. All he had to do was say nothing, it wasn't as though their superiors were proposing letting the criminals go. Just the opposite, really. But Gamache had defied the authorities. He wondered if Gamache really believed the Arnot case was over.
Brebeuf never thought he'd be doing this, 'You're suspended from this moment for the period of one week, without pay. A disciplinary hearing will be held at that time. Don't wear a skirt.'
'Thanks for the tip.'
'D'accord. Give me Beauvoir.'
It took a lot to stun Jean Guy Beauvoir, but his conversation with the Superintendent did just that. Gamache knew that he cared deeply for Beauvoir, like a son, but the younger man had never shown him any feelings, except that of junior to respected superior. That had been enough. But now Gamache saw the depth of Beauvoir's pain at having to do this thing, and he received a great gift. The gift of knowing he was cared for in return.
'Is it true?'
Gamache nodded.
'Is this my fault? Did I do this by arguing against you? What a fool. Why didn't I just keep my mouth shut?' Beauvoir was pacing the small office like a leopard trapped.
'This isn't about you. You did the right thing. The only thing you could do. As did I. As did Superintendent Brebeuf, for that matter.'
'I thought he was a friend of yours.'
'He is. Look, don't feel badly about this. I knew when I called the Super he'd have to do this. I called Reine-Marie before, to run it by her.'
Beauvoir felt pricked, a tiny little point of pain that the Chief Inspector had consulted his wife but not him. He knew it was unreasonable, but feelings so often were. It was why he tried to avoid them.
'When she said "do it" I called him with a clear conscience. I can't arrest Matthew Croft.'
'Well, if you can't, I can't. I won't do Brebeuf's dirty work for him.'
'It's Superintendent Brebeuf, and it's your job. What was that this afternoon I heard? Just some Devil's Advocate bullshit? You know how I hate that. Say what you really think, don't play pretentious little mind games. Is that all that was? Taking the other position like some empty adolescent intellectual game?'
'No, it wasn't. I believe Matthew Croft did it.'
'So arrest him.'
'There's more.' Now Beauvoir looked really miserable. 'Superintendent Brebeuf ordered me to take your badge and gun.'
This shook Gamache. Had he thought this all the way through he wouldn't have been surprised, but he hadn't seen it coming. He felt his stomach lurch. The force of his reaction stunned him. He'd have to think about why and fortunately he had a long drive home in which to consider.
Gamache pulled himself together, reached into his breast pocket and handed over both his badge and his warrant card. Then he slipped the holster off his belt.
'I'm sorry,' whispered Beauvoir. Gamache had been quick to recover, but not quick enough to hide his feelings from Beauvoir. As he took the items Beauvoir remembered one of the many things he'd learned from Gamache. Matthew 10:36.
The funeral for Jane Neal, spinster of the village of Three Pines in the county of St Remy, Province of Quebec, was held two days later. The bells of the Eglise Ste Marie rang and echoed along the valleys, heard miles away, and felt deep in the earth, where creatures lived who might not otherwise, had Jane Neal herself not lived and been the sort of person she'd been.
And now people gathered to say a formal goodbye. Armand Gamache was there, having driven in from Montreal. It made a nice break from his forced inaction. He sailed through the crowd, through the front of the small church, and found himself in the gloom inside. It always struck Gamache as paradoxical that churches were gloomy. Coming in from the sunshine it took a minute or so to adjust. And even then, to Gamache, it never came close to feeling like home. Churches were either great cavernous tributes not so much to God as the wealth and privilege of the community, or they were austere, cold tributes to the ecstasy of refusal.
Gamache enjoyed going to churches for their music and the beauty of the language and the stillness. But he felt closer to God in his Volvo. He spotted Beauvoir in the crowd, waved, then made his way over.
'I hoped you'd be here,' said Beauvoir. 'You'll be interested to hear we've arrested the entire Croft family and their farm animals.'
'You've found the safe side.'
'Damn straight, pardner.' Gamache hadn't seen Beauvoir since he'd left that Tuesday afternoon, but they'd talked on the phone several times. Beauvoir wanted to keep Gamache in the loop, and Gamache wanted to make sure Beauvoir knew there were no hard feelings.
Yolande wobbled behind the casket as it was led into the church. Andre, slim and greasy, was beside her and Bernard slouched behind, his furtive, active eyes darting everywhere as though in search of his next victim.
Gamache felt deeply sorry for Yolande. Not for the pain she felt, but for the pain she didn't feel. He prayed, in the silence, that one day she wouldn't have to pretend to emotions, other than resentment, but could actually feel them. Others in the church were sad but Yolande cut the saddest figure. Certainly the most pathetic.
The service was short and anonymous. The priest clearly had never met Jane Neal. No member of the family got up to speak, except Andre, who read one of the beautiful scriptures with less enlightenment than he might read the TV Guide listings. The service was entirely in French, though Jane herself had been English. The service was entirely Catholic, though Jane herself had been Anglican. Afterwards Yolande, Andre and Bernard accompanied the casket to a 'family only' burial, though Jane's friends had actually been her family.
'A real chill in the air today,' said Clara Morrow, who had appeared at his elbow, her eyes bloodshot. 'There'll be frost on the pumpkins tonight.' She managed a smile. 'We're having a memorial service for Jane at St Thomas's on Sunday. A week to the day since she died. We'd like you to be there, if you don't mind coming down again.'