Sure enough an asteroid crater opened up in front of them.
‘Fuck.’ Beauvoir yanked the steering wheel to the side, narrowly avoiding it. ‘It’s as if that house doesn’t want us to get to it.’
‘And it’s commanded the roads to open up?’ Even Gamache, more than happy to entertain existential ideas, found this surprising. ‘Do you think maybe it’s the spring thaw?’
‘Well, I suppose it could be that. Watch out.’ They hit a hole and jerked forward. Lurching and swerving and swearing the two men made their slow progress deeper and deeper into the forest. The dirt road wound through pine and maple forests and along valleys and climbed the sides of small mountains. It passed streams throbbing with the spring run-off and gray lakes that had only recently lost their winter ice.
Then they arrived.
Ahead Gamache could see the familiar and strangely comforting sight of the Scene of Crime vehicles parked along the side of the road. He couldn’t see the old Hadley house yet.
Beauvoir pulled the car into a spot by the abandoned mill across from the house. Opening his door Gamache was met with an aroma so sweet he had to close his eyes and pause.
Inhaling deeply he knew immediately what it was. Fresh pine. Young buds, their fragrance strong and new. He changed into rubber boots, put his Barbour field coat on over his jacket and tie and slipped a tweed cap on his head.
Still not looking at the old Hadley house he walked instead to the brow of the hill. Beauvoir put his Italian leather jacket over his merino wool turtleneck and, scanning the results in the mirror, noticed he was closer than he appeared. After a moment’s happy reflection he walked up beside Gamache until the two men stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the valley.
It was Armand Gamache’s favorite view. The mountains rose graciously on the far side, folding into each other, their slopes covered with a fuzz of lime green buds. He could smell not just the pine now, but the very earth, and other aromas. The musky rich scent of dried autumn leaves, the wood smoke rising from the chimneys below, and something else. He lifted his head and inhaled again, softly this time. There, below the bolder aromas, sat a subtler scent. The first of the spring flowers. The youngest and bravest of them. Gamache was reminded of the simple and dignified chapel with its white clapboard spire. It was just below him, off to the right. He’d been in St Thomas’s often enough and on this fine morning knew light from an old stained glass window would be spilling onto the gleaming pews and wooden floor. The image wasn’t of Christ or the lives and glorious deaths of saints, but of three young men in the Great War. Two were in profile, marching forward. But one was looking straight at the congregation. Not accusing, not in sorrow or fear. But with great love as though to say this was his gift to them. Use it well.
Beneath were inscribed the names of those lost in the wars and one more line.
They Were Our Children.
And now standing on the lip of the hill, looking into the loveliest, gentlest village Gamache had ever seen and smelling the brave young flowers, he wondered whether it was always the young who were brave. And the old grew fearful and cowardly.
Was he? He was certainly afraid to go into the monstrosity he could feel breathing on his neck. Or perhaps that was Beauvoir. But he was afraid of something else, he knew.
Arnot. Goddamned Arnot. And what that man was capable of even from prison. Especially from prison, where Gamache had put him.
But even those dark thoughts evaporated before the sight that met his eyes. How could he be fearful when faced with this?
Three Pines lay nestled in its little valley. Wood smoke wafted from the stone chimneys, and maples and cherry and apple trees were in bud if not quite in bloom. People moved here and there, some working in gardens, some pinning up fresh laundry on their lines, some sweeping the wide and graceful verandas. Spring cleaning. Villagers walked across the green with canvas bags full of baguettes and other produce Gamache couldn’t see but could imagine. Locally made cheeses and pâtés, farm fresh eggs and rich aromatic coffee beans all from the shops.
He looked at his watch. Almost noon.
Gamache had been to Three Pines on previous investigations and each time he’d had the feeling he belonged. It was a powerful feeling. After all, what else did people really want except to belong?
He longed to stride down the muddy verge, cross the village green and open the door to Olivier’s Bistro. There he’d warm his hands by the fire, order licorice pipes and a Cinzano. And maybe a rich pea soup. He’d read old copies of the Times Literary Supplement and talk to Olivier and Gabri about the weather.
How was it his favorite place on earth was so close to his least favorite?
‘What’s that?’ Jean Guy Beauvoir laid a hand on his arm. ‘Can you hear it?’
Gamache listened. He heard birds. He heard a slight breeze rustling the old leaves at his feet. And he heard something else.
A rumble. No, more than that. A muffled roar. Had the old Hadley house come to life behind them? Was it growling and growing?
Ripping his eyes from the tranquility of the village he looked around slowly until his eyes finally fell on the house.
It stared back, cold, defiant.
‘It’s the river, sir,’ said Beauvoir, smiling sheepishly. ‘The Rivière Bella Bella. Spring run-off. Nothing more.’ He watched as the Chief Inspector stared at the house, then Gamache blinked and turned to Beauvoir, smiling slightly.
‘Are you sure it wasn’t the house growling?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘I believe you,’ Gamache laughed. He placed his large hand on the younger man’s soft leather jacket then started toward the old Hadley house.
As he approached he was surprised to see peeling paint and jagged, broken windows. The ‘For Sale’ sign had fallen over and tiles were missing from the roof and even some bricks from the chimney. It was almost as though the house was casting parts of itself away.
Stop that, he said to himself.
‘Stop what?’ Beauvoir asked, almost running to catch up to the chief, the boss’s long strides picking up speed as they neared the house.
‘I said that out loud, did I?’ Gamache suddenly stopped. ‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache began, but he didn’t know what he wanted to say. While Beauvoir waited, his handsome face going from respectful attention to quizzical, Gamache thought.
What do I want to tell him? To be careful? To know things weren’t as they appeared? Not the Hadley house, not this case, not even their own homicide team.
He wanted to pull this young man away from the house. Away from the investigation. Away from him. As far from him as possible.
Things were not as they seemed. The known world was shifting, reforming. Everything he’d taken as a given, a fact, as real and unquestioned, had fallen away.
But he was damned if he was going to fall with it. Or let anyone he loved go down.
‘The house is falling apart,’ said Gamache. ‘Be careful.’
Beauvoir nodded. ‘You too.’
Once inside Gamache was surprised by how mundane the place felt. Not evil at all. If anything it felt kind of pathetic.
‘Up here, Chief,’ Agent Isabelle Lacoste called, her brown hair hanging down as she looked over the dark wood banister. ‘She died in this room.’ Lacoste waved behind her and disappeared.
‘Joyeuses Pâques,’ she said a moment later when Gamache had climbed the stairs and walked into the room. Agent Lacoste was dressed in comfortable and stylish clothes, like most of the Québécoises. In her late twenties she’d already had two children and hadn’t bothered to work off all the weight. Instead she dressed well and was perfectly happy with the results.
Gamache took in the sight. A luxurious four-poster bed stood against one wall. A fireplace with a heavy Victorian mantel sat across from it. On the wooden floor was a huge Indian rug in rich blues and burgundies. The walls held intricate William Morris wallpaper and the lamps, both floor and table, were festooned with tassels. A colorful scarf was artfully draped over a lamp on a vanity.