‘You know,’ Lemieux said, as though he hadn’t heard the reproach, ‘it almost seems as though Chief Inspector Gamache believes those things.’
As I did once, said Brébeuf to himself. Once, when I loved Armand. When we trusted each other and pledged to protect each other. Once, when I could still admit I was wrong, I needed help, I didn’t know. When I could still say, I’m sorry.
But that was long ago now.
‘I’m not such a fool, you know,’ said Agent Lemieux softly.
Brébeuf waited for the inevitable whining, the doubts, the need for reassurance, yes we’re doing the right thing, yes Gamache betrayed the Sûreté, you’re a clever young man, I know you see through his deceit. Brébeuf had needed to repeat these things so often to the beleaguered Lemieux he almost believed them himself.
He stared at the agent and waited. But Brébeuf saw a poised, self-contained officer.
Good. Good.
But a tiny, cool breeze enveloped Brébeuf’s heart.
‘One other thing he told me,’ said Lemieux at the door now, smiling disarmingly. ‘Matthew 10:36.’
Brébeuf watched, stone-faced, as Agent Lemieux closed the door softly behind him. Then he began breathing again, shallow, fast breaths, almost gasps. Looking down he saw he’d made a fist of his hand, and filling that fist, crumpled and balled, was the paper with the four simple statements.
And filling his head, like a fist, were Lemieux’s last words.
Matthew 10:36.
He’d forgotten that too. But what he knew he’d remember for a very long time was the look on Lemieux’s face. What he’d seen there wasn’t the familiar squirrely, needy, pleading look of a man who wanted to be convinced. Instead, he’d seen the look of a man who no longer cared. It wasn’t cleverness he’d surprised there, but cunning.
Now Agent Lemieux listened and waited for Monsieur Béliveau to tell him more, but the old grocer seemed content to also wait.
‘How did your wife die?’
‘Stroke. High blood pressure. She didn’t die immediately. I was able to bring her home and care for her for a few months. But she had another one and that took her. She’s buried up behind St Thomas’s church in the old cemetery there, with her parents and mine.’
Agent Lemieux thought there would be nothing worse than to be buried here. He planned to be buried in Montreal or Quebec City, or Paris, the retired and revered President of Quebec. Up until recently the Sûreté had provided him with a home, a purpose. But Superintendent Brébeuf had unwittingly given him something else. Something missing from his life. A plan.
Robert Lemieux’s plan didn’t include being with the Sûreté long. Just long enough to rise through the ranks, make a name for himself, then run for public office. Anything was possible. Or would be, once he brought down Gamache. He’d be a hero. And heroes were rewarded.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Béliveau.’ Myrna Landers came in, filling the store with sunshine and smiles. ‘Am I interrupting?’
‘No, not at all.’ Agent Lemieux closed his notebook. ‘We were just having a small talk. How are you?’
‘Not too bad.’ She turned to Monsieur Béliveau. ‘How are you doing? I hear you had dinner with Clara and Peter last night.’
‘I did. It was a comfort. I’m doing exactly as you might expect.’
‘It’s a sad time,’ said Myrna, deciding not to try to jolly Monsieur Béliveau out of his rightful sorrow. ‘I’ve come for a paper. La Journée, please.’
‘There’s quite a call for that paper today.’
‘There’s a strange article in it.’ She wondered whether she should keep it quiet but decided that horse had bolted. She paid for the paper and flipped through the pages until she found the city column.
All three leaned over it then all three rose, like devotees after ancient prayers. Two were upset. One was ecstatic.
Just then a quacking sound took them to the swinging screen door and out onto the veranda.
TWENTY-THREE
‘Monsieur Sandon,’ Inspector Beauvoir called for the gazillionth time. He was getting a little worried. He was deep in the woods outside St-Rémy. Odile had told him where to find Gilles’s truck and his trail through the woods. The truck had been easy. Beauvoir had only gotten lost twice on the way to this cul-de-sac, but finding the man was proving more difficult. The trees were just beginning to bud so his view wasn’t obscured by the leaves, but it was heavy going what with downed trees, swamps, and rocks. It wasn’t his natural habitat. He scrambled over slimy stones and stumbled through mud puddles, hidden under a layer of decaying autumn leaves. His fine leather shoes, not sensible he knew but he couldn’t yet lower himself to rubber, were filled with water, mud and sticks.
Odile, as he’d stepped into the fresh air from the cloying aromas of the organic store, had shouted a phrase that still resonated in his ears.
‘Watch out for bears,’ she’d sung cheerily after him.
He’d picked up a stick when he’d entered the woods. To knock the bear on the nose. Or was that sharks? Well, he was ready either way. The bear could always use the stick as a toothpick after eating him.
He had a gun but he’d been so thoroughly trained by Gamache not to ever take it out unless he was certain to use it, it remained holstered.
Beauvoir had watched enough news reports about bear attacks to know that black bears weren’t generally dangerous, unless you got between mother and child. He also knew they were dangerous if startled. So screaming ‘Monsieur Sandon’ had taken on a dual purpose.
‘Monsieur Saaaandonnnn.’
‘I’m here,’ came the sudden response. Beauvoir stopped and looked around.
‘Where?’ he yelled.
‘Over here. I’ll find you.’
Now Beauvoir heard footsteps through the autumn leaves, and the cracking of twigs. But he saw no man. The sound grew louder and still no man. It was like the approach of a ghost.
Damn, shouldn’t have thought that, thought Beauvoir, feeling his anxiety rise. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts.
‘Who are you?’
Beauvoir turned round and on the top of a slight rise stood a massive man. Broad-chested, powerful and tall. He wore a shaggy knitted hat and his red beard stuck out in all directions. He was covered in mud and bark.
Yeti. Big Foot. There was some old creature his grandmother had told him about. The Green Man. Half man, half tree. This was him.
Beauvoir gripped his stick.
‘Inspector Beauvoir, Sûreté du Québec.’
It had never sounded more feeble. Then the Green Man laughed. Not a malicious, ‘I’m going to tear you limb from limb’ laugh. But a laugh of genuine amusement. He came down the small hill, winding gracefully between old growth trees and saplings.
‘Thought you were a tree talking to me just now.’ He put out his massive, filthy hand and Beauvoir took it. He too laughed. It was hard not to feel cheerful in this man’s company. ‘Though they’re generally a little less obvious when they speak.’
‘The trees?’
‘Oh, yes. But you’re probably not here to talk about them. Or to them.’ Sandon reached out and put his hand squarely on a massive trunk beside him. Not leaning against it, but as a sort of touch-stone. Even without Odile’s obscure comments Beauvoir could tell this man had a singular relationship with the woods. If Darwin had concluded man evolved from trees, Gilles Sandon would be the missing link.
‘That’s true. I’m investigating the murder of Madeleine Favreau. I believe—’ Beauvoir stopped. The large man in front of him had taken a step back as though Beauvoir had physically pushed him.
‘Her murder? What are you saying?’
‘I’m sorry, I assumed you knew. You do know she’s dead.’
‘I was there. I took her to the hospital.’
‘I’m afraid the coroner’s report says her death wasn’t natural.’