‘But that’s different. The senior officers aren’t doing that because they agree with Arnot. They’re punishing me for going against their decision. You know that. It’s different.’
‘But it’s not right.’
‘You think not? Do you really think when I arrested Arnot I didn’t expect this to happen?’ Now Beauvoir’s arm stopped flapping and he grew very still. Gamache seemed to envelop him in a sort of bubble. His brown eyes were so intense, his voice so deep and forceful. He held Beauvoir there, riveted. ‘I knew that it would happen. The senior council couldn’t allow me to disobey orders and get away with it. This is their punishment. And it’s right. Just as what I did was right. Don’t confuse the two, Jean Guy. The fact that I’ll never get another promotion, the fact I’m not involved in deciding the direction of the Sûreté any more, is not important. I saw that coming.’
Gamache reached out and took the newspaper from Beauvoir and held it gently in his large hands. He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. Nothing in Three Pines moved. It was as though the squirrels and chipmunks and even the birds were straining to hear. And he knew perfectly well the people were.
‘This is different.’ He held the paper up. ‘This is the work of Pierre Arnot and the people still loyal to him. This is revenge, not censure. This isn’t Sûreté policy.’
Let’s hope not, thought Beauvoir.
‘I didn’t see this coming,’ admitted Gamache, looking at the newspaper. ‘Not years after the arrest and trial. Not after the Arnot murders were made public. I’d been warned the Arnot case isn’t over, but I failed to appreciate the loyalty he still commands. I’m surprised.’
He steered Beauvoir toward the stone bridge and over the Bella Bella. Once across he stopped and for a moment watched the frothing waters rush by, leaves and clumps of mud caught up in the force of the normally gentle river.
‘He’s caught you off guard, sir,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Not completely,’ said Gamache. ‘Though I must admit I was surprised by this.’ He patted his pocket where the article sat again. ‘I knew he’d try something, but I didn’t know what or when. I thought the attack would be more direct. This shows a subtlety and a patience I didn’t know he had.’
‘But Arnot’s not doing it. Not directly. He must have people inside the Sûreté. Do you know who they are?’
‘I can guess.’
‘Superintendent Francoeur?’
‘I don’t know, Jean Guy. I can’t talk about it. It’s just suspicion on my part.’
‘But Nichol used to work with Francoeur in narcotics. Francoeur and Arnot were best friends. He just missed being arrested himself for being an accessory to the murders. At the very least he probably knew what Arnot was doing.’
‘We don’t know,’ repeated Gamache.
‘And Nichol worked with him. He was the one who had her transferred back to homicide. I remember you argued with him about that.’
Gamache remembered that too. That cloying, reasonable voice moving like syrup down the telephone line. Gamache had known then. Known that there was a reason Nichol was sent back to him after he’d fired her once.
‘She’s working for Francoeur, isn’t she,’ said Beauvoir, a statement not a question. ‘She’s here to spy on you.’
Gamache stared at Beauvoir, taut and tight.
‘Do you know what a caul is?’
‘A what?’
‘Jeanne Chauvet said she’d been born with one and she thought you had too. Do you know what it is?’
‘Not a clue and I don’t care. She’s a witch. Are you really going to listen to her?’
‘I listen to everybody. Be careful, Jean Guy. These are dangerous times and dangerous people. We need all the help we can get.’
‘Including witches?’
‘And maybe the trees,’ said Gamache, smiling and raising his brows in a mock-arch expression. Then he pointed to the rushing water, whose noise had prevented others from hearing their conversation. ‘The water’s our ally. Now if we can just find some talking rocks we’ll be undefeatable.’
Gamache looked around on the ground. Beauvoir found himself looking too. He picked up a rock, warm from the sun, but by then the chief was walking slowly toward the Incident Room, his hands held comfortably behind his back, his face tilted up. Beauvoir could just see the small smile on it. He was about to chuck the rock into the river but hesitated. He didn’t want to drown it. Fuck, he thought, tossing the rock up and down in his hand as he too walked to the Incident Room, once the seed is planted it really screws up your life. How was he supposed to chop down trees or even mow the grass if he was afraid of drowning a rock?
Goddamned witch.
Goddamned Gamache.
TWENTY-SIX
Hazel Smyth backed away from the door, wiping her hands on her gingham apron.
‘Come in,’ she smiled politely, but no more.
Beauvoir and Nichol followed her into the kitchen. Every pot was out, either in use or in the sink. On the stove stood a brown earthenware jar with handles on either side. Beans baked in molasses and brown sugar and pork rinds. A classic Québécois dish. The room was filled with the rich, sweet aroma.
Baked beans were a lot of work, but it looked as though Hazel’s drug of choice today was hard work. Casseroles lined the counter, like a battalion of tanks. And Beauvoir suddenly knew which battle they were fighting. The war against grief. The heroic and desperate effort to stop the enemy at the gates. But it was futile. For Hazel Smyth the Visigoths were on the hill and were about to sweep down, burning and destroying everything. Unrelenting, without mercy. She might delay grief, but she wouldn’t stop it. She might even make it worse by running away.
Jean Guy Beauvoir looked at Hazel and knew she was about to be overcome, overwhelmed, violated. Her own heart would finally betray her, and open the gates to grief. Sorrow, loss, despair were snorting and trampling, rearing and gathering for the final charge. Would this woman survive, Beauvoir wondered? Some didn’t. Most at the very least were changed forever. Some grew more sensitive, more compassionate. But many grew hard and bitter. Closed off. Never again risking this loss.
‘Cookie?’
‘Oui, merci.’ Beauvoir took one and Nichol took two. Hazel’s hands flew toward the kettle, the tap, the plug, the teapot. And she talked. Putting out a covering fire of words. Sophie had twisted her ankle. Poor Mrs Burton needed a drive to her chemo later this afternoon. Tom Chartrand was poorly and of course his own children would never come down from Montreal to help. On and on she went until Beauvoir didn’t know about grief, but he himself was about to surrender.
The tea was placed on the table. Hazel had made up a tray and was carrying it to the stairs.
‘Is that for your daughter?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘She’s in her room, poor one. Can’t move very easily.’
‘Here, let me.’ He took the tray and mounted the narrow stairs, lined with old floral wallpaper. At the top he walked along to a closed door and knocked with his foot. He heard two heavy steps and the door opened.
Sophie was standing there, a bored look on her face, until she saw him. Then she smiled, cocked her head to one side slightly and slowly, slowly lifted her hurt foot.
‘My hero,’ she said, limping backward and motioning him to put the tray on a dresser.
He looked at her for a moment. She was attractive, there was no denying that. Slim, her skin clear and her hair shiny and full. Beauvoir found her revolting. Sitting in her bedroom faking an injury and expecting her grieving mother to wait on her. And Hazel did. It was insane. What sort of person, what sort of daughter, did this? Granted Hazel was difficult to be around just now, what with the maniacal cooking and rapid-fire talking, but couldn’t Sophie at least be with her? She didn’t have to help necessarily, but she sure didn’t have to add to her mother’s burden.