Sharon Harris got in her car and drove off just as the first huge drops of rain fell and the winds picked up and the sky over the tiny village grew purple and impenetrable. Armand Gamache made it to the bistro before the heavens opened. Settling into a wing chair he ordered a Scotch and a licorice pipe and gazing out the window as the storm closed in around Three Pines he wondered who would want to kill a dying woman.
THIRTY-ONE
‘ Good book?’
Myrna leaned over Gamache’ s shoulder. He’ d been so absorbed in his book he hadn’ t even seen her coming.
‘ I don’ t know,’ he admitted, and handed it to her. He’ d emptied his pockets of the books he’ d gathered. He felt like a mobile library. Where other investigators gathered fingerprints and evidence, he gathered books. Not everyone would agree it was a move in the right direction.
‘ Terrible storm.’ Myrna flopped into the large chair opposite and ordered a red wine. ‘ Thank heaven I don’ t have to go outside. In fact, if I wanted I’ d never have to go outside again. Everything I need is here.’
She opened her arms happily, her colorful caftan draping over the arms of her chair.
‘ Food from Sarah and Monsieur Béliveau, company and coffee here—’
‘ Your red wine, your highness,’ said Gabri, lowering the bulbous glass to the dark wood table.
‘ You may go now.’ Myrna inclined her head in a surprisingly regal gesture. ‘ I have wine and Scotch and all the books I could want to read.’
She lifted her glass and Gamache lifted his.
‘ Santé.’ They smiled at each other, sipped, and stared at the torrential rain streaming down the leaded glass windows.
‘ Now, what have we here?’ Myrna put on her reading glasses and examined the small leather volume Gamache had given her. ‘ Where’ d you find this?’ she finally asked, letting her glasses drop on their rope to land on the plateau of her bosom.
‘The room where Madeleine died. It was in the bookcase.’
Myrna immediately put the book down, as though wickedness was communicable. It sat between them, its cover simple and striking. A small hand outlined in red. It looked like blood, but Gamache had satisfied himself it was ink.
‘It’s a book on magic,’ said Myrna. ‘Couldn’t see a publisher or ISBN number. Probably vanity printed in small numbers.’
‘Any idea how old it is?’
Myrna leaned over, but didn’t touch it again.
‘Leather’s cracking a bit at the spine and some pages look loose. Glue must have dried. I’d say it was made before the First World War. Is there an inscription?’
Gamache shook his head.
‘Ever seen anything like it in your store?’ he asked.
Myrna pretended to think but knew the answer. She’d remember something that macabre. She loved books. All books. She had some on the occult and some on magic. But if anything came in like the one sitting between them she’d give it away quick. To someone she didn’t like.
‘Nope, never.’
‘How about this one?’ Gamache reached into his inside pocket and brought out the book he’d recently read from cover to cover, and was loath to give up.
He’d expected a polite, curious look. Perhaps even amusement and recognition. He hadn’t expected horror.
‘Where’d you find that?’ She grabbed it out of his hand and shoved it down the side of the chair.
‘What is it?’ Gamache asked, astonished by her reaction.
But Myrna wasn’t listening. Instead her eyes scanned the room, resting on Monsieur Béliveau standing at the door, befuddled. Then he moved away.
Reaching down she brought out the book and placed it on the table. Now a small stack of books sat there. The strange leather-bound volume with the red hand, a Bible, and this new one with the comic cover that had created such turmoil.
‘Who is Sarah Binks?’ He tapped the top book.
‘She’s the Sweet Songstress of Saskatoon,’ said Myrna, as though that explained everything. Gamache had already searched the internet for Sarah Binks, and knew about the book, a supposed tribute to the worst poet ever born. It was big-hearted, warm and funny, and it had been hidden by Madeleine.
‘I found it in the back of a drawer in Madeleine’s bedroom.’
‘Madeleine had it?’
‘You expected someone else?’
‘I can never keep track of books. People lend them all over the place. Bane of a bookseller’s life. Instead of buying they borrow.’
And she did look put out, but not, he suspected, by rogue books. She was scanning the room, suddenly jumpy and ill at ease.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, then had his answer. Myrna’s eyes had stopped their travels and had settled back on the gaunt man at the bar. Monsieur Béliveau was looking sad and lost.
‘He’s always like that.’ She took a handful of nuts, spilling a bunch of cashews onto the table. Gamache absently picked them up and popped them into his mouth.
‘Meaning?’
Myrna hesitated for a moment. ‘I know he’s had reason. His wife was sick for a long time before she died. And now Madeleine’s death. And yet he’s able to go to work, open the store and function just fine.’
‘Maybe he’s used to grief. Maybe for him it’s become normal.’
‘Maybe. If you lost your wife would you go to work the next day?’
‘Madeleine wasn’t his wife,’ said Gamache, hurrying to drown out the image of Reine-Marie dead.
‘Ginette was and he opened his store the next day. Is he brave, or are we seeing the near enemy?’
‘The what?’
‘The near enemy. It’s a psychological concept. Two emotions that look the same but are actually opposites. The one parades as the other, is mistaken for the other, but one is healthy and the other’s sick, twisted.’
Gamache put his glass down. The condensation made his fingers slightly wet. Or was it the sweat that had suddenly appeared on his palms? The noises of the storm, the rain and hail pounding frantically on the window, the conversation and laughter inside the bistro receded.
He leaned forward and spoke, his voice low. ‘Can you give me an example?’
‘There are three couplings,’ said Myrna, herself leaning forward now, and whispering though she didn’t know why. ‘Attachment masquerades as Love, Pity as Compassion and Indifference as Equanimity.’
Armand Gamache was quiet for a moment, looking into Myrna’s eyes, trying to divine from them the deeper meaning of what she’d just said. There was a deeper meaning, he knew it. Something important had just been said.
But he hadn’t understood it fully. His eyes drifted to the fireplace while Myrna leaned back in her overstuffed chair and swirled her red wine in its bulbous glass.
‘I don’t understand,’ Gamache said finally, bringing his eyes back to Myrna. ‘Can you explain?’
Myrna nodded. ‘Pity and compassion are the easiest to understand. Compassion involves empathy. You see the stricken person as an equal. Pity doesn’t. If you pity someone you feel superior.’
‘But it’s hard to tell one from the other,’ Gamache nodded.
‘Exactly. Even for the person feeling it. Almost everyone would claim to be full of compassion. It’s one of the noble emotions. But really, it’s pity they feel.’
‘So pity is the near enemy of compassion,’ said Gamache slowly, mulling it over.
‘That’s right. It looks like compassion, acts like compassion, but is actually the opposite of it. And as long as pity’s in place there’s not room for compassion. It destroys, squeezes out, the nobler emotion.’
‘Because we fool ourselves into believing we’re feeling one, when we’re actually feeling the other.’
‘Fool ourselves, and fool others,’ said Myrna.
‘And love and attachment?’ asked Gamache.
‘Mothers and children are classic examples. Some mothers see their job as preparing their kids to live in the big old world. To be independent, to marry and have children of their own. To live wherever they choose and do what makes them happy. That’s love. Others, and we all see them, cling to their children. Move to the same city, the same neighborhood. Live through them. Stifle them. Manipulate, use guilt-trips, cripple them.’