‘I just want…’ Beauvoir’s voice trailed off.
‘What do you want?’ Gamache asked quietly. The sun was behind him and all Beauvoir could see was his outline.
‘I want you to trust me.’
‘I think there’s more.’
Beauvoir was wrung out, weak and exhausted. The two men stared at each other. The sun caught the drops of water clinging to the branches of the trees and they shone.
Gamache very slowly walked to Beauvoir and put out his hand. Jean Guy stared at it, large and powerful. And as though watching someone else he saw his own hand rise up and softly land. His hand was slender, almost delicate inside the chief’s.
‘From the moment I saw you angry and bitter, assigned to that evidence room at the Trois-Rivières detachment, I knew,’ said Gamache. ‘Why do you think I took you on when no one else wanted you? Why do you think I made you my second in command? Yes, you’re a gifted investigator. You have a knack for finding murderers. But there was more. We have a connection, you and I. A connection I feel with all members of the team but you most strongly. You’re my successor, Jean Guy. The next in line. I love you like a son. And I need you.’
Beauvoir’s nose and eyes burned and a sob escaped, rushing to join the others already caught in the wind as though the emotion was as natural as the trees.
The two men embraced and Beauvoir whispered into Gamache’s ear, ‘I love you too.’
Then they parted. Without embarrassment. They were father and son. And all Beauvoir’s envy of Daniel had departed, been let go.
‘You need to tell me everything.’
Gamache still hesitated.
‘Ignorance won’t protect me.’
Then Armand Gamache told him everything. Told him about Arnot, told him about Francoeur, told him about Nichol. Beauvoir listened, stunned.
THIRTY-SIX
Odile Montmagny was busy with a customer wondering about the difference between firm and soft tofu. While she tended to business Gamache and Beauvoir wandered around the shop, looking at the rows of organic food and bins of teas and herbs. At the back of the shop, they found Sandon’s furniture. Gamache had a love of antiques, especially Quebec pine. Modern design often left him baffled. But looking at Gilles’s tables and chairs and stools, his bowls and walking sticks, Gamache had the feeling he was looking at a remarkable fusion of old and new. The wood seemed destined to form these shapes, as though it had grown for hundreds of years in the forests of Quebec, waiting to be found by this man and put to this use. And yet the designs were anything but traditional. They were modern and bold.
‘Want one?’ Odile asked. Gamache could smell the sour wine, imperfectly masked under a breath mint. It was a repulsive combination and it was all he could do not to lean away.
‘I’d love one, but perhaps not today,’ he said. ‘We have a few more questions, I’m afraid.’
‘No problem. We’re quiet today. Quiet most days.’
‘Gives you a chance to write your poetry, I suppose.’
She perked up. ‘You’ve heard of my poetry?’
‘I have, madame.’
‘Would you like to hear one?’
Beauvoir tried to catch the chief’s eye, but Gamache seemed oblivious of Beauvoir’s ocular gymnastics.
‘I would consider it an honor, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Here, sit here.’ She practically shoved Gamache into one of Gilles’s chairs. He expected to hear a great cracking sound, breaking both the chair and his bank balance in one go. But nothing happened. The chair, the wood and his savings were solid.
Odile returned with her worn notebook, the one Beauvoir had seen her slam shut on his previous visit.
She cleared her throat and adjusted her shoulders, as a fighter might before the foe.
‘Over the moor at dusk there fled
The dismal clouds, and we,
Facing the rain, with might and main,
Me and my love and me.
‘The seagull screamed, the reeds were bent,
But hand in hand the three,
We hurried on – going against the wind,
Me and my love and me.
‘I call it “Me and My Love and Me”.’
Gamache was too stunned to speak but Beauvoir found his voice.
‘That was wonderful. I could see the whole thing.’
And he meant it. He was used to hearing Gamache’s obscure quotes, mostly of Ruth Zardo’s unintelligible stuff that didn’t even rhyme. This at least made sense. He could see the bird, hear it screaming, see the rain.
‘Would you like another one?’
‘I’m afraid I do have to ask some questions.’ Gamache patted the stool next to him. ‘Lovely thought as that is.’
Odile sat and wavered a little, trying to stay upright.
‘What did you think of Madeleine Favreau?’
‘She was all right. Came in here sometimes, but I didn’t know her well. I’m sorry she’s dead. Any idea who did it?’
‘Do you?’
Odile thought.
‘I think it was that friend of hers. Hazel. Always so nice. Too nice. Drive you nuts. Definitely a suspect. Though, actually, maybe she’s more likely to be murdered. Are you sure the right person was killed?’
‘You had words with Madeleine as you all walked to the old Hadley house.’
‘Did I?’ Odile’s skills as a liar rivaled her skills as a poet.
‘You did. You were overheard.’
‘Oh, we talked about this and that.’
‘You argued, madame,’ said Gamache, firmly but quietly. He could see Odile in profile, her jawline weak and soft.
‘No, we didn’t argue,’ she said. Gamache knew all he needed to do was wait, and hope another customer didn’t come in.
‘She was trying to take Gilles,’ said Odile in a fetid explosion, her sour breath hitting Gamache as though the words had been trapped inside too long. ‘I know that’s what she wanted. Always smiling at him, always touching him.’ She mimicked Madeleine’s actions by pawing Gamache’s arm. ‘She just wanted him to pay attention to her, and he wouldn’t.’
‘Is that true?’ Gamache asked.
‘Of course it’s true. He loves me.’ The last word was almost inaudible. Her mouth hung open, some long spittle drooling out. Her nose ran and tears had sprung to her eyes. Her face had dissolved as though in acid.
Did Madeleine try to take Gilles from Odile? Gamache wondered. If so there were two motives for murder. Odile to kill her rival. And Monsieur Béliveau out of jealousy. What had Clara said? Madeleine always got what she wanted. But what had she wanted? Whom had she wanted? Gilles or Monsieur Béliveau? Or neither?
‘What did you argue about that night?’ Gamache pressed.
‘I asked her to stop. All right? Satisfied? I begged her to stay away from Gilles. She could have any man. She was gorgeous and smart. Everyone wanted to be with her. Who wouldn’t? But me? I know what people think of me. I’m stupid and dull and can only do figures. I’ve loved Gilles all my life and he finally chose me. Me. And no one was going to take him away. I begged her to let me have him.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She denied the whole thing. Let me make a fool of myself, humiliate myself, then didn’t even have the courage to admit what a slut she was.’
As they left Gamache shook her hand, feeling it wet and slimy. But that was how grief often felt. Beauvoir managed to get away without the handshake.
They found Gilles Sandon deep in the woods. They’d followed the chopping sound and cresting a small hill and climbing over a dead and decayed log they’d seen the huge man with his axe working on a downed tree. They watched for a moment the powerful and graceful movements as his massive arms raised the ancient tool and brought it down on the wood. Then he stopped, paused and turned round to look directly at them. All three stared at each other, then Sandon waved.