A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2)

‘That’s convenient,’ said Beauvoir, taking a deep breath. ‘Or maybe I just inhaled the frame that shows the murder? What do you think? Did you burn the film that shows CC being murdered?’

‘Why would I? I mean, if I have film of CC being murdered, wouldn’t that prove I didn’t do it?’

That stopped Beauvoir cold.

‘I gave you all the rolls I shot that day. I promise.’

Beauvoir’s eyes were narrow as he watched this little man cower. He’s done something wrong, I know it, thought Beauvoir. But he couldn’t figure out how to nail him.

The officers left, Beauvoir stomping to the car and Lemieux trailing behind, not wanting to become the target for Beauvoir’s unexercised frustration. Gamache stood on the stoop squinting into the sun, feeling his nostrils contract in the bitter cold.

‘It’s lovely here. You’re a lucky man,’ and Gamache pulled off a glove and offered his hand. Saul Petrov took it, feeling the warmth of human contact. He’d been with CC so long he’d almost forgotten that most humans generate heat. ‘Don’t be a foolish man, Mr Petrov.’

‘I’ve told you the truth, Chief Inspector.’

‘I hope so, sir.’ Gamache smiled and walked quickly to the car, his face already beginning to freeze. Petrov went into the warm living room and watched the car disappear round a bend, then he looked again on the bright new world, and wondered just how foolish he’d been. He rummaged through some drawers and found a pen and an unused Christmas card. He wrote a short message then headed into St-Rémy to find the mailbox.

‘Stop the car,’ said Gamache. Beauvoir applied the brakes then looked at the chief. Gamache sat in the passenger’s seat staring out the window, his lips moving slightly and his eyes narrow. After a minute he closed his eyes and smiled, shaking his head.

‘I need to speak to Kaye Thompson. Drop me off in Williamsburg, then get back to Three Pines and take The Lion in Winter over to Clara Morrow. Ask her to show you what she meant. She’ll understand.’

Beauvoir turned the car toward Williamsburg.

Gamache had just figured out what Clara was saying in their garbled conversation, and if she was right, it could explain a great deal.

‘Fuck the Pope?’

Gamache never thought he’d hear himself say that, even as a question. Especially as a question.

‘That’s what they said.’ Kaye looked at him, her blue eyes sharp, but now veiled by something else. Exhaustion. Beside her on the sofa Émilie Longpré sat forward and listened, watching her friend closely.

‘Why?’ Kaye asked him.

It was, of course, the one question he asked all the time and now someone was asking him. He had the impression there was something he didn’t understand going on, some subtext that was escaping him.

He thought for a moment, looking out the picture window of her modest room in the seniors’ home. She had a splendid view across Lac Brume. The sun was setting and long mountain shadows cut the lake so that part was in blinding light and part in darkness, like yin and yang. Slowly the scene faded and he saw the boys in the trench, their young eyes filled with terror. They were being told to do the inconceivable, and, inconceivably, they were about to do it.

‘I wonder whether they knew that words could kill,’ said Gamache, slowly, thinking out loud, seeing the defenseless, indefensibly young men preparing for death.

What did it take to do that? Could he? It was one thing to rush without thought into a dangerous situation, it was quite another to wait, and wait, and wait, knowing what was coming. And do it anyway. For no purpose. To no end.

‘That’s ridiculous. Yelling “Fuck the Pope” wouldn’t kill a single German. What do you use for ammunition? When a murderer shoots at you what do you do? Run after him yelling “Tabernacle!”, “Sacré!”, “Chalice!”? I hope I’m never in a life and death situation with you. Merde.’

Gamache laughed. Clearly his insightful comment had failed to impress. And she was probably right. He couldn’t begin to understand why the young men had yelled that at the Somme.

‘I have pictures here I’d like you both to see.’ He spread Saul’s photographs on a table.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Kaye.

‘That’s you, ma belle,’ said Émilie.

‘Are you kidding? I look like a potato in a laundry hamper.’

‘You seem to be speaking to CC in a few of the pictures,’ said Gamache. ‘What were you saying?’