The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)

As his long legs took him back down the corridor, past staring monks, he looked at his watch. Eight A.M. Four hours. The boatman would arrive in four hours. If the fog burns off.

The mirthful light hadn’t shown up today. Almost no sun made it through the high windows and Gamache couldn’t see if the sky was clearing, or closing in.

Four hours.

He would leave with Beauvoir. He knew that now. Whether the murder was solved or not. According to the doctor, Jean-Guy was out of immediate danger. But Gamache knew the danger was far from removed.

It didn’t take long to find the small bottle of small pills in Beauvoir’s small cell. It was under his pillow. Barely hidden. But then, Jean-Guy hadn’t expected to pass out. Hadn’t expected his room to be searched.

Gamache picked the pill bottle up with a handkerchief.

OxyContin. But it wasn’t prescribed to Beauvoir. It wasn’t prescribed at all. The label had only the manufacturer’s name and the name and dose of the drug.

After slipping it into his pocket, Gamache searched the cell and in the wastepaper basket he found a note.

Take as needed. And a signature. He carefully folded the paper, with more precision than necessary. Pausing at the window, he stared into the fog.

Yes. It was lifting.

*   *   *

In the infirmary Frère Charles was doing his paperwork and checking on Beauvoir every few minutes. The shallow, rapid breathing had become regular. Deeper. The Sûreté Inspector had moved from being passed out to merely sleeping.

He’d wake up in an hour or so, with a headache, a thirst, and a craving.

Frère Charles didn’t envy this man.

The monk looked up and started. Armand Gamache was standing just inside the doorway. And as Frère Charles watched, the Chief Inspector slowly closed the door.

“Did you find it?” the doctor asked. The Chief was looking at him in a way that the monk didn’t like.

“I did. Under his pillow.”

Frère Charles held out his hand for the bottle, but Gamache didn’t move. He just continued to stare and the monk dropped his eyes, no longer able to hold the hard, heavy stare.

“I also found this.” Gamache held the note up and the monk went to take it, but the Chief pulled it back. Frère Charles read it as it hung in the air between them, then met the Chief Inspector’s eyes.

The monk’s mouth was open, but no words came out. His face turned a deep red and he looked again at the note in Gamache’s hand.

It was in his own handwriting. With his own signature.

“But I didn’t…” he tried again and flushed more.

Chief Inspector Gamache lowered the paper and walked over to Beauvoir. There he laid his hand against his Inspector’s neck, to feel his pulse. It was, the doctor recognized, a practiced move. A natural move. For the head of homicide. To establish proof of life. Or death.

Then Gamache turned back to the doctor.

“Is this your handwriting?” he nodded to the note.

“Yes, but—”

“And your signature?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you give Inspector Beauvoir these pills?”

Gamache reached into his pocket and held out the pills, using the handkerchief.

“No. I never gave him pills. Let me see.” The doctor reached but Gamache withdrew the bottle, so that the doctor had to lean in to read the label.

After examining it he turned and walked to his medicine cabinet, which he unlocked using a key in his pocket.

“I keep OxyContin in stock, but only for the worst emergencies. I’d never normally prescribe it. Filthy stuff. All my stock checks out. I have the records if you’d like to see what I’ve ordered, when, and what I’ve prescribed. There’s none missing.”

“Records can be faked.”

The doctor nodded and handed a small pill bottle to the Chief, who put on his glasses and examined it.

“As you see, Chief Inspector, the pills are the same, but the dosage and the supplier is different. I never deal in the higher doses and we get our medications from a medical supply house in Drummondville.”

Gamache removed his glasses. “Can you explain the note?”

Both men looked again at the paper in Gamache’s hand.

Take as needed. And then the doctor’s signature.

“I must’ve written that for someone else, and whoever left the OxyContin for your Inspector found it and used it.”

“Who have you prescribed for recently?”

The doctor went to his records, but both men knew this wasn’t necessary. It was a small enough community, and this would have been recent enough. Frère Charles almost certainly would remember, without aid of records.