‘You think the house is to blame?’
‘Don’t you?’
It was a strange admission for Beauvoir. Normally so rational and driven by facts, he gave no credence to things unseen, like emotions. He was the perfect complement to his boss, who, in Beauvoir’s opinion, spent far too much time crawling into people’s heads and hearts. Inside there lived chaos, and Beauvoir wasn’t a big one for that.
But if there was ever a case for evil, in Beauvoir’s experience, it was the old Hadley house. He shifted his toned body in the driver’s seat, suddenly uncomfortable, and looked over at the boss. Gamache was watching him thoughtfully. They locked eyes, Gamache’s steady and calm and of the deepest brown and Beauvoir’s almost gray.
‘Who was the victim?’
ELEVEN
The road to Three Pines from the autoroute was one of the most scenic, and treacherous, Gamache knew. The car shuddered and thumped and careered from pothole to pothole until both Beauvoir and Gamache felt like scrambled eggs.
‘Watch out.’ Gamache pointed to a massive hole in the dirt road. Avoiding it Beauvoir steered into a larger one and then the nearly new Volvo washboarded over a series of waves cut deeply into the mud.
‘Any more advice?’ snarled Beauvoir, his eyes pinned to the road.
‘I just plan to yell “watch out” every few seconds,’ said Gamache. ‘Watch out.’
Sure enough an asteroid crater opened up in front of them.
‘Fuck.’ Beauvoir yanked the steering wheel to the side, narrowly avoiding it. ‘It’s as if that house doesn’t want us to get to it.’
‘And it’s commanded the roads to open up?’ Even Gamache, more than happy to entertain existential ideas, found this surprising. ‘Do you think maybe it’s the spring thaw?’
‘Well, I suppose it could be that. Watch out.’ They hit a hole and jerked forward. Lurching and swerving and swearing the two men made their slow progress deeper and deeper into the forest. The dirt road wound through pine and maple forests and along valleys and climbed the sides of small mountains. It passed streams throbbing with the spring run-off and gray lakes that had only recently lost their winter ice.
Then they arrived.
Ahead Gamache could see the familiar and strangely comforting sight of the Scene of Crime vehicles parked along the side of the road. He couldn’t see the old Hadley house yet.
Beauvoir pulled the car into a spot by the abandoned mill across from the house. Opening his door Gamache was met with an aroma so sweet he had to close his eyes and pause.
Inhaling deeply he knew immediately what it was. Fresh pine. Young buds, their fragrance strong and new. He changed into rubber boots, put his Barbour field coat on over his jacket and tie and slipped a tweed cap on his head.
Still not looking at the old Hadley house he walked instead to the brow of the hill. Beauvoir put his Italian leather jacket over his merino wool turtleneck and, scanning the results in the mirror, noticed he was closer than he appeared. After a moment’s happy reflection he walked up beside Gamache until the two men stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the valley.
It was Armand Gamache’s favorite view. The mountains rose graciously on the far side, folding into each other, their slopes covered with a fuzz of lime green buds. He could smell not just the pine now, but the very earth, and other aromas. The musky rich scent of dried autumn leaves, the wood smoke rising from the chimneys below, and something else. He lifted his head and inhaled again, softly this time. There, below the bolder aromas, sat a subtler scent. The first of the spring flowers. The youngest and bravest of them. Gamache was reminded of the simple and dignified chapel with its white clapboard spire. It was just below him, off to the right. He’d been in St Thomas’s often enough and on this fine morning knew light from an old stained glass window would be spilling onto the gleaming pews and wooden floor. The image wasn’t of Christ or the lives and glorious deaths of saints, but of three young men in the Great War. Two were in profile, marching forward. But one was looking straight at the congregation. Not accusing, not in sorrow or fear. But with great love as though to say this was his gift to them. Use it well.
Beneath were inscribed the names of those lost in the wars and one more line.
They Were Our Children.
And now standing on the lip of the hill, looking into the loveliest, gentlest village Gamache had ever seen and smelling the brave young flowers, he wondered whether it was always the young who were brave. And the old grew fearful and cowardly.
Was he? He was certainly afraid to go into the monstrosity he could feel breathing on his neck. Or perhaps that was Beauvoir. But he was afraid of something else, he knew.