The Nature of the Beast

“Yes?”

“Brian said it was by John Fleming.”

She grew still, her clear eyes studying him. “He shouldn’t have said that.”

“But he did. Why do you want to keep it a secret?”

“Like I said, marketing. It’s a new play, we need to do everything we can to pique interest.”

“A secret playwright is hardly going to get camera crews out.”

“Not at first, maybe. But the play’s not your run-of-the-mill work by an unknown, Armand. It’s brilliant. I’ve done professional and amateur theatrics for years and this is among the best.”

“For an amateur,” said Gamache.

“For anyone. Wait until you see it. I’d put it beside Miller and Stoppard and Tremblay. It’s Our Town meets The Crucible.”

Gamache was used to hyperbole, especially from people in the theater, so this didn’t surprise him.

“I’m not questioning the quality of the work,” he said, lowering his voice so that it was barely audible above the crackle of the fire as it caught the dry wood. “I’m wondering about the playwright.”

“I can’t tell you anything about him.”

“Have you met him?” Gamache asked.

Antoinette hesitated. “No. Brian found the script among my uncle’s papers after he died.”

“Why did you white out the playwright’s name?”

“I told you. I wanted to create a buzz. Once the play opens everyone’s going to want to know who wrote it.”

“And what’ll you tell them?”

Now Antoinette looked decidedly tense.

“Who wrote She Sat Down and Wept?” Gamache asked, his voice low.

“Like Brian said, it’s by some fellow named John Fleming.”

“I know a John Fleming,” he said. “And so do you. And so does everyone.” He stared at her. “Is it that John Fleming?”

“I don’t know,” she said after a pause.

He continued to stare until she flushed. “You know.”

“Know what?” asked Gabri, offering them coffees. Too late, he picked up on the tension between the two.

“Please tell me it’s not the same man,” said Gamache, searching Antoinette’s face. And then his went slack before he whispered, “My God, it is, isn’t it?”

“What is?” asked Gabri, wishing he could back away but knowing it was too late.

“Will you tell him?” Armand asked. “Or shall I?”

“Tell him what?” asked Myrna, joining them.

Armand walked over to the table by the door where Gabri had left his script.

“Tell them who wrote this,” he said, holding it out to Antoinette. “Tell them the real reason you didn’t want anyone to know.”

Hearing the tone of his voice, Reine-Marie looked over. Armand was dangerously close to being rude to one of their guests, something he’d rarely been in all the years she’d known him. He hadn’t liked all their guests, certainly hadn’t agreed with all of them, but he’d always been courteous.

But now he toed the line. And then he crossed it, thrusting the play at Antoinette.

“Tell them,” he said.

She took it, then turned to the other dinner guests. “It was John Fleming.”

“We already know that,” said Myrna. “Brian told us this afternoon in the bistro, remember?”

“That’s what’s going to get people excited?” asked Gabri. “Your brilliant marketing plan? He’s hardly a household name.”

“But he is,” said Armand. “Everyone in Canada knows him. In North America. He’s famous. Infamous.”

They looked perplexed, genuinely baffled by Armand’s behavior and insistence. But then Myrna sank down. Had the sofa not been there, she might have gone all the way to the floor. Brian took the cup and saucer from her just before it spilled.

“That John Fleming?” Myrna whispered.

Gabri, far from buckling, looked as though he’d been turned to granite as he stared at Antoinette. A Medusa in their midst.

“You didn’t,” he said. “Tell me you didn’t.”

*   *   *

Once home, Ruth turned the key in the lock and leaned against the door, her heart pounding, her breathing rapid and shallow. She held Rosa to her chest and pressed against the thin wood of the door. All that stood between her and Rosa and an alien world that had produced a John Fleming.

Then she drew the curtains and pulled from her string bag the script she’d stolen.