A Fatal Grace (19 page)

‘That’ll wait, agent, thank you,’ said Gamache. ‘We have a busy day. I’m going to speak to Kaye Thompson, find out what she saw. I want you to find that photographer Richard Lyon talked about,’ he said to Beauvoir, who nodded briskly, eager for the hunt to begin. ‘At the very least he took pictures at the community breakfast and the curling. He might even have photographed the murder. His name is Saul someone.’

‘Saul Petrov.’ The big red fire truck spoke, in a female voice.

From behind it a young woman appeared.

‘I’ve found him.’

As she approached she couldn’t help but notice the looks of shock and even horror on the faces of the men and women round the table. She wasn’t surprised. She was prepared for this.

‘Good morning Agent Nichol,’ said Armand Gamache.

SIXTEEN

Beauvoir handed out the assignments while Gamache spoke to Agent Yvette Nichol in private. There was one enclosed room which used to belong to the ticket taker. Latterly it was taken over by Ruth Zardo. It housed a desk, a chair and about three hundred books. It was, in all certainty, a fire hazard.

Chief Inspector Gamache had risen to his feet as soon as Agent Nichol appeared, as a man about to be executed might rise to face what was coming. He’d nodded to Beauvoir and his second in command knew instinctively what was being said. Without a word Gamache walked across the floor to meet Nichol halfway, and guide her into the small room.

Now Beauvoir watched his team work their computers and the phones, but his mind was on the chief. And Nichol. That rancid, wretched, petty little woman who’d almost ruined their last case, and had proved a deeply divisive element in a team that thrived and depended on harmony.

‘Explain yourself, please.’ Gamache stood in the small room, towering over the petite agent. Her short mousy hair was not only disheveled from taking off her tuque, but seemed to have been cut by a drunken gardener with tree shears. Her clothes were ill fitting and drab and Gamache thought he saw a bit of egg yolk clinging to her prickly wool sweater. Her face was scarred and purple from severe acne as a teen, and where it wasn’t purple it was pasty. The only spark her gray eyes held was fear. And something else, Gamache thought. Cunning. She’s afraid of someone, he thought, but not me.

‘I was assigned to you, sir.’ She watched him closely. ‘Superintendent Francoeur called this morning and told me I was to report to you. It surprised me as well.’ She tried to sound contrite and only succeeded in sounding whiny. ‘I read the field notes you and Inspector Beauvoir had written.’

‘How?’

‘Well, the Superintendent forwarded them to me at home. I noticed your note about the photographer and that you considered that the priority. I agreed—’

‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

‘I mean, I thought you were right. Well, of course you were.’ Now she was getting flustered. ‘Here.’ She thrust out her hand with a piece of paper. He took it and read.

Saul Petrov, 17 rue Tryhorn.

‘I looked it up on the map. See, here.’ She pulled a map from her jacket pocket and handed it to him. He didn’t take it. He simply stared at her.

‘I called about fifteen rental agencies in the area. No one knew him but finally I found a restaurant in St-Rémy, Le Sans Souci. People advertise chalets for rent there. I asked the owner and he remembered getting a similar call from a guy in Montreal a few days ago. Guy rented the place right away. So I called and sure enough, it’s this photographer. Saul Petrov.’

‘You spoke to him?’

‘Yes sir. Had to. To confirm his identity.’

‘And suppose he’s the murderer? Suppose at this moment he’s burning his pictures or loading up his car? How long ago did you call?’

‘About two hours.’ Yvette Nichol’s voice had faded to a whisper.

Gamache took a deep breath and stared at her for a moment, then strode out the door.

‘Inspector Beauvoir? Please take an agent and find out if this is the photographer we’re looking for. Agent Lemieux, stay here. I need to speak to you.’ He turned back to Nichol. ‘Sit down and wait for me.’

She plunked down on the chair as though her legs had been cut out from underneath her.

Beauvoir took the piece of paper, consulted the map on the wall and was out the door in a matter of minutes, but not before he’d gotten a look at Agent Nichol sitting in the tiny, cramped room, looking about as miserable as a person still alive could look. He surprised within himself a certain sympathy for her. Chief Inspector Gamache’s bad side was legend. Not because it was so bad, but because it was so well hidden. Hardly anyone had ever found it. But those that did never ever forgot.

‘I have an assignment for you,’ Gamache said to Lemieux. ‘I want you to go into Montreal and ask some questions for me. It’s about a woman named Elle. That’s not her real name. She was indigent and was murdered just before Christmas.’

‘Is this about the de Poitiers case?’

‘No.’

‘Have I done something wrong?’ Lemieux looked crestfallen.

‘Not at all. I need some questions asked about that case and it’ll be good training for you. You haven’t worked in Montreal?’

‘Barely visited,’ Lemieux admitted.

‘Now’s your chance.’ He could see the anxiety in Agent Lemieux’s face. ‘You’ll be fine. I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t think two things. First, that you can do it and second, that you need to do it.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

Gamache told him, and the two of them went to Gamache’s car where the chief took a cardboard evidence box from his trunk and handed it to Lemieux with instructions.

Gamache’s eyes followed Lemieux as his car drove slowly over the old stone bridge, onto the Commons and round the village green before mounting rue du Moulin and heading out of Three Pines. The chief stood in the steadily falling snow and his stare fell on the figures on the village green. Some carried bags of shopping from Sarah’s Boulangerie or Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. Some families were skating. Some walked dogs. One dog, a young shepherd, was rolling and digging and tossing something into the air.

He missed Sonny.

Through the snow everyone looked much the same. All bundled up in fluffy parkas and tuques, making them anonymous. He supposed if he knew the children and the dogs, he’d be able to figure out who the adults were.

And that was one of the problems they were facing. Everyone looked alike in the Quebec winter. Like colorful marshmallows. It was hard to even distinguish men from women. Faces, hair, hands, feet, bodies, all covered against the cold. Even if someone had seen the murderer, could they identify him?

He watched the dogs frolic and recognized with a smile what they were playing with. Sonny’s favorite winter treat.

Frozen poop. Poopsicles.

He even missed that.

‘You’re not welcome on my team, Agent Nichol.’ Gamache looked into the scarred, scared face a few minutes later. He was done with her manipulation, her arrogance, her anger. He’d had enough of that during the last case.

‘I understand, sir. It wasn’t my idea either. I know what a mess I made of the last assignment with you. I’m so sorry. What can I do to prove I’ve changed?’

‘You can leave.’

‘I wish I could.’ She looked miserable. ‘I really do. I knew you’d feel like this and honestly I don’t blame you. I don’t know what I was thinking last time. Stupid. Arrogant. But I think I’ve changed. A year in narcotics.’ She looked into his face to see whether this was making any impact.

It wasn’t.

‘Goodbye, Agent Nichol.’

He walked out of the room, put his coat back on and got into his car without looking back.

‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but Kaye Thompson isn’t here right now. She spent the night at her friend’s home. Émilie Longpré.’

The matron of the seniors’ home in Williamsburg looked kindly and efficient. The home itself was in a converted mansion, the rooms large and gracious, though perhaps a little tired and definitely smelling of talcum. Like the residents themselves.

Armand Gamache at least had the sense to laugh at himself. Madame Longpré lived in Three Pines and might even have been one of the anonymous figures he’d watched walking across the village green. He’d been so angry at Agent Nichol he’d stormed out like the petulant child he believed her to be, gotten in his car and zoomed away. So there. And here he was, kilometers away from the witness who had in fact been just meters away in the first place. He smiled and the matron was left to wonder what the large man found so funny.

Instead of going straight back to Three Pines, Gamache parked the car at the Legion and walked in. It wasn’t locked. Most places weren’t. He wandered around the hall, his boots echoing slightly in the large, empty room. One wall was opened up to form a cafeteria-style pass-through from the kitchen. He imagined the bustle of the Boxing Day breakfast, the shouted greetings, the calls for more tea or coffee. Beatrice Mayer offering her noxious brew.

Now, why was she called Mother? Clara had seemed to think he could figure it out without even meeting her. Beatrice Mayer? Mother Bea? He shook his head, but knew he’d get it, eventually. It was the sort of little puzzle he enjoyed.

He went back to his imagination, joining these people for Boxing Day breakfast. The place warm and cheery and festooned with the tackiest Christmas decorations imaginable. He didn’t have to spend energy imagining them. They were still up. The plastic and crepe paper stars and snowflakes. The fake tree, missing at least half its plastic and wire branches. The paper bells and crayoned green and blue snowmen made by the excited and exhausted, and not overly gifted, daycare children. The upright piano in the corner almost certainly had pounded out carols. The room must have been full of the aroma of pancakes and maple syrup, drawn from trees surrounding the town. Eggs and cured Canadian back bacon.

And CC and her family? Where had they sat? Had anyone joined her for her final meal? Had any of them known it was her final meal?

One of them had. Someone had sat in this very room, eating and drinking and laughing and singing Christmas carols on Boxing Day, and planned a murder.

Outside Gamache paused to get his bearings, then, checking his watch, he set out for Lac Brume. He’d always liked Williamsburg. It was quite different from St-Rémy, which was more French while Williamsburg was traditionally more English, though this was changing as the two languages and cultures mixed. As he walked he noticed the lovely homes and shops, all covered in pure white snow. It was quiet: that peace and calm that came in winter as though the earth was resting. Cars barely made any noise on the cushion of snow. People walked silently along the sidewalks, their steps making not a sound. Everything was muffled and mute. It was very, very peaceful.

Four and a half minutes it had taken him to get from the Legion to the lake. He’d not hurried, but he had long legs and he knew most people would take slightly longer. But it was a pretty good average.

He stood at the side of the road looking down over the lake, empty and obscured now by the snow. The curling rink was almost invisible and the only real evidence anything had happened here were the stands, empty and lonely as though waiting for company that would never come.

What to do about Yvette Nichol? The peace of the place gave him a moment to mull the problem. And problem she was. He knew that now. He’d been fooled by her once, but Armand Gamache wasn’t a man to be fooled twice.

She was there for a reason, and the reason wasn’t necessarily CC de Poitier’s murder.

Inspector Beauvoir drove out of Three Pines and turned toward St-Rémy. After a few minutes down wooded and snowy back roads he turned into a driveway and up to a rambling wooden house. He’d brought an agent with him, just in case. Now he knocked on the door and stood loose-limbed, trying to give the impression he was relaxed, maybe even distracted. He wasn’t. He was ready to give chase at any moment. Actually hoped chase would be necessary. Sitting and talking was Chief Inspector Gamache’s territory. Running was his.

‘
Oui?
’ A disheveled middle-aged man stood on the threshold.