A Fatal Grace (32 page)

Gamache looked around the room, and sniffed. There was a smell of burning, and not of the wood in the fireplace. This was more pungent, less natural. He felt his nerves sharpen and everything seemed to slow down. Was there a fire? An electrical fire perhaps? These old chalets were often slapped together by some backwoods pioneer who knew a great deal about the cycles of nature and almost nothing about wiring. Gamache’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the walls, the outlets, the lamps for wisps of smoke, as his ears searched out a telltale crackling as the electricity leaped and arced and his nose struggled to identify the strange acrid smell.

Beside him Lemieux was suddenly aware of the chief’s heightened attention. He stared at Gamache, trying to figure out what the problem was.

‘What’s that smell, Monsieur Petrov?’ Gamache asked.

‘I don’t smell anything,’ he said.

‘I do,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Smells like plastic or something like that.’

Now Lemieux could smell it too.

‘Oh, that,’ said Petrov with a laugh. ‘I tossed some old film into the fire. Outdated stuff. I guess I should have just put it in the garbage. Wasn’t thinking.’ He smiled disarmingly. Gamache walked over to the fireplace and sure enough there was a sizzling blob of black and yellow. An old roll of film. Or maybe not so old. Either way, it was destroyed.

‘You’re right,’ said Gamache. Petrov was used to people, especially CC, looking right through him, but this was a new experience. He had the impression Gamache was looking into him. ‘You weren’t thinking. That may not have been a wise thing to do.’

Petrov’s new life was barely half an hour old and already he was feeling regret. Still, this quiet man looked as though he might understand. Petrov showed them to chairs then sat down himself. He was feeling almost giddy with anticipation. He could hardly wait to confess and get on with life. Start again. He almost felt tearful and was deeply grateful to this homicide inspector for hearing his confession. Saul Petrov had been raised a staunch Catholic and like most of his generation had rejected the church, the priests and all the trappings of religion. But, now, in this modest even silly room where in place of stained glass there were plastic placemats stapled to the wall, he felt like falling to his knees.

Oh, for a fresh start.

‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

Gamache didn’t say a word. Petrov looked into his kindly, thoughtful eyes and suddenly no one else existed.

‘CC and I were having an affair. Had been for about a year. I’m not sure, but I think her husband knows about it. We weren’t very discreet, I’m afraid.’

‘When were you last together?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘The morning of the day she died.’ It took a force of will to drag his eyes from Gamache over to the tense man in the other chair. ‘She came over and we had sex. It was only a physical relationship, nothing more. She didn’t care for me and I didn’t care for her.’

There it was. A mean little thing. He exhaled, feeling lighter already.

‘Did she tell you why she bought a place here?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘In Three Pines? No. I wondered that myself. She had a reason for everything, though, and most of the time it was money.’

‘You think money motivated her?’

‘It always did. Even our affair. I’m not stupid enough to think she slept with me for the great sex. It was to get a photographer cheap. Payment in kind.’

He was surprised how ashamed he felt. Even as he spoke it seemed unbelievable. Had he really given CC a break on his bill in exchange for sex?

‘I could be wrong, but I had the impression CC bought a place here because there was something in it for her, and I don’t mean peace and quiet. From what I could tell the only thing CC de Poitiers loved was money. And prestige.’

‘Describe your movements on the day she died,’ said Beauvoir.

‘I got up about seven and lit the fire, then put on coffee and waited. I knew she’d come and sure enough around eight she arrived. We didn’t talk much. I asked how her Christmas was and she shrugged. I feel badly for her daughter. Can’t imagine having a mother like that. Anyway, she left about an hour later. We made arrangements to meet at the community breakfast.’

‘When did she decide to go?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Well, did she decide to go to the breakfast and curling at the last minute, or was it something she’d planned to do for a while?’

‘Oh, it was planned. I told her about it, but she already knew. They’d gone the year before, just after she bought the house here. She told me to get shots of her surrounded by common folk, her words not mine. So I went off to the breakfast and shot a couple of rolls, then we went to the curling. Cold as hell. My camera eventually froze up. Had to put it under my coat, under my armpit, to thaw it out. I was moving around, trying to get different angles. CC wasn’t very photogenic, so it was important to get the right lighting and angles and preferably some other point of interest in the shot. That old lady sitting beside her was great. Face full of character and the way she looked at CC, fantastic.’ Petrov threw himself back in the chair and laughed at the memory of Kaye glaring as though CC was something her dog had thrown up. ‘And she kept at CC to sit still, sit still. CC didn’t listen to many people. Anyone, actually, in my experience, but this old lady she listened to. I would too. Scary as hell. And sure enough CC sat still. Kinda. Made my job easier, anyway.’

‘Why was Kaye Thompson telling CC to sit still?’ Chief Inspector Gamache asked.

‘CC was a nervous sort. Always jumping up to straighten an ashtray or picture or a lamp. Nothing was ever right. I guess it finally got on the old girl’s nerves. She looked as though she was about to kill her.’

Gamache knew it was just a figure of speech, and Petrov clearly didn’t even realize what he’d said.

‘We got your developed film from the lab this morning,’ said Beauvoir, walking to the table and setting them out. Petrov followed as did the others. There on the table was a series of stills. CC’s final moments, and beyond.

‘Notice anything curious?’ Beauvoir asked.

After a minute or so Petrov straightened up and shook his head. ‘It looks like what I remember.’

‘Nothing missing? Like, oh, the entire series of pictures from here to here? From CC alive to CC dead. The entire murder is missing.’ Beauvoir’s voice rose. Unlike Gamache, who could sit and chat with suspects all day hoping they’d eventually open up, Beauvoir knew the only way to handle a suspect was to show them who was boss.

‘That’s where the camera froze, I guess,’ said Petrov, scanning the images, trying not to let the fear out, trying not to sink into the petulance and self-pity so much a part of his life with CC.

‘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?’

‘Probably telling her to keep still. She kept wiggling. Very annoying.’

‘And she listened to you? Why?’

‘Everyone listens to Kaye,’ said Em with a smile. ‘Like her father, she’s a natural leader.’

Gamache thought that wasn’t totally true. He thought that of the three friends Émilie Longpré was the real leader, though the quietest.

‘Our Kaye here ran Thompson Mills up on Mont Echo for decades, all by herself. Trained and organized a bunch of mountain men, and they adored her. It was the most successful logging operation around.’

‘If I could get some brute into a lye bath once a week I could get CC to stop fidgeting,’ said Kaye. ‘Never could stand the nervous sort.’

‘We now believe de Poitiers wasn’t her real name,’ said Gamache, watching their reactions. But both women continued to stare at the photographs. ‘We think her mother came from Three Pines and that’s why CC came here. To find her mother.’

‘Poor child,’ said Em, still not looking up. Gamache wondered whether she was deliberately avoiding eye contact. ‘Did she?’

‘Find her mother?’ said Gamache. ‘I don’t know. But we know her mother’s name started with an L. Do you know of anyone?’

‘Well, there is one,’ said Émilie. ‘A woman named Longpré.’

Kaye sputtered with laughter. ‘Come on, Chief Inspector. You can’t suspect Em here? Do you think she could abandon a child? Em could no more do that than she could win a curling match. Absolutely incapable.’

‘Thank you, dear.’

‘Anyone else?’ he asked. There was a pause and both women eventually shook their heads. Gamache knew then they were hiding something. They had to have been. They’d both lived in Three Pines when CC’s mother was there and back in the fifties in a small Quebec village a pregnant girl would have been noticed.

‘Can I offer you a lift home?’ Em asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.

Gamache bent to pick up the photographs and his eye caught something. Kaye looking particularly cross at CC, and CC staring ahead at the empty chair as though desperate to get to it. He knew then how the murderer had done it.

TWENTY-SEVEN