The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (33 page)

“Who’d you hear this from?”

“Gabri. He was talking to Brian, who overheard Armand and Jean-Guy talking to that CSIS woman last night. Fighting with her, apparently.”

“Fighting?”

“Well, arguing. Gabri told me this in confidence. Shhhh.”

“Shhhh?” asked Myrna. “Is that the sound of secrets escaping from you?”

The two women stared at each other, but hanging between them, like a hologram, was the gun. The big, goddamned gun. In the woods. Neither had seen it, but both women imagined what such a thing might look like. And wondered how it could kill so many people just by being.

“How could Antoinette have been involved with the gun?” Myrna asked.

“I don’t know and Gabri couldn’t tell me,” said Clara. “It’s strange that no one remembers it being built. You’d think some of the older residents might remember. Ruth, for instance.”

“Ruth? You expect Ruth to remember anything?”

“She is a bit of a loose cannon herself,” Clara admitted.

“Maybe she was left behind by the builders,” said Myrna. “A failed first attempt.”

Clara gave a short laugh, then sighed. “I wish we knew more. It’s so easy to start imagining the worst.”

“It doesn’t take much imagination,” said Myrna, her eyes drifting past Clara and out the window.

“What do you see?” Clara asked, turning to look.

She saw the village green, the three tall pine trees, the homes. She saw storm clouds and shafts of light and a gaggle of hungry birds and an elderly man sitting on the bench feeding them.

“I see answers,” said Myrna.

*   *   *

“I’ll get it,” called Reine-Marie. She was in the study doing some research when she heard a tentative knock on the door.

It was so tentative she thought she must’ve misheard. But then she heard it again. A more confident rap. When she opened the door, Brian Fitzpatrick was standing there.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Is it too early?”

“No, of course not. Come in. You must be cold.”

The clouds that had moved in overnight threatening rain had brought with them a cold front with winds and a chill that burrowed under the skin and into the bones.

“When Gabri came to pick me up last night, I tossed a few things into a suitcase, but I wasn’t thinking straight,” said Brian, hugging himself. “I have three pairs of shoes, but only one pair of socks. And no sweater or jacket.”

“Well, we have plenty of clothes we can lend you.” She kissed him on both cold cheeks.

“May I see your husband?”

“Of course.”

She led him into the kitchen where the woodstove was lit and a pot of coffee was perking. “Armand.”

Armand looked up from his notepad, and Henri looked up from the stuffed moose he was chewing. Both got up immediately.

“Brian,” said Armand, shaking the man’s hand. “Sit down. I was just writing down some thoughts and then I was going to go over to the B and B to see you.”

He ushered Brian to a comfortable chair by the fire while Reine-Marie poured a coffee.

“Did you have breakfast?” she asked. “I can make some bacon and eggs.”

“
Merci
. Gabri made me some toast. I’m not actually all that hungry.”

“I’m so sorry about Antoinette,” said Reine-Marie, bringing over the coffee and some orange juice. “How are you?”

She couldn’t not ask, but the answer was obvious in his hollowed-out look. He just shook his head and lifted one hand, then dropped it to the arm of the chair.

It was also obvious that Brian wanted to speak to Armand alone.

Reine-Marie went upstairs and brought down sweaters and socks and warm flannel pajamas of Armand’s for Brian. She put them on the table by the door along with a warm jacket, then called to Henri and, clipping the leash onto the shepherd, they went for a walk.

“You heard us last night,” said Armand after Reine-Marie had left.

Brian nodded. “I couldn’t sleep. I heard you knock on the CSIS woman’s door and followed you downstairs. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Antoinette’s uncle was one of the architects of that gun we found in the woods,” said Gamache. No use hiding it since Brian had heard it all the night before anyway.

“Uncle Guillaume?” asked Brian. “But he was an engineer. He built overpasses.”

“Antoinette talked about him then?”

“Not much, and to be honest, I didn’t really ask. She seemed to like him, and he obviously liked her. You think she was killed because of him?”

“It’s possible. We think he might have kept the designs for that gun and someone went there to find them, maybe thinking she wasn’t home.”

“They’re worth a lot of money. I heard you say that last night.”

Gamache nodded. “That’s right. Do you have any idea at all whether those papers were in the house?”

Brian shook his head. “I feel useless. I think I should be able to hand them over to you, but all of this is news to me. I have no idea what’s happening. Did Antoinette know what her uncle really did?”

“We don’t know that either. We do know that there’s no evidence of him in your home. Can you remember anything? Even a photograph?”

Brian pursed his lips, thinking, then shook his head. “There might’ve been and I just didn’t notice. I don’t think I’m all that observant. I wish I’d been home. I should’ve been home.”

“Whoever did this would’ve just waited until you were gone the next time,” said Armand. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

Gamache didn’t say it, but he believed Antoinette’s life was over as soon as Laurent found the gun and started telling everyone, and when the CSIS agents decided not to tell anyone about her uncle.

“Did anyone ever come asking about Guillaume Couture?” Armand asked.

“Not that I know of. He died before I met her.” Brian looked down at his coffee mug, as though he’d never seen one before. “I don’t know what to do.”

Armand nodded. He understood that with loss came the overwhelming feeling of being lost. Directionless.

“I can’t go home,” said Brian. “Not yet.”

Gamache knew he meant emotionally, but he also wouldn’t be allowed home.

Not surprisingly, Lacoste had called first thing with the news that Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme had an injunction to search Antoinette’s home themselves. Alone. Though Gamache had the feeling the injunction was just for show. He was pretty sure they’d already been there. Already searched. Without benefit or need of legal approval.

“I might go to the theater today,” said Brian. “I think I’d feel close to her there. Better than sitting around the B and B all day. And I don’t really want to talk to anyone, you know?”

“Let me drive you,” said Armand, getting up. “I’m heading in that direction myself.”

At the door they found the clothing.

“Here,” said Armand. “Put on one of the sweaters while I make a phone call.”

He went into the study, closed the door firmly, then called a private number in Ottawa. It was eight thirty. After a brief exchange he hung up.

By noon they should know more about Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme.

Brian was waiting for him at the front door, wearing Armand’s favorite blue cashmere sweater.

“A bit big for you, I’m afraid,” said Gamache, rolling up the sleeves for him.

“Are you going to Knowlton too?” Brian asked.

“No, a few kilometers beyond. I can drop you at the theater then pick you up in a couple of hours, if that’s all right.”

He didn’t say he was going to Highwater. The fewer people who knew, the better.

As they drove away, Gamache saw Professor Rosenblatt sitting on the bench, bundled against the brisk wind and tossing bread to the birds. Autumn leaves, blown off the trees, swirled in a whirlwind about him, mixing with the excited birds and airborne bread so that it looked like nature had gone mad around the elderly physicist.

And once again, Armand was left to wonder why Professor Rosenblatt was still there instead of at home in front of his fireplace, safe and warm.

*   *   *

Clara and Myrna approached the bench and sat, one on either side of the professor.

“Good morning,” said Clara. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the howling wind. “How did you sleep?”

“I’m afraid I had a little too much to drink last night,” he said. “I came out here for fresh air.”

“Well, there’s lots of that,” said Myrna, trying to keep her scarf off her face. On the other side of the professor, Clara was fighting with her hair.

Rosenblatt offered them some of his stale bread to toss to the chickadees and blue jays and robins.

“Ravenous,” he said. “Now I understand where that expression comes from.”

The bread they threw was caught by the wind and tumbled across the green, chased by the leaves and the birds.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” said Rosenblatt, watching the commotion caused by the bread.

“It’s awful,” said Clara. “But what makes it worse is that no one is telling us anything. We wondered if you could answer some questions.”

“I’ll try.”

“We heard that Antoinette’s death might be linked to Laurent’s,” said Myrna. “Is that true?”

“I think the police suspect that might be true,” he said.

“But how?” Clara asked. “The gun is somehow involved, right?”

“Yes. But I really can’t tell you more. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?” asked Clara.

“You’re friends with Monsieur Gamache, why don’t you ask him?”

Myrna smiled. “Because he won’t tell us.”

“So you’re trying to get me in trouble, ladies?” It was said with amusement and charm, but also without any weakening on his part.

“You know something, don’t you?” said Myrna. “When Isabelle Lacoste told us about Antoinette you said something. A quote. About some rough beast, and Bethlehem.”

“I wish I could take credit, but I was just reading what your friend Ruth had written in her notebook.”

“It’s a quote, right?” said Myrna.

“I believe so,” said Rosenblatt. “Shakespeare probably. Isn’t everything? Or the Bible.”

“It must’ve meant something to you, for you to not just read what Ruth had written, but to say it out loud,” said Clara. “You must’ve agreed.”

Michael Rosenblatt pressed his lips together and lowered his head, either in thought or against the particularly violent gust that hit them.

“I don’t know what’s confidential and what’s public knowledge.” His words were whipped away as soon as they were out of his mouth, but Clara and Myrna were close enough to catch them.

He studied Clara, obviously weighing some decision.

“I was at your solo show, you know, at the Musée d’art contemporain a year or so ago. I thought what you did with portraits was brilliant. You reinvented the form. Reinvigorated it. Gave it depth and a kind of joyful spirit missing in most works today.”

“Thank you,” said Clara.

“You obviously know that art has power,” he said. “It can be freeing, but it can also be a weapon, especially when combined with something equally powerful, like war. Art’s been used to inspire all sorts of things. Public statues of brave soldiers. Paintings of heroic sacrifice. But it’s also been used to put the fear of God into enemies.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Clara asked.

“Because you’ve been kind to me and I can see that not being told anything is making a terrible situation even worse. I can’t show you the gun or talk about it really, and I doubt it would help even if I could, but there is something you might be interested in, might even be able to help with.”

He brought out his iPhone, tapped the screen, then handed it to her.

“What is it?” she asked, looking at the photograph.

“An etching. It’s on the side of the gun.”

Myrna got up and moved to the other side of her friend for a better look. Professor Rosenblatt brushed his finger along the screen and the image changed to show another view of the etching.

Both women stared at the serpent with seven heads, writhing and bucking. A woman on its back. She was even more terrifying than the monster. Hair flowing, back straight, she stared at Clara and Myrna and Professor Rosenblatt. Seeing not just them, but the village behind them and the whirlwind about them. But she herself was calm in the maelstrom. Confident.

A cold drop tapped the top of Clara’s head, startling her. Then another. One fell on the screen, distorting the woman’s face, making it even more grotesque.

“The Whore of Babylon,” said Myrna, and Professor Rosenblatt nodded.

The women looked at each other while Professor Rosenblatt took back the device and slipped it into his pocket, out of the rain. Out of sight.

“From the Book of Revelation,” said Clara.

They were both aware of the reference. And the symbolism.

It was a warning of catastrophe. Deliberate and inescapable. And complete.

“We should get inside,” said Professor Rosenblatt.

The rain was falling more heavily, in great big drops that splattered on the road, and on their backs, and on their heads as they hunched over and ran for it. The trees corkscrewed in the wind and they saw Reine-Marie with Henri racing to get home before the deluge.

The three of them hurried into Myrna’s bookstore. Once inside she got towels to dry themselves off, stoked the woodstove, and poured tea, hot and strong.

Rain now beat against the windows. Rattling them.

“My God,” said Myrna, wiping her face. “If that drawing was meant to terrify, it worked. Isn’t the goddamned gun scary enough? Who needs to do that as well?”

“Can I see it again?” Clara asked, and Professor Rosenblatt gave her his iPhone. She stared at the image, making it larger, then smaller.

“It wasn’t signed?” she asked.

“Nothing as convenient as that,” said the professor. “Why?”

“Most artists sign their work in one way or another. There’s writing on it though.”

“Yes, a biblical quote. In Hebrew.”

“The one you and Ruth quoted?” asked Myrna.

“No, another one. About Babylon.”

“Why was the Whore of Babylon put on the gun?” Clara asked.

“We think it was supposed to be a sales tool to appeal to the buyer.”

“And who was the buyer? The devil?”

“Pretty close.”