‘Nothing she does makes sense.’
Gamache stopped, halfway up the path, and turned to Beauvoir. ‘Everything makes sense. Don’t underestimate her, Jean Guy.’ He held the younger man’s gaze a moment longer than necessary then continued his story. ‘This whole case has been about belief and the power of the word. CC de Poitiers married the only man she could. She married another royal. Eleanor of Aquitaine’s favorite son was Richard Coeur de Lion. Richard the Lionhearted. Richard Lyon.’
‘She was attracted to the name, not the man?’
‘Happens all the time. If you like someone named Roger, suddenly you feel kindly toward all Rogers.’
Beauvoir snorted. He couldn’t remember ever feeling kindly, period.
‘And the opposite is true,’ Gamache continued. ‘You hate a Georges, chances are you won’t like any Georges at first. I know I do that. Not proud of it, but it happens. One of my best friends is Superintendent Brébeuf. Every time I meet a Michel I think of him, and immediately like the person.’
‘You immediately like everyone. It doesn’t count. Give me a bad example.’
‘Okay. Suzanne. A Suzanne in junior school was mean to me.’
‘Oh, she was mean to you?’ Beauvoir’s face was writhing in laugh lines.
‘Very mean.’
‘What did she do? Knife you?’
‘She called me names. For four years. She followed me down the halls, through the arches of the years, down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind.’
‘That last was a quote, wasn’t it?’ Beauvoir accused him.
‘Afraid so. “The Hound of Heaven”. And maybe she was. She taught me that words wound and sometimes they kill. And sometimes they heal.’
They were at the door and ringing the bell and it opened.
‘Monsieur Lyon,’ said Beauvoir, stepping across the threshold. ‘We need a word.’
Gamache knelt beside Crie. A purple bathing suit was strangling her arms and legs.
‘Who’ll look after her?’ Lyon asked. ‘Will she be all right without me?’
Beauvoir almost demanded why he should suddenly care. Look what life with him had brought her to. Surely this could only be an improvement. But seeing Lyon’s face, resigned, afraid, defeated, Beauvoir held his tongue.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gamache, straightening up slowly. ‘She’ll be looked after.’
‘I should have stopped CC earlier. Never let it come to this. From the time Crie was born CC had it in for her. I tried a few times to speak to CC.’ Lyon looked at Gamache, pleading for understanding. ‘But I couldn’t.’
All three men looked down at Crie sitting on the side of her bed surrounded by candy and wrappers, as though a chocolate storm had hit. She’s the end of the line, thought Gamache, the final repository of all the fears and fantasies of her mother and grandmother. This was what they’d created. Like Frankenstein’s monster. A patchwork of their own horrors.
Chief Inspector Gamache took her hand and held it, staring into those blank eyes.
‘Crie, why did you kill your mother?’
Crie felt the hot sun tanning her face and her long, lithe body as she lay on the beach. Her boyfriend reached out and took her hands in his and held them as he looked with such kindness into her eyes. His young body gleamed and glistened as though enlightened and he drew her to him, kissing her gently and holding her.
‘I love you, Crie,’ he whispered. ‘You’re everything anyone could want. I don’t think you know how beautiful you are, and talented, and brilliant. You’re the most wonderful girl in the world. Would you sing for me?’
And Crie did. She raised her voice and the young man in her arms sighed and smiled with delight.
‘I’ll never leave you, Crie. And I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.’
And she believed him.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The door opened even before Gamache and Reine-Marie knocked.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ said Peter.
‘It’s a lie,’ shouted Ruth from inside the cozy cottage. ‘We started drinking and eating without you.’
‘Actually, she never stopped,’ whispered Peter.
‘I heard that,’ shouted Ruth. ‘Just because it’s the truth doesn’t make it less insulting.’
‘Bonne année,’ said Clara, kissing the Gamaches on both cheeks and taking their coats. This was her first time meeting Reine-Marie and she was exactly as Clara had imagined. Smiling and warm, kind and elegant in her tailored and comfortable skirt and shirt with camelhair sweater and silk scarf. Gamache wore a tweed jacket and tie and flannels. Beautifully cut and worn with easy elegance.
