A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2)

A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2) Page 36

Still, he knew his job was to learn from Gamache. And he knew if he watched the chief, and listened, not only would the mystery be revealed, but so would Gamache.

And Robert Lemieux was eager for that to happen.

He took out his notebook and in the biting cold he wrote down the two lessons. Then he waited in case there was more, but Armand Gamache seemed frozen in place, his tuque on, his mitts on, everything ready. Except the man.

He was staring at something in the distance. Something beyond the charming village, something beyond Ruth Zardo and her lit Christmas trees. He was staring at something in the darkness.

As he looked more closely, and let his eyes adjust to the night, Agent Robert Lemieux became aware of the outline of something even darker than the night. A house on the hill overlooking the village. As he stared the darkness seemed to take shape and an image of turrets appeared against the dark sky and darker pine forest. From one of the chimneys he saw just a hint of smoke before it was dragged away like a wraith into the woods.

Gamache took a breath, exhaling puffy white air, and turning to the young man beside him he smiled.

‘Ready?’

‘Yes sir.’

Lemieux didn’t know why but he was suddenly a little afraid and suddenly very glad to be in the company of Armand Gamache.

At the top of the hill Agent Lemieux glided the car to a stop beside a snow bank, hoping he’d left enough room for the chief to squeeze out.

He had, and Gamache stood for the briefest moment surveying the large, dark house before beginning to walk decisively down the long path to the unlit front door. As the old Hadley house got closer Gamache tried to banish the impression it was watching him, its blinds half drawn like hooded serpent eyes.

It was fanciful, but that was a side to himself he’d come to accept and even encourage. It helped sometimes. But sometimes it hurt. Gamache wasn’t sure which this was.

From inside the house Richard Lyon watched the two men approach. One was clearly in charge. Not only was he walking first down their path, but he seemed in command. It was a quality Lyon noticed in others, mostly as a counterpoint to his complete lack of it. The other figure was smaller and slimmer and walked with a bit of a bounce, like a younger man.

Deep breath. Suck it up. Be a man. Be a man. They were almost at the door now. Should he go and open it before they arrived? Should he wait for them to ring? Would making them wait be rude? Would opening the door show anxiety?

Richard Lyon’s mind was racing, but his body was frozen. It was his natural state. He had a very slim brain and a very generous body.

Be a man. Firm handshake. Look him in the eye. Lower your voice. Lyon hummed a little, trying to get his voice below the soprano register. Behind him in the gloomy living room his daughter Crie stared into space.

Now what? Normally at a time like this CC would have told him exactly what to do. Be a man. Suck it up. He wasn’t totally surprised to hear her voice in his head still. It was almost comforting.

God, you’re such a loser.

Almost comforting. It would be helpful if she’d say something constructive, like ‘Go open the door, you idiot’ or ‘Sit down and make them wait. Jesus, do I have to do everything?’

The doorbell peeled and Richard Lyon jumped out of his skin.

What an idiot. You knew they were there. You should have gone to the door to let them in as they approached. Now they’ll think you’re rude. God, what a loser.

Armand Gamache stood at the door, Lemieux behind him, trying not to remember the last time he was there. Trying to see the old Hadley house as just a building. And buildings, he told himself, were just everyday materials. The same materials went into this house as his own in Outremont. There was nothing special about this place. But still the house seemed to moan and shiver.

Armand Gamache braced himself, putting his shoulders back a little and lifting his head more. He was damned if he was going to let a house get the better of him. Still, part of him felt like a six-year-old who’d approached the haunted house on a dare and now wanted to run home as fast as his desperate legs would take him.

Wouldn’t that be a sight, he thought, imagining Lemieux watching as Chief Inspector Gamache ran shrieking past him and down into the village below. Best not to do that. Not just yet.

‘Maybe they’re not home.’ Lemieux was looking around hopefully.

‘They’re here.’

‘Hello.’ The door suddenly yanked open, startling Lemieux, and a short, squat man stood there speaking in a very low voice. He sounded to Gamache like a person just recovering from laryngitis. The man cleared his throat and tried again.