The Cruelest Month (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #3)

The Cruelest Month (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #3) Page 76

‘Sure she wasn’t having radiation?’ Nichol asked.

‘Agent Nichol,’ Beauvoir barked. He could feel the stone he’d found by the Bella Bella and put in his pocket yearning to fly. To smash bone, to grind into that head until it hit her tiny, atrophied brain. And replace it. And who would know the difference? ‘That was uncalled for.’

‘It was only a joke.’

‘It was cruel, Agent Nichol, and you know the difference. Apologize.’

Nichol turned to Hazel, her eyes hard. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right.’

Nichol knew she’d gone too far. But she’d been told to. To aggravate, to upset, to unsettle the team, that was her job.

For the sake of the Sûreté she was willing to do this. For her boss, whom she adored and loathed, she’d do this. Looking at Inspector Beauvoir’s handsome face, engorged and enraged, she knew she’d succeeded.

‘Madeleine went back to Montreal and finished her chemo,’ continued Hazel after an awkward silence. ‘But she came out every weekend after that. She wasn’t happy in her marriage. There weren’t any children, you know.’

‘Why was she unhappy?’

‘She said they just grew apart. She also thought it possible he couldn’t deal with a successful wife. She excelled at everything she did, you know. Always had. That was just Madeleine.’ Hazel looked to Beauvoir like a proud mother. He thought she’d be a good mother. Kind and caring. Supportive. And yet she’d raised that spoiled child upstairs. Some kids, he knew, were just ungrateful.

‘It must be hard,’ said Hazel.

‘What must be?’ Beauvoir had become lost in his own thoughts.

‘Being around someone who was always successful. Especially if you’re insecure. I think Mad’s husband must have been insecure, don’t you?’

‘Do you know how we can find him?’

‘He’s still in Montreal. François Favreau’s his name. Nice man. I’ve met him a few times. I have his address and phone number if you like.’

Hazel got up from the kitchen table and went over to a chest of drawers. Opening the top drawer she rummaged through it, her back to him.

‘Why did you go to the second séance, Madame Smyth?’

‘Madeleine asked me to,’ Hazel said, moving papers around in the drawer.

‘She asked you to the first and you didn’t go. Why the second?’

‘Found it.’ Hazel turned round and handed an address book to Beauvoir who handed it to Nichol. ‘What did you ask, Inspector?’

‘The second séance, madame.’

‘Oh, yes. Well it was a combination of things, as I remember. Madeleine actually seemed to have a good time at the first. Said it was silly, but in an amusement park kind of way. You know, the way we used to scare ourselves with the roller coaster and the haunted house? It sounded like fun and I kind of regretted missing the first.’

‘And Sophie?’

‘Well that was a given from the start. A bit of excitement in this burg, as she calls it. Sophie was excited about it all day.’

Hazel’s animated face fell, slowly. Beauvoir could chart the memory of that night as it made its way across Hazel’s face until the memory of Madeleine alive became the memory of Madeleine dead.

‘Who would want to kill her?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘No one.’

‘Someone did.’ He tried to make it soft and gentle, as Gamache would, but even to his own ears the words sounded like an accusation.

‘Madeleine was,’ Hazel moved her hands gracefully in front of her, as though conducting or gently mining the air for words, ‘she was sunshine. Every life she came into she brightened. Not because she tried. I try.’ Hazel’s hand now pointed to the casserole regiment. ‘I run around trying to help people, without even being asked. And I know that can be annoying. Madeleine made people feel better just by spending time with them. It’s hard to explain.’

And yet, thought Beauvoir, you’re alive and she’s dead.

‘We think the ephedra was given to Madeleine at dinner. Did she complain about any of the food?’

Hazel thought then shook her head.

‘Did she complain about anything that night?’

‘Nothing. She seemed happy.’

‘I understand she was seeing Monsieur Béliveau. What do you think of him?’

‘Oh, I like him. His wife and I were friends, you know. She died almost three years ago. Madeleine and I sort of adopted him after that. Ginette’s death tore him up.’