The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“Hell no,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere near that play again. The play was written by a shit and there’s shit all over it. Fair or not, that’s just the way it is.”


“Look at Wagner,” said Reine-Marie. “He’s so associated with the Nazis and the Holocaust that his music, however brilliant, is spoiled for many.”

“It doesn’t help that Wagner was also a raging anti-Semite,” said Gabri.

“But is that a reason not to perform music that is sublime?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Reason has very little to do with this,” said Myrna. “I’m the first to admit I’d lose every debate over whether Fleming’s play should be banned. Intellectually I know he has a right to write it, and any company has a right to produce it. I just don’t want to be a part of it. I can’t defend my feelings, they just are.”

“I go back to the question,” said Reine-Marie. “Should the creation be judged by its creator? Does it matter?”

“It matters,” said Gamache. “Sometimes censorship is justified.”

They looked at him, surprised by his certainty. Even Reine-Marie was taken aback.

“But, Armand, you’ve always championed free speech, even when it’s used against you.”

“There’re exceptions in a free society,” said Armand. “There are always exceptions.” And John Fleming, he knew, was exceptional.

“Is the play about the murders?” Clara asked.

“No,” admitted Gabri. “It’s actually quite funny. It’s about a guy who keeps winning the lottery and squandering the chances he’s been given. He keeps ending up at the same rooming house, with the same people.”

“It’s hilarious in places,” Myrna agreed. “But then you find yourself incredibly moved. I don’t know how he did it.”

“So it has nothing to do with Fleming and his crimes?” asked Reine-Marie. “Nothing to do with him as a man?”

“It has everything to do with him,” said Armand, his voice clipped, strained. They looked at him. Never had they heard him come even close to being upset with his wife. “If John Fleming created it, it’s grotesque. It can’t help but be. Maybe not obviously so, but he’s in every word, every action of the characters. The creator and the created are one.” He laced his fingers together. “This is how he escapes. Through the written word, and the decency of others. This is how John Fleming gets into your head. And you don’t want him there. Believe me.”

For a moment he looked like a man possessed. And then it passed, and faded, until Armand Gamache looked simply haunted. Silence settled over the bookstore, except for the jingle of Henri’s collar as he stepped beside Armand, and leaned against his leg.

“I’m sorry,” said Armand, rubbing his forehead and giving them a feeble smile. “Forgive me.” He took Reine-Marie’s hand and squeezed it.

“I understand,” she said, though she knew she didn’t really. The Fleming case was the only one Armand never talked to her about, though she’d followed it in the media.

“The sooner we tell Antoinette we’re out, the better,” said Gabri. “I have some cleaning up to do at the bistro. Why don’t I come by in about an hour and pick you up, Myrna? We can drive over together.”

Myrna agreed. Gabri left, followed by Clara, waving good-bye with her book.

“I’m heading over to the general store,” said Reine-Marie, leaving Armand and Henri in the bookstore.

Myrna settled into her chair and looked at Armand, who’d taken the armchair vacated by Gabri.

“Do you want to talk some more about the play?” she asked.

“God no,” he said.

She was about to ask why he was there, but stopped herself. Instead she asked, “What do you know that we don’t?”

It was a while before he answered.

“You have experience with the criminally insane,” he said, kneading Henri’s enormous ears and looking at the groaning shepherd as he spoke. But then he looked up and Myrna saw sorrow in Armand’s deep brown eyes. Genuine pain.

He held on to the dog as though to a life raft after the ship had sunk.

Myrna nodded. “I had my own private practice but I also worked part-time at the penitentiary, as you know.”

“Did you ever work at the Special Handling Unit?” he asked.

“The SHU? For the worst offenders?” asked Myrna. “I was asked to take on some cases there. I went there once, but didn’t get out of my car.”

“Why not?”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again, gathering her thoughts. Trying to find words to express what was not, in fact, a thought at all.

“You know the term ‘godforsaken’?”

He nodded.

“That’s why. I sat in the parking lot of the SHU, staring at those walls.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t go inside that godforsaken place.”

Both of them could see that building, a terrible monolith rising out of the ground.

“You continued counseling prisoners at the other penitentiaries,” he said. “Murderers, rapists. But you stopped eventually and came here. Why?”