The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“I’d never quit,” said Brian, looking shocked and upset. “How could you even think such a thing?”


Gamache wondered if Antoinette knew how lucky she was to have such a loyal partner. He also wondered about Brian, who could be so morally blinded by love.

“Honestly, Armand,” she said. “You’re behaving as though our very survival is at stake. It’s just a play.”

“If it’s just a play, then cancel it,” he said, and they were back where they’d started.

She stared at him. He stared at her. And Brian just looked unhappy.

“How did you come to have the Fleming play?” Gamache asked.

“I told you, Brian found it among my uncle’s papers,” she said.

“What was your uncle’s name?”

“Guillaume Couture.”

“Was he a theater director? An actor?” Armand asked.

“Not at all. As far as I know he never went to the theater. He built bridges. Little ones. Overpasses really. He was a quiet, gentle man.”

“Then why did he have the play? Did he know Fleming?”

“Of course not,” she said. “He barely left Three Pines his whole life. He probably picked it up at a yard sale. We don’t owe you an explanation. We’ve committed no crime, and you’re no cop.” She got up. “Now please leave. We have work to do.”

She turned her back on him and so did Brian, but not before giving Armand a slightly apologetic grimace.

As he drove down the dirt road toward Three Pines, feeling the familiar and almost comforting washboard bumps, Armand Gamache came to a realization. One he’d probably known since he’d discovered who’d written She Sat Down and Wept.

He would have to read the play.

*

Armand walked up the path and onto the rickety front stoop. And then he knocked.

“What do you want?” Ruth demanded through the closed door.

“To read the play.”

“What play?”

“For God’s sake, Ruth, just open the door.”

Something in his tone, perhaps the weariness, must have gotten through to her. A bolt slid back and the door opened a crack.

“Since when have you locked your door?” he asked, squeezing in.

She shut it so quickly behind him the corner of his jacket caught in the doorjamb and he had to yank it free.

“Since when have you cared?” she asked. “What makes you think I have the play?”

“I saw you take it when you left last night.”

“Why do you want to read it?”

“I might ask you the same thing.”

“It’s none of your business,” she snapped.

“And I might say the same thing.”

He saw the briefest flicker of a smile. “All right, Clouseau. If you can find it, you can have the goddamned play.”

He shook his head and sighed. “Just give it to me.”

“It’s not here.”

“Then where is it?”

Ruth and Rosa limped to the kitchen door and pointed to her back garden. The flower beds held late-blooming roses and creamy, pink-tinged hydrangeas, and trellises on which grew bindweed.

“Blows over from your garden,” she complained. “It’s a weed, you know.”

“Invasive, rude, demanding. Soaks up all the nutrients.” He looked down at the old poet. “Yes, we know. But we like it anyway.”

And again the smile flickered, but didn’t catch. Her eyes had dropped to a large planter in the middle of the lawn.

Gamache followed her gaze, then he stepped off the porch and walked over to the planter. It was empty. Without a word, he dragged it a few paces away, then looked down at the square of fresh-turned earth. Rich and dark.

“Here.” Ruth handed him the spade.

Sinking to his knees, he dug.

Ruth and Rosa watched from their back porch.

It was a deeper hole than Gamache had expected. He turned to look at Ruth, thin and frail. And yet, she’d dug, and dug. Deep. As deep as she could. He put the shovelful of dirt on the pile behind him, and jabbed it back in.

Eventually it hit something. Brushing away the dirt, he leaned in and saw the dark printing on the bone-white page.

She Sat Down and Wept.

He stared and from the ground came the audio recording played at the trial. Screams for help. Begging. Pleading with him to stop.

“Armand?”

Reine-Marie’s voice cut through the sounds, but even before he turned he knew something had happened. Something was wrong.

Holding the filthy script in one hand and the spade in the other, he stood up and saw Reine-Marie outlined in the light of Ruth’s back door.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s Laurent. He didn’t come home for dinner tonight. Evie just called to ask if he was with us.”

Gamache felt the weight of the play in his hand, drawn back to the ground. Dirt to dirt.

Laurent didn’t come home.

He dropped the play.





CHAPTER 6

After a night of searching, his mother and father found Laurent early the next morning. In a gully. Where he’d been thrown, his bicycle nearby. The polished handlebars had caught the morning sun and the glint guided his parents to him.