The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“I did hear,” said Lacoste.

“Makes the investigation into Laurent’s murder easier,” said Jean-Guy. “We can now talk about what he found. But I know two people who’re going to be mighty pissed. Speak of the devil.”

Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme appeared at the door of the dining room and looked around.

Isabelle Lacoste waved them over.

“Would you like to join us?” she said.

“News of Gerald Bull’s Supergun is all over the village,” said Sean Delorme without preamble. “How did that happen?”

He glared at them.

“We have no idea,” said Beauvoir. “We were just talking about it. We’re as shocked as you. Fortunately, no one’s talking about Dr. Bull. Just the gun.”

“‘Just’ the gun?” asked Delorme. “Isn’t that enough?”

“It could be worse,” said Professor Rosenblatt.

The scientist had arrived in the dining room wearing gray flannels, a tweed jacket and bow tie. He looked around at the tables set for breakfast, with crisp white linen, sterling silver, and fine bone china. The fireplace lit with a modest fire.

The walls were thick and the windows mullioned and Rosenblatt had the impression if he waited long enough the stagecoach would come by.

But he wouldn’t take it. This was far more interesting than any other place he could possibly think of.

“I won’t join you,” said Professor Rosenblatt, as though he’d been invited. “You have things to talk about.”

“Like the news,” said Jean-Guy.

“Yes.” Rosenblatt shook his head. “That’s a shame.”

But he didn’t look at all upset.

“Please,” said Lacoste, smiling at the professor and indicating a chair. “The more the merrier.”

“Merrier” did not describe the gathering, no matter how many there were.

Professor Rosenblatt took a seat and looked at the unhappy faces of the CSIS agents. “Now, what were we talking about?” He put a white linen napkin on his lap and looked around at them. “Ah yes, the leak.”

Now there’s a shit-disturber, thought Beauvoir with some admiration. What seemed interesting was the amount of shit this professor emeritus was able to disturb.

Beauvoir shifted his gaze to the CSIS agents, whose faces were now masks of cool civility.

And why were they so disturbed?

“Did you do it?” Mary Fraser asked. Her hair was still damp from the shower and she wore a gray sweater and black skirt, and pearls, in what looked like an effort to dress things up, but only managed to make her look even more dowdy.

“A moment ago you were accusing that young man.” Rosenblatt indicated Beauvoir. “And now me? Who else are you going to blame? Him?”

He looked at Gabri, making his way across the wide-plank floor with the café au laits. The innkeeper wore an apron with gingham frills, which drove Olivier nuts.

“It’s fun,” Gabri had said to his partner. “It makes me happy.”

“It makes you gay.”

“Yes. Otherwise no one would ever know.”

Gabri arrived at their table, distributed the coffees and stood poised for their breakfast orders.

Professor Rosenblatt asked him for a few more minutes to consider the menu. Lacoste and Beauvoir said they’d wait a little longer as well, but the CSIS agents ordered, obviously anxious to finish as quickly as possible.

“There’re only so many people who could’ve leaked the information about the Supergun,” said Delorme once Gabri had left. “And most of them are sitting at this table.”

He looked around and Beauvoir was struck by how very hard the man was trying to be threatening, and how very unsuccessful it was. He just seemed petulant.

“Whoever did it will face the full weight of the law,” said Mary Fraser.

She managed to be somewhat more threatening, though perhaps not in the way she intended. It was as though they’d disappointed a favorite aunt.

Jean-Guy wondered if they’d be recalled to Ottawa and some real agents sent down. He hoped not. He quite liked these two.

“Bonjour,” said Armand Gamache, walking over to the table and taking off his jacket. “Bit of fog this morning. The fire’s nice.”

He held out his large hands, momentarily, toward the hearth.

“Patron,” said Gabri, coming in from the kitchen. “I thought I heard you. Café?”

“S’il vous pla?t,” said Gamache, and looked at the people already at the table.

Beauvoir and Lacoste had gotten to their feet to greet him. He smiled at them, then shook the elderly scientist’s hand.

“Professor,” he said with a smile.

Gamache turned to the other two.

“May I introduce you?” said Lacoste. “Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme are down from Ottawa. They’re with CSIS. This is Armand Gamache.”

Delorme had risen and took Gamache’s hand, while Mary Fraser remained seated, staring at the newcomer.

Trying, thought Jean-Guy, to place him. He knew that look. Here was a familiar face, a familiar name. But in an unfamiliar setting.

And then she had it. “Of course. Gamache. Of the S?reté.”