The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“Can anyone vouch for you?” asked Lacoste.

“Vouch for me?” he asked, and then it dawned on him, as it did every suspect eventually. That they were suspected. But unlike many, Brian didn’t get angry or defensive. He just looked even more frightened, if that was possible.

“I was alone in the apartment. There’s no doorman. I let myself in and didn’t go out again.”

“Did you call anyone?”

“Just Antoinette.” He pressed his lips together and took a ragged breath.

“What time was that?”

“When I got in, about three in the afternoon. Just to say I’d arrived safely. She told me we’d been invited over to Clara’s for dinner, but she thought she might cancel.”

“Did she tell you why?” Beauvoir asked, speaking for the first time in the interrogation.

“She said she thought a couple of people might drop by later.”

“Who?”

“People from the theater,” he said. “They wanted to talk to her. I think they wanted to fire her, but I didn’t say anything.”

“What did she think it was about?” Lacoste asked.

“She thought they’d changed their minds and were going to do the play after all.” His hand went to the copy of She Sat Down and Wept on the kitchen table. It was covered in scribbled notes. “She couldn’t believe everyone had quit.”

Once again Brian gave them names, and once again Beauvoir took them down.

“Emotions were running high about the play,” said Lacoste.

Brian nodded. “It was a mistake, of course. We shouldn’t have been doing it.” He looked at her then, focusing completely for the first time. “You don’t think it had anything to do with—” He gestured out the kitchen door toward the living room. “But that’s ridiculous. It’s just a play. No one cares that much.”

“They cared enough to quit,” said Lacoste.

But enough to kill?

“Who knew you’d be in Montréal?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Brian, thinking but obviously not grasping the significance of the question. “I think people knew I went in every now and then, but I don’t think I told anyone I was going in yesterday.”

Lacoste caught Beauvoir’s eye. Did Brian really not know he’d just been given a chance to take the heat off himself?

Antoinette was killed by someone who knew he wouldn’t be interrupted. The murderer therefore didn’t know about Brian, or knew Brian was in Montréal, or was Brian.

Had he told them lots of people knew he’d be away, that would open up the list of suspects. But he hadn’t. Which showed he was innocent or stupid, or so sure of himself he chose to play stupid.

They went through the rest of the questions and Brian gave answers, some halting, some incomplete, some thorough. What emerged was the image of a man numb with grief, who’d been a hundred kilometers away when Antoinette was killed. Who had nothing to do with it. Who wished he’d been there. Who couldn’t think of anyone who wanted her dead.

“I know you have to look at all possibilities, but it was a robbery, wasn’t it?” Brian finally asked. “It must’ve been. Look at the place.”

When the S?reté investigators didn’t answer, he looked more confused than ever.

“You’re not saying someone killed Antoinette on purpose, are you?”

“It’s a possibility,” said Lacoste.

“Who would do it?” he demanded. “Why? I know she could rub people the wrong way, but she never got anyone that upset.”

“You can’t think of anyone?” asked Lacoste.

“Of course not,” said Brian. “This must’ve been a terrible accident. Someone came to rob the place, and Antoinette found them. Jesus, what’re you saying?”

“We’re saying it was probably robbery, but we have to be sure,” said Lacoste, her voice soothing. Certain.

Her calm seemed to have its effect. Brian took a deep breath and regained his composure.

“I’ll help in any way I can. What can I do?”

“You can prove you were in Montréal,” said Beauvoir.

This time Brian didn’t miss the implication, but instead of getting defensive he just nodded and gave them the address of the apartment building, the number of the superintendent, the names of neighbors.

He gave them the codes to their computers, their banking, their phones.

“Antoinette used the last four digits of your phone number?” said Beauvoir as he looked down at what he’d written.

“I know, too obvious,” said Brian. “I told her that but she wanted something she could remember.”

“And yours?” asked Beauvoir. “0621 for everything?”

“Yes. Something I could never forget. June twenty-first. Our first date. Ten years ago.”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir concentrated on the page, on the numbers, on the pen as he wrote it down. And tried not to look into Brian’s red, wondering eyes.

Like Brian, he too used his first date with Annie as his code. Something he would never, could never, ever forget.