The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“Old school?” he asked, indicating the dossier. “Before everything was put on computer? Or maybe some things are best left as hard copies. More easily managed. And destroyed.”


He sat down in the other comfortable chair in the library.

Mary Fraser took her feet off the hassock and replaced them in her shoes. She crossed her legs and looked at him.

“What a funny thing to say, Monsieur Gamache,” she said, a cordial smile on her face. “Most of our files are still paper. To be honest, I prefer it that way.”

“Fahrenheit 451?” he asked.

She looked baffled, and then she caught the reference and looked at him as his third-grade teacher, Madame Arsenault, had when he’d finally said something clever.

“I wasn’t planning to burn it,” she said.

“Though you could.”

“Of course. Can I help you?”

“I’m just wondering why you’re not more interested in the Supergun.”

His voice was pleasant, matter-of-fact, but his sharp eyes studied her.

Her indifferently dyed hair. Her face without makeup, except some lipstick and slightly clotted mascara. She didn’t wear contacts, preferring glasses in unfashionable frames. She hid nothing. Not wrinkles, not flawed eyesight, not even the hole in her pantyhose. And that was one of Mary Fraser’s great advantages, he was beginning to think. Being able to make artifice look genuine. Giving the impression all was revealed, when in fact very little of substance was revealed.

This CSIS woman had appeared like Mary Poppins, descending on the village to make everything all right. Only everything wasn’t all right. He knew it. And she knew it.

No, he didn’t trust Mary Fraser, but he did find her interesting.

Now she was giving him an equally assessing look.

“And I’m just wondering why you’re so interested,” she said. “In the gun.”

“Then we’re even, madame.” He sat back, crossing his legs. Settling in. “You know more about the Supergun than you’ve told us so far. I’d like to hear it.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because you’re afraid, and you need all the allies you can get.”

“I’m not afraid.” She also sat back, wriggling a bit into the soft corner of the large chair. As a small creature might in a warm den.

“You should be afraid. Someone’s found Bull’s gun and is almost certainly looking for the plans,” said Armand. “You’re afraid they’ve already been found.”

“They haven’t been.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s been three days since the gun was found. If the plans had been there, the killer would have started sending out feelers, looking for buyers. Setting up an auction.”

“How do you know he hasn’t?”

It was just the two of them and the real Mary Fraser was beginning to appear, seeping out from the ladder in the stocking, the undyed roots of her hair, the clotted mascara. The file clerk was receding. But then, the real Armand Gamache was also appearing. The kindly retired cop was receding.

She gave him a patient smile. “We know.”

“You don’t know everything. You didn’t know about the gun.” But even as he said it he wondered if that was true.

“We knew Dr. Bull was working on it, of course, but not that he’d actually built it. That came as a surprise.”

“An unpleasant one, I’m guessing.”

“Well, not necessarily. After all, we now have the world’s only Supergun. It might come in handy.”

“Until another one’s built,” said Gamache. “Where are the plans?”

“Nowhere. They were destroyed by Gerald Bull.”

“Then why are you so worried?”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you still here?” he asked.

She had nothing to say to that.

“And why are you reading a file on Dr. Bull?”

Her hand splayed further, to better conceal the cover.

“You’re not a fool, Madame Fraser, so why are you pretending to be?”

“Am I?”

“Word is spreading about the Supergun. The villagers now know, and while they’ve been asked to keep it quiet, it’s just a matter of time before it breaks out of this valley. And then journalists, gawkers, other scientists will arrive. And who knows who else might come out of the shadows. Come looking. Time is not on your side.”

“It wasn’t ‘someone’ who leaked the news, Monsieur Gamache. It was Isabelle Lacoste.”

Gamache sat absolutely still. Trying not to give anything away. Not a word, an expression, a twitch.

“That was foolish of her,” said Mary Fraser. “She has no idea the world she’s entered, and neither do you. You think you do, but you don’t. There are no rules, monsieur. No laws. No gravity. Nothing binding us, holding us down or back.”

“I thought you were a file clerk.”

She looked at the manila folder on her lap. “I am. And what are files? They’re information. Knowledge. And what is knowledge?”

He didn’t need to answer that, and neither did she.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Why you?”

“Be careful” was all she would say.

“Did you know Gerald Bull?” Gamache asked. “Did CSIS kill him?”

There was silence. He leaned forward and looked into the bland, unremarkable face.