The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“—also thought she’d be at Clara’s and the place would be empty?” asked Lacoste. “Could be.”


Beauvoir excused himself to make some calls while Lacoste told Gamache, succinctly, the story as they understood it so far. Gamache was quiet, focused. Not taking notes, but taking it all in.

“We asked the neighbors if they saw anything but they were all watching Les Filles de Caleb.”

“Maybe Antoinette asked her guests to come at that time for that very reason. She wanted to make sure no one saw them arrive,” said Beauvoir, returning.

“But why would it be a secret if it was just members of the theater company?” asked Gamache.

“Because it wasn’t,” said Beauvoir. “I called them just now. Neither has heard from Antoinette since they quit. So either Antoinette lied to Brian or he lied to us.”

“But he must’ve known we’d find out,” said Lacoste. She thought for a moment. “It’s more likely Antoinette lied to him about who was coming over.”

“And why?” said Gamache. “Who could her visitors have been?”

“And did they kill her?” said Beauvoir. “It seems likely. But they were running a risk. Suppose Antoinette told Brian who was really coming over?”

“They must’ve known she wouldn’t tell him the truth,” said Lacoste. “Which means it was something she wanted to keep secret.”

“Something shameful?” suggested Beauvoir, tossing out ideas. “Something illegal or unethical? An affair?”

They stared at each other. Then Gamache’s eyes were drawn to the script. So much seemed to circle back to it. The goddamned play.

Beauvoir followed the glance. “Yes, we were wondering the same thing. Could her death have something to do with the Fleming play? Were they looking for it? Does that explain the mess in their home? Brian had taken it to Montréal, but they couldn’t have known that.”

Gamache got up. “I’ve almost finished reading it. There’s nothing hidden in the plot that I can see. Do you need me for anything? I was going to drive to Highwater, but it’s getting late, and with this news, I think I’ll stay here. Do you mind if I tell Reine-Marie?”

“No. In fact, we might as well tell everyone,” said Lacoste, joining him. “I’ll come with you and start the interviews.”

“There’s something else you need to know, Isabelle.”

He stopped, and she turned to him. “I asked Mary Fraser about Highwater. They know that we know they were there.”

“And her reaction?”

“She asked if I was threatening her.”

“Huh,” said Lacoste. “That’s strange. I wonder what she meant.”

“I wonder what’s in Highwater.”

“I’ll look it up when I get back to the Incident Room.”

“You have other things to do,” he said. “I can look it up. I still have my security codes.”

“Oh, the damage you could do, patron,” Lacoste said, with a smile.

“Funnily enough, Mary Fraser seems to think the same thing. She all but accused me of being involved in Laurent’s death and somehow involved in the hunt for Gerald Bull’s Supergun.”

“If she thinks that she’s crazy.”

“She’s complex,” he said. “I was talking with an old friend at CSIS just a week or so ago. I’ll call her up again and have Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme checked out, on the quiet of course. But there’s something else. They know you were the one who leaked the information about Project Babylon.”

Isabelle Lacoste’s eyes widened, just a bit, and she sighed. “Well, bound to happen. I’m not worried.”

But she looked worried. As well she should be, thought Armand as they walked into the quiet village and parted ways. He was beginning to think Mary Fraser was not someone you wanted on the other side. The question was, which side was she on?





CHAPTER 25

Clara Morrow sank onto the chair in the bistro. She’d been having drinks with a few friends, including Myrna, when Isabelle Lacoste had come in.

They could tell by her face that she had news that would not be good. But neither Clara nor anyone else in the bistro thought it could be quite that bad.

Antoinette was dead. Murdered.

Like everyone else in the room, Clara had gotten to her feet on hearing the news. Then she’d sunk back down, staring at Myrna, who’d also dropped to her seat.

“What’s happening here?” asked Clara.

“It’s the goddamned play,” said Ruth, a few tables over. “She should never have decided to produce it.”

They fell silent again, thinking of the play and its author.

It felt as though a long, elongated shadow had slipped between the bars of Fleming’s cell, stretching toward them. Like a finger. Thin and grotesque.

And last night, it had arrived.

Clara and Myrna went over to join the old poet, who was scribbling in her notebook. Lines of poetry, Clara saw, but couldn’t read the words. Gabri and Olivier were already at the table.