The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

Brian pursed his lips, thinking, then shook his head. “There might’ve been and I just didn’t notice. I don’t think I’m all that observant. I wish I’d been home. I should’ve been home.”


“Whoever did this would’ve just waited until you were gone the next time,” said Armand. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

Gamache didn’t say it, but he believed Antoinette’s life was over as soon as Laurent found the gun and started telling everyone, and when the CSIS agents decided not to tell anyone about her uncle.

“Did anyone ever come asking about Guillaume Couture?” Armand asked.

“Not that I know of. He died before I met her.” Brian looked down at his coffee mug, as though he’d never seen one before. “I don’t know what to do.”

Armand nodded. He understood that with loss came the overwhelming feeling of being lost. Directionless.

“I can’t go home,” said Brian. “Not yet.”

Gamache knew he meant emotionally, but he also wouldn’t be allowed home.

Not surprisingly, Lacoste had called first thing with the news that Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme had an injunction to search Antoinette’s home themselves. Alone. Though Gamache had the feeling the injunction was just for show. He was pretty sure they’d already been there. Already searched. Without benefit or need of legal approval.

“I might go to the theater today,” said Brian. “I think I’d feel close to her there. Better than sitting around the B and B all day. And I don’t really want to talk to anyone, you know?”

“Let me drive you,” said Armand, getting up. “I’m heading in that direction myself.”

At the door they found the clothing.

“Here,” said Armand. “Put on one of the sweaters while I make a phone call.”

He went into the study, closed the door firmly, then called a private number in Ottawa. It was eight thirty. After a brief exchange he hung up.

By noon they should know more about Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme.

Brian was waiting for him at the front door, wearing Armand’s favorite blue cashmere sweater.

“A bit big for you, I’m afraid,” said Gamache, rolling up the sleeves for him.

“Are you going to Knowlton too?” Brian asked.

“No, a few kilometers beyond. I can drop you at the theater then pick you up in a couple of hours, if that’s all right.”

He didn’t say he was going to Highwater. The fewer people who knew, the better.

As they drove away, Gamache saw Professor Rosenblatt sitting on the bench, bundled against the brisk wind and tossing bread to the birds. Autumn leaves, blown off the trees, swirled in a whirlwind about him, mixing with the excited birds and airborne bread so that it looked like nature had gone mad around the elderly physicist.

And once again, Armand was left to wonder why Professor Rosenblatt was still there instead of at home in front of his fireplace, safe and warm.

*

Clara and Myrna approached the bench and sat, one on either side of the professor.

“Good morning,” said Clara. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the howling wind. “How did you sleep?”

“I’m afraid I had a little too much to drink last night,” he said. “I came out here for fresh air.”

“Well, there’s lots of that,” said Myrna, trying to keep her scarf off her face. On the other side of the professor, Clara was fighting with her hair.

Rosenblatt offered them some of his stale bread to toss to the chickadees and blue jays and robins.

“Ravenous,” he said. “Now I understand where that expression comes from.”

The bread they threw was caught by the wind and tumbled across the green, chased by the leaves and the birds.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” said Rosenblatt, watching the commotion caused by the bread.

“It’s awful,” said Clara. “But what makes it worse is that no one is telling us anything. We wondered if you could answer some questions.”

“I’ll try.”

“We heard that Antoinette’s death might be linked to Laurent’s,” said Myrna. “Is that true?”

“I think the police suspect that might be true,” he said.

“But how?” Clara asked. “The gun is somehow involved, right?”

“Yes. But I really can’t tell you more. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?” asked Clara.

“You’re friends with Monsieur Gamache, why don’t you ask him?”

Myrna smiled. “Because he won’t tell us.”

“So you’re trying to get me in trouble, ladies?” It was said with amusement and charm, but also without any weakening on his part.

“You know something, don’t you?” said Myrna. “When Isabelle Lacoste told us about Antoinette you said something. A quote. About some rough beast, and Bethlehem.”

“I wish I could take credit, but I was just reading what your friend Ruth had written in her notebook.”

“It’s a quote, right?” said Myrna.

“I believe so,” said Rosenblatt. “Shakespeare probably. Isn’t everything? Or the Bible.”