THE CRUELLEST MONTH

TWENTY-THREE

 

 

‘Monsieur Sandon,’ Inspector Beauvoir called for the gazillionth time. He was getting a little worried. He was deep in the woods outside St-Rémy. Odile had told him where to find Gilles’s truck and his trail through the woods. The truck had been easy. Beauvoir had only gotten lost twice on the way to this cul-de-sac, but finding the man was proving more difficult. The trees were just beginning to bud so his view wasn’t obscured by the leaves, but it was heavy going what with downed trees, swamps, and rocks. It wasn’t his natural habitat. He scrambled over slimy stones and stumbled through mud puddles, hidden under a layer of decaying autumn leaves. His fine leather shoes, not sensible he knew but he couldn’t yet lower himself to rubber, were filled with water, mud and sticks.

 

Odile, as he’d stepped into the fresh air from the cloying aromas of the organic store, had shouted a phrase that still resonated in his ears.

 

‘Watch out for bears,’ she’d sung cheerily after him.

 

He’d picked up a stick when he’d entered the woods. To knock the bear on the nose. Or was that sharks? Well, he was ready either way. The bear could always use the stick as a toothpick after eating him.

 

He had a gun but he’d been so thoroughly trained by Gamache not to ever take it out unless he was certain to use it, it remained holstered.

 

Beauvoir had watched enough news reports about bear attacks to know that black bears weren’t generally dangerous, unless you got between mother and child. He also knew they were dangerous if startled. So screaming ‘Monsieur Sandon’ had taken on a dual purpose.

 

‘Monsieur Saaaandonnnn.’

 

‘I’m here,’ came the sudden response. Beauvoir stopped and looked around.

 

‘Where?’ he yelled.

 

‘Over here. I’ll find you.’

 

Now Beauvoir heard footsteps through the autumn leaves, and the cracking of twigs. But he saw no man. The sound grew louder and still no man. It was like the approach of a ghost.

 

Damn, shouldn’t have thought that, thought Beauvoir, feeling his anxiety rise. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts.

 

‘Who are you?’

 

Beauvoir turned round and on the top of a slight rise stood a massive man. Broad-chested, powerful and tall. He wore a shaggy knitted hat and his red beard stuck out in all directions. He was covered in mud and bark.

 

Yeti. Big Foot. There was some old creature his grandmother had told him about. The Green Man. Half man, half tree. This was him.

 

Beauvoir gripped his stick.

 

‘Inspector Beauvoir, S?reté du Québec.’

 

It had never sounded more feeble. Then the Green Man laughed. Not a malicious, ‘I’m going to tear you limb from limb’ laugh. But a laugh of genuine amusement. He came down the small hill, winding gracefully between old growth trees and saplings.

 

‘Thought you were a tree talking to me just now.’ He put out his massive, filthy hand and Beauvoir took it. He too laughed. It was hard not to feel cheerful in this man’s company. ‘Though they’re generally a little less obvious when they speak.’

 

‘The trees?’

 

‘Oh, yes. But you’re probably not here to talk about them. Or to them.’ Sandon reached out and put his hand squarely on a massive trunk beside him. Not leaning against it, but as a sort of touch-stone. Even without Odile’s obscure comments Beauvoir could tell this man had a singular relationship with the woods. If Darwin had concluded man evolved from trees, Gilles Sandon would be the missing link.

 

‘That’s true. I’m investigating the murder of Madeleine Favreau. I believe—’ Beauvoir stopped. The large man in front of him had taken a step back as though Beauvoir had physically pushed him.

 

‘Her murder? What are you saying?’

 

‘I’m sorry, I assumed you knew. You do know she’s dead.’

 

‘I was there. I took her to the hospital.’

 

‘I’m afraid the coroner’s report says her death wasn’t natural.’

 

‘Well of course it wasn’t natural. There was nothing natural about that night. Should never have invited those spirits into the room. It was that psychic.’

 

‘She’s a witch,’ said Beauvoir and couldn’t believe he’d let that out. Still, it was the truth. He thought.

 

‘Not surprised,’ said Sandon, recovering himself a little. ‘Should have known better. All of us, but especially her. There are strange things done in this world, son. And strange things done in the next. But I’ll tell you something.’ He stepped closer to Beauvoir and leaned down. Beauvoir braced himself for the stench of hard work and little soap. Instead this man smelled of fresh air and pine. ‘The strangest is what happens between the worlds. That’s where those spirits live, trapped. Not natural.’

 

‘And listening to trees is?’

 

Sandon’s face, so stern and troubled for a moment, smiled once again. ‘One day you’ll hear them. In the quiet, some whisper you’d mistaken for the wind all your life. But it’ll be the trees. Nature is talking to us all the time, it’s just hearing that’s the problem. Now I can’t hear water or flowers or rocks. Well, actually, I can but just a little. But trees? Their voices are clear to me.’

 

‘And what do they say?’ Beauvoir couldn’t quite believe he’d asked the question and certainly couldn’t believe he actually wanted to know the answer.

 

Gilles looked at Beauvoir for a moment. ‘One day I’ll tell you, but not just now. I don’t think you’ll believe me so it’d be a waste of your time and mine. But one day, if I think you won’t mock or hurt their feelings, I’ll tell you what the trees are saying.’

 

Inspector Beauvoir was surprised to find his own feelings were hurt. He wanted this man to trust him. And he wanted to know. But he also knew Sandon was right. He thought it was bullshit. Maybe.

 

‘Can you tell me about Madeleine Favreau?’

 

Sandon stooped and picked up a stick. Beauvoir expected him to break it and worry it in his leather hands, but instead he just held it as one might hold a small hand.

 

‘She was beautiful. I’m not good with words, Inspector. She was like that.’ He pointed the stick into the woods. Beauvoir looked over and saw sunlight glowing on light green buds and falling on the golden autumn leaves. There was no need for words.

 

‘She was new to this area,’ said Beauvoir.

 

‘Only came a few years ago. Lived with Hazel Smyth.’

 

‘Were they lovers, do you think?’

 

‘Hazel and Madeleine?’ This seemed to be a new, though not revolting, idea for Sandon. He frowned and considered it. ‘Might have been. Madeleine was full of love. People like that sometimes don’t need to distinguish between men and women. I know they loved each other, if that’s what you mean, but I think you mean something else.’

 

‘I do. And you’re saying it wouldn’t surprise you?’

 

‘No, but only because I think Madeleine loved a lot of people.’

 

‘Including Monsieur Béliveau?’

 

‘I think if she felt anything for that man it was pity. His wife died a few years ago, you know. And now Madeleine dies.’

 

The rage boiled up and out of the man so quickly Beauvoir wasn’t prepared for it. Sandon looked as if he wanted to hit something, or someone. He glared around savagely, his fists clenched, tears running from his eyes. Beauvoir could see the calculation in his mind. Tree or man, tree or man. Which one would he smash?

 

Tree, tree, tree, Beauvoir pleaded. But the rage passed and now Sandon was leaning against the huge oak for support. Hugging it, Beauvoir saw, and felt absolutely no inclination to mock.

 

Turning back to Beauvoir Sandon dragged his checkered sleeve across his face, rubbing away the tears and other stuff.

 

‘I’m sorry. I thought I’d gotten it all out, but I guess not.’ Now the huge man smiled sheepishly at Beauvoir over the gigantic sleeve he held to his face. Then he lowered it. ‘Came here yesterday. It’s where I feel most at home. I walked over to the creek and just screamed. All day. Poor trees. But they didn’t seem to mind. They scream too, sometimes, when there’s clear cutting going on. They can feel the terror of the other trees, you know. Through their roots. They scream and then they weep. Yesterday I screamed. Today I wept. I thought it was over. I’m sorry.’

 

‘Did you love Madeleine?’

 

‘I did. I challenge you to find someone who didn’t.’

 

‘Someone didn’t. Someone killed her.’

 

‘Still can’t quite take that in. Are you sure?’ When Beauvoir was silent the big man nodded, but still seemed numb to the idea.