A Fatal Grace
‘I’m at the Old Brewery Mission. But I just came from headquarters. He’ll do what you asked.’
‘Any idea when?’
‘No sir.’
Gamache smiled. He could imagine Lemieux in that horrible room with that brilliant, gifted, horrible man. Poor Lemieux.
‘Good work.’
‘Thank you. You were right, though. They knew the vagrant here at the Mission.’ He sounded excited, as though he’d just split the atom.
‘As Elle?’
‘Yes sir. They have no other name. But you were right about the other thing. I have the director of the Mission with me. Should I put him on?’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Oui, s’il vous plaît. Put Mr Moscher on.’
After a pause a deep, authoritative voice came down the line.
‘Bonjour, Chief Inspector.’
‘Monsieur Moscher, I want to make it clear this is not our jurisdiction. This is a murder in Montreal, but we’ve been invited to make certain discreet inquiries.’
‘I understand, Chief Inspector. In answer to your question, Elle stuck to herself a lot. Most do here, so I didn’t know her well; none of the staff did. But I asked around and a few of the kitchen staff remember her having a pendant round her neck, some old silver thing they think.’
Gamache closed his eyes in a small prayer for the answer to the next question.
‘No. I asked and one of the cooks said she’d once commented on it to Elle, by way of making conversation, and Elle immediately covered it up. It seemed important to her, but then the strangest things can seem important to street people. They get fixations, obsessions. This seemed to be one of Elle’s.’
‘Probably, but if she did we don’t know about it. We try to respect their privacy.’
‘I’ll let you go, Monsieur Moscher. You must be busy.’
‘Winter’s always busy. I hope you find out who killed her. Normally it’s the weather that gets them. It’ll be a killing cold tonight.’
Both men hung up thinking it would be nice to meet the other.
‘Sir.’ Beauvoir poked his head in the door. ‘Could you come out and see what Agent Lacoste has?’
‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
Beauvoir closed the door but not before glancing at Agent Nichol sitting like a statue on the chair, her clothes dull and ill fitting, her hairstyle ten years out of date, her eyes and complexion gray. Most women in Quebec, certainly the Québecoises, were stylish and even elegant. The younger ones were often daring in their dress. Even in the Sûreté. Agent Lacoste, for instance, was only slightly older than Nichol but she seemed a world away. She carried herself with élan. Her hair was always clean and cut in a casually elegant fashion, her clothes were simple with a dash of color and individuality. Of course, Nichol’s attire and demeanor were also unique. Their dullness set her apart. Beauvoir wished he could stay and hear the chief give her hell for daring to show up again.
Once the door closed, Gamache turned to consider the young woman sitting in front of him.
But he also knew he’d been wrong.
That’s what he’d been considering as he’d circled the village green. Round and round he’d gone but always came back to the same place.
He’d been wrong.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking her directly in the eye. She looked back expectantly, as though bracing herself for more. I’m sorry, but you’re fired. I’m sorry, but you’re going home. I’m sorry, but you’re a pathetic loser and I don’t want you anywhere close to this investigation.
And she was right. There was more.
‘I ignored you and that was wrong.’
Still she waited, watching his face. Watching those deep brown eyes, so stern and thoughtful. He looked down at her, his hands folded casually in front of him, his hair and moustache well groomed. The small room smelled slightly of sandalwood. It was so subtle she wondered whether she was imagining it, but thought not. All her senses were heightened, waiting for the execution. The next sentence that would send her back to Montreal in disgrace. Back to narcotics. And back to her tiny, immaculate home in east end Montreal, with its front vegetable garden now under snow, and her father, so proud of her successes.