‘And you think she’ll conjure evil spirits against me?’
Gamache wasn’t smiling, wasn’t mocking Beauvoir. He seemed to be genuinely interested to know.
‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I think they’re manufactured to serve a purpose.’
‘What purpose?’
‘My wife talks about angels. She wants to believe in guardian angels, because it makes her feel less afraid, less alone.’
‘And evil spirits, are they manufactured too?’
‘I think so. By parents and the church, so that we’ll be afraid and do as we’re told.’
‘So evil spirits create fear and angels calm it,’ said Gamache, thinking about it.
‘I think it’s all in our minds,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I think it’s what we want to believe. Madeleine Favreau believed in ghosts and it killed her. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have been so afraid and that ephedra wouldn’t have stopped her heart. You said as much yourself. She was scared to death. She was killed by her beliefs. By someone taking advantage of them. You believe in things I don’t. I’m afraid she’ll take advantage of that. Get inside your head.’
‘The psychic? You think she’ll crawl inside my head and use my beliefs against me?’
Beauvoir nodded and refused to drop his gaze, though he longed to. This was territory he hated. Things he literally couldn’t quite grasp.
‘I know you’re saying this because you care.’ Gamache held his gaze. ‘But my beliefs comfort, they don’t kill. They’re who I am, Jean Guy. They can’t be used against me because they are me.’
‘You believe in spirits.’ Beauvoir wasn’t going to let it go. ‘I know you don’t go to church, but you still believe in God. Suppose she said she’d conjure evil spirits, then where’d you be?’
‘I guess I’d have to call on the angels,’ Gamache smiled. ‘Look, Jean Guy, at some point in all our lives we’re going to be faced with exactly that question. What do you believe? At least I have my answer, and if it kills me, it kills me. But I won’t run away.’
‘I’m not asking you to run away, just to accept help. Let me come.’
Gamache wavered. ‘There’s too much to be done. You have your assignment.’
Beauvoir held Gamache’s gaze, then dropped it. He knew then what would kill Gamache. Not an evil spirit, not a ghoul or a ghost. But his own pride.
TWENTY-ONE
‘So, I hear you’re a witch.’
‘I prefer Wiccan. I expect you’re a Catholic.’
Gamache raised his brows. The woman in front of him was probably in her early forties though it was hard to tell. Gamache suspected she’d looked middle-aged since kindergarten. She wore a sensible skirt and flat shoes. Her sweater was of good quality, though out of date as well. He wondered where she got it. From her mother? From a second hand shop? All she needed was a pinafore and she’d look like something from the Beatrix Potter books he’d bought Florence. Her features were small and pointy and her eyes gray. He had the impression he was interviewing a woodland creature. One with a very sharp brain.
‘Lapsed,’ said Gamache. Was Beauvoir right? Was this woman trying to get into his head? Strangely enough that’s where Beauvoir seemed to think he kept his beliefs. They were actually nowhere near his head.
‘Wiccan?’ he asked.
‘Practicing,’ she nodded and gave him a small, but warm, smile.
The two were sitting in the living room of the B. & B., a fire in the hearth. It was going to be a mild day but a fire was still welcome. The room was elegant and simple, a surprise to anyone who met Gabri before meeting his living space. Gamache wondered which was genuine, the flamboyant man or his dignified and comfortable home.
‘We were looking for you yesterday. Do you mind telling me where you went?’
‘Not at all. But I have a question for you first. Was Madame Favreau murdered?’
‘Didn’t Gabri tell you?’
‘Well, yes he did. But he also told me he’d written The Producers only to have it stolen by Mel Brooks, and that Ruth is his father.’
Gamache laughed.
‘He must allow himself one truth a day, and I’m afraid his news about Madeleine Favreau was it. She was murdered.’
Jeanne closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. ‘Ephedra?’
Damn Lemieux, he thought. ‘Two truths,’ he said.
‘What is ephedra?’
She asked it so naturally he wondered whether she was curious or cunning. If she really didn’t know then she was innocent of the crime.
