The Brutal Telling (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #5)

by Louise Penny

He sat up and looked at his partner’s face, studying it as a passenger might study the face of a flight attendant during takeoff. Were they worried? Frightened?

“Is he dead?” “Worse.”

And not just dead, but worse.

Death had surprised this man. But it did most people, even the old and infirm. Almost no one really expected to die.

The place didn’t even have crime. Except murder. The only criminal thing that ever happened in this village was the worst possible crime.

“Young Parra?” asked Beauvoir. “Like Old Mundin?” Gabri made a face. “Of course not. His name isn’t ‘Young.’ That’d be weird. His name’s Havoc.”

In Beauvoir’s experience Darwin was way wrong. The fittest didn’t survive. They were killed by the idiocy of their neighbors, who continued to bumble along oblivious.

“Can’t imagine what Gamache thinks of us,” said Myrna. “Every time he shows up there’s a body.” “Every Quebec village has a vocation,” said Clara. “Some make cheese, some wine, some pots. We produce bodies.”

Now that they were actually there, and the dream was a reality, she realized she had no real idea what to do with a horse.

If she was expecting them to save her, the very least she could do was save them first.

Funny how imperfections on the outside mean something splendid beneath.”

A mask. Gamache knew that when he found the murderer and ripped the mask off, the skin would come too. The mask had become the man. The deceit was total.

Annie had learned logic, Latin, problem solving. Daniel had learned to roll a spliff. Both grew into decent, happy adults.

His mother was staring at him as though he’d peed in the Château Frontenac dining room. He knew that look from when he was a boy and peed in the Château Frontenac dining room.

“He’s a saint.” Beauvoir laughed, but seeing Gamache’s serious face he stopped. “What do you mean?” “There’re some people who believe that.” “Seemed like an asshole to me.” “The hardest part of the process. Telling them apart.”

“Beyond the pale,” said Myrna. “I’m sorry?” “Do you know the expression, Chief Inspector?” “I’ve heard it, yes. It means someone’s done something unacceptable. That’s one way of looking at murder, I suppose.” “I didn’t mean that. Do you know where the expression comes from?” When Gamache shook his head she smiled. “It’s the sort of arcane knowledge a bookstore owner collects. It’s from medieval times. A fortress was built with thick stone walls in a circle. We’ve all seen them, right?” Gamache had visited many old castles and fortresses, almost all in ruins now, but it was the brightly colored illustrations from the books he’d pored over as a child he remembered most vividly. The towers with vigilant archers, the crenellated stone, the massive wooden doors. The moat and drawbridge. And inside the circle of the walls was a courtyard. When attacked the villagers would race inside, the drawbridge would be raised, the massive doors closed. Everyone inside was safe. They hoped. Myrna was holding out her palm, and circling it with a finger. “All around are walls, for protection.” Then her finger stopped its movement and rested on the soft center of her palm. “This is the pale.” “So if you’re beyond the pale…” “You’re an outsider,” said Myrna. “A threat.”

He seemed quite fond of Beauvoir by the time the Inspector slid off his back. Not once had Beauvoir kicked him, whipped him, or punched him. In Chester’s lifetime, Beauvoir was by far the gentlest and kindest of riders.

Chester looked back, hoping to catch a peek at the funny man who had forgotten to beat him.

Most saints were martyrs. And they took a lot of people down with them.