A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)

by Louise Penny

Touching her was like caressing a veneer of ice. There was a beauty to it, and a frailty he found attractive. But there was also danger. If she ever broke, if she shattered, she’d tear him to pieces.

catching the light, the brilliance, the hope. And the shadows that naturally challenged the light.

everything would be discarded.

The world was a cruel and insensitive place. And he now believed it.

betrayed by a buoyant heart,

basking in the light Crie provided.

will herself into the magical window and the village the ghoul could never find because kindness guarded the entry.

It had peace and stillness and laughter. It had great joy and great sadness and the ability to accept both and be content. It had companionship and kindness.

it was always the things you didn’t see that were the scariest.

It was as though an angel, as Yeats would have it, became weary of the whimpering dead and chose this lively company.

You never really knew what lurked beneath. A Quebec winter could both enchant and kill.

At Christmas homes were full of the people there and the people not there.

In my teens my drug of choice was acceptance, in my twenties it was approval, in my thirties it was love, in my forties it was Scotch. That lasted a while,’ she admitted. ‘Now all I really crave is a good bowel movement.’

So much more comforting to see bad in others; gives us all sorts of excuses for our own bad behavior. But good? No, only really remarkable people see the good in others.

not everyone had good to see.

That child had sung like an angel tonight and she’d made them all divine, more than human, for a brief time. But with a few well chosen words her mother had made ugly what minutes before had been exquisite. CC was like an alchemist, with the unlikely gift of turning gold into lead.

Though he was only in his early fifties there was an old world charm about Gamache, a courtesy and manner that spoke of a time past.

His body spoke of meals enjoyed and a life of long walks rather than contact sports.

It was simple. And it was right.

Words could do many things, he knew, but they couldn’t halt the weather.

‘I’m a man of many parts.’

this mystery, like all murders, had begun long ago. This was neither the beginning nor the end.

Someone had been insane enough to try. Someone had been brilliant enough to succeed.

Gamache was the best of them, the smartest and bravest and strongest because he was willing to go into his own head alone, and open all the doors there, and enter all the dark rooms. And make friends with what he found there. And he went into the dark, hidden rooms in the minds of others. The minds of killers. And he faced down whatever monsters came at him.

He went to places Beauvoir had never even dreamed existed.

There’s a fine line between noble perseverance and insanity, reflected Gamache.

isolation was far worse than death.

‘who isn’t cruel and selfish?’ Gamache had forgotten the complete joy that was Ruth Zardo. He laughed out loud and caught her eye. She started laughing too.

‘You need to know this. Everything makes sense. Everything. We just don’t know how yet. You have to see through the murderer’s eyes. That’s the trick, Agent Lemieux, and that’s why not everyone’s cut out for homicide. You need to know that it seemed like a good idea, a reasonable action, to the person who did it. Believe me, not a single murderer ever thought, “Wow, this is stupid, but I’m going to do it anyway.” No, Agent Lemieux, our job is to find the sense.’

‘We listen ’til it hurts. No, agent, the truth is, we just listen.’

Here’s lesson number two. If you don’t know something, ask. You have to be able to admit you don’t know something, otherwise you’ll just get more and more confused, or worse, you’ll jump to a false conclusion.

All the mistakes I’ve made have been because I’ve assumed something and then acted as though it was fact. Very dangerous,

I often think we should have tattooed to the back of whatever hand we use to shoot or write, “I might be wrong.”’

that the world could be a good place, and to give it another chance.’

Departing was not an insignificant event in Quebec. But then neither was arriving.

‘Good hearts get hurt. Good hearts get broken, Armand. And then they lash out.

you can’t be good at this job if you don’t know who you are. How can you possibly find the truth about someone else if you won’t admit the truth about yourself?’

Armand Gamache wasn’t a competitive man. He was a content man.

Chief Inspector Gamache’s bad side was legend. Not because it was so bad, but because it was so well hidden. Hardly anyone had ever found it. But those that did never ever forgot.

‘Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable,’ said Gamache. Seeing Beauvoir’s puzzled expression he added, ‘Emerson.’

‘Not judgment, madame, discernment.’

Murder was deeply human, the murdered and the murderer. To describe the murderer as a monstrosity, a grotesque, was to give him an unfair advantage. No. Murderers were human, and at the root of each murder was an emotion. Warped, no doubt. Twisted and ugly. But an emotion. And one so powerful it had driven a man to make a ghost.

Gamache’s job was to collect the evidence, but also to collect the emotions. And the only way he knew to do that was to get to know the people. To watch and listen. To pay attention.

‘And then he falls, as I do,’ quoted Gamache to himself, surprised by the reference. Wolsey’s farewell. Shakespeare, of course. But why had he suddenly thought of that quote?

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.

‘The monster wasn’t Frankenstein,’ Dr Harris reminded him. ‘Dr Frankenstein created the monster.’ Gamache felt his chest tighten as she spoke. There was something there. Something he’d been approaching and missing throughout this case.

‘I always think a case is like driving from here to the Gaspé. A great long distance and I can’t see the end. But I don’t have to. All I have to do is keep throwing light in front of me, and follow the headlights. Eventually I’ll get there.’ ‘Like Diogenes with his lamp?’ ‘In reverse. He was looking for one honest man. I’m looking for a murderer.’ ‘Be careful. The murderer can see the man with the lamp coming.’

was the worst of all possible states, he knew, to never be noticed.

each person must have their own language.

I was tired of seeing the Graces always depicted as beautiful young things. I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.’