Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(85)

‘That would be Saint-Blue Cheese,’ said Olivier. ‘And this is Saint-Cheddar. Damn. Another good theory blown.’ He cut them off slices of each and left a basket of baguette and crackers.

‘I know how he feels.’ Gamache smiled, spreading Saint-André on a thin cracker. They ate in silence and Gamache looked at the younger man across the table. ‘What’s bothering you?’

Beauvoir peered over the rim of his glass then drained the last of his wine just as their cappuccinos arrived. ‘Why’d you order Nichol to stay behind?’

‘Are you upset that I countermanded you?’

‘No,’ Beauvoir said, but knew that was indeed part of it. ‘I don’t like my orders contradicted, especially in front of the team.’

‘You’re right, Jean Guy. I wouldn’t normally do it.’

Beauvoir knew that to be the truth. In all the years they’d worked together it had only happened a handful of times, and then only in the most dire situations.

Was this a dire situation? Gamache was sitting forward now, his face suddenly weary. And Beauvoir could have kicked himself. Why hadn’t he seen it before?

‘You don’t trust her, do you? You don’t trust Nichol.’

‘Do you?’

Beauvoir thought for a moment, then nodded his head. ‘She’s impressed me. As you know, I have no love for the woman. I thought she was a complete disaster on her last case, but this time? I think it’s possible she’s changed. But you don’t?’

Gamache waved his hand slightly as though dismissing the suggestion. It wasn’t very convincing.

‘What is it?’ Beauvoir leaned forward now. ‘Tell me.’

But Gamache was silent. There was only one thing, in Beauvoir’s experience, that could produce that kind of silence in his boss.

‘My God. It’s not the Arnot case? Tell me that isn’t it.’ He could feel his anger, and his dinner, rising. He felt this way whenever he thought of Pierre Arnot and what he’d done. To others, to the S?reté. To Gamache. Surely, though, it was past. And it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Nichol. Could it?

‘Tell me,’ he demanded. ‘Enough.’ Now the younger man was almost shouting. He caught himself, looked around to see if anyone else had heard, and lowered his voice to an urgent growl. ‘You can’t keep this from me. You can’t take this on yourself. You did the first time and Arnot almost killed you. What is it with Nichol and Arnot?’

‘Leave it be, Jean Guy.’ Gamache reached across the table and gently tapped Beauvoir’s hand. ‘There is no connection. I’m just wary of her, that’s all. Nichol is certainly more agreeable than she was last time. Maybe I’m being too hard on her.’

Beauvoir studied him for a moment. ‘Bullshit. You’re humoring me now. What do you really think?’

‘It’s just a feeling.’ Gamache smiled wryly, waiting for Beauvoir to roll his eyes.

‘Your feelings aren’t always delusional.’

‘Just sometimes? It’s not important, Jean Guy.’

Gamache sipped his cappuccino and wondered whether he was turning cynical at last, thinking people couldn’t and didn’t change. All the evidence was that Agent Yvette Nichol had shed her arrogance and that huge chip she lugged around. Since joining them the day before she’d proved she could take orders, could take guidance and criticism. She’d worked hard and proved herself a self-starter, and had done good work finding out about Crie. And she’d even booked herself into the B. & B., and had paid for it herself.

This was indeed a new Nichol.

So why don’t I trust her?

Gamache leaned back in his chair and signaled Olivier, then turned back to Beauvoir.

‘I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have countermanded your orders, and certainly not in front of the team. May I offer you a cognac?’

Beauvoir recognized the bribe, but was willing to take it. Olivier delivered the amber drinks in their plump glasses and the two men discussed the case, talking about everything but thinking about only one thing. Agent Yvette Nichol.





THIRTY-ONE




The alarm sounded at twenty past two in the morning. The siren blasted through the frozen air and into every house in the village, traveling through fieldstone and mortar, through thick pink insulation and clapboard, through sweet dreams and restless sleeps, and announced a nightmare.

Fire.

Gamache leaped out of bed. Through the wail he could hear footsteps and shouting and the phone ringing. Tugging on his dressing gown he looked down the corridor and saw the vague outline of someone else in the darkness.

Beauvoir.

Downstairs he heard a woman’s voice, high and strained.

‘What is it, what’s happening?’

Gamache took the stairs rapidly, Beauvoir silent and following.

‘I don’t smell smoke,’ said Gamache, striding up to Nichol who was standing in the door to her room wearing pink flannel pajamas. She was wild-eyed and hyper-alert. ‘Come with me.’ His voice was even and composed. Nichol could feel herself breathing again.

As they descended they heard Gabri and Olivier calling to each other.

‘It’s along the Old Stage Road. Ruth has the address,’ Olivier shouted. ‘I’m heading over.’