The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) - Louise Penny Page 0,80
hand went to the copy of She Sat Down and Wept on the kitchen table. It was covered in scribbled notes. “She couldn’t believe everyone had quit.”
Once again Brian gave them names, and once again Beauvoir took them down.
“Emotions were running high about the play,” said Lacoste.
Brian nodded. “It was a mistake, of course. We shouldn’t have been doing it.” He looked at her then, focusing completely for the first time. “You don’t think it had anything to do with—” He gestured out the kitchen door toward the living room. “But that’s ridiculous. It’s just a play. No one cares that much.”
“They cared enough to quit,” said Lacoste.
But enough to kill?
“Who knew you’d be in Montréal?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Brian, thinking but obviously not grasping the significance of the question. “I think people knew I went in every now and then, but I don’t think I told anyone I was going in yesterday.”
Lacoste caught Beauvoir’s eye. Did Brian really not know he’d just been given a chance to take the heat off himself?
Antoinette was killed by someone who knew he wouldn’t be interrupted. The murderer therefore didn’t know about Brian, or knew Brian was in Montréal, or was Brian.
Had he told them lots of people knew he’d be away, that would open up the list of suspects. But he hadn’t. Which showed he was innocent or stupid, or so sure of himself he chose to play stupid.
They went through the rest of the questions and Brian gave answers, some halting, some incomplete, some thorough. What emerged was the image of a man numb with grief, who’d been a hundred kilometers away when Antoinette was killed. Who had nothing to do with it. Who wished he’d been there. Who couldn’t think of anyone who wanted her dead.
“I know you have to look at all possibilities, but it was a robbery, wasn’t it?” Brian finally asked. “It must’ve been. Look at the place.”
When the Sûreté investigators didn’t answer, he looked more confused than ever.
“You’re not saying someone killed Antoinette on purpose, are you?”
“It’s a possibility,” said Lacoste.
“Who would do it?” he demanded. “Why? I know she could rub people the wrong way, but she never got anyone that upset.”
“You can’t think of anyone?” asked Lacoste.
“Of course not,” said Brian. “This must’ve been a terrible accident. Someone came to rob the place, and Antoinette found them. Jesus, what’re you saying?”
“We’re saying it was probably robbery, but we have to be sure,” said Lacoste, her voice soothing. Certain.
Her calm seemed to have its effect. Brian took a deep breath and regained his composure.
“I’ll help in any way I can. What can I do?”
“You can prove you were in Montréal,” said Beauvoir.
This time Brian didn’t miss the implication, but instead of getting defensive he just nodded and gave them the address of the apartment building, the number of the superintendent, the names of neighbors.
He gave them the codes to their computers, their banking, their phones.
“Antoinette used the last four digits of your phone number?” said Beauvoir as he looked down at what he’d written.
“I know, too obvious,” said Brian. “I told her that but she wanted something she could remember.”
“And yours?” asked Beauvoir. “0621 for everything?”
“Yes. Something I could never forget. June twenty-first. Our first date. Ten years ago.”
Jean-Guy Beauvoir concentrated on the page, on the numbers, on the pen as he wrote it down. And tried not to look into Brian’s red, wondering eyes.
Like Brian, he too used his first date with Annie as his code. Something he would never, could never, ever forget.
How would he feel if he found Annie…?
Chief Inspector Gamache had told them to crawl into the skins of the victim and the suspects, but he’d warned his investigators that it was difficult to do, and it was dangerous. Jean-Guy had never really understood the need, or the danger.
But now he did.
He’d gotten into Brian’s skin but had overshot the mark and ended up in his broken heart.
As they left, Jean-Guy picked up the copy of the play from the table. Brian explained it was Antoinette’s. He’d taken it with him to Montréal, having left his own copy in the theater.
Beauvoir was not a superstitious man, or claimed not to be. But even to this rational man, the play seemed heavier than just paper.
* * *
They interviewed all the neighbors, none of whom saw or heard anything, and left Madame Proulx, next door, ’til last. She was middle-aged and plump and worried, her large, red hands intertwined and fidgety.