‘Gives you a chance to write your poetry, I suppose.’
She perked up. ‘You’ve heard of my poetry?’
‘I have, madame.’
‘Would you like to hear one?’
Beauvoir tried to catch the chief’s eye, but Gamache seemed oblivious of Beauvoir’s ocular gymnastics.
‘I would consider it an honor, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Here, sit here.’ She practically shoved Gamache into one of Gilles’s chairs. He expected to hear a great cracking sound, breaking both the chair and his bank balance in one go. But nothing happened. The chair, the wood and his savings were solid.
Odile returned with her worn notebook, the one Beauvoir had seen her slam shut on his previous visit.
She cleared her throat and adjusted her shoulders, as a fighter might before the foe.
‘Over the moor at dusk there fled
The dismal clouds, and we,
Facing the rain, with might and main,
Me and my love and me.
‘The seagull screamed, the reeds were bent,
But hand in hand the three,
We hurried on – going against the wind,
Me and my love and me.
‘I call it “Me and My Love and Me”.’
Gamache was too stunned to speak but Beauvoir found his voice.
‘That was wonderful. I could see the whole thing.’
And he meant it. He was used to hearing Gamache’s obscure quotes, mostly of Ruth Zardo’s unintelligible stuff that didn’t even rhyme. This at least made sense. He could see the bird, hear it screaming, see the rain.
‘Would you like another one?’
‘I’m afraid I do have to ask some questions.’ Gamache patted the stool next to him. ‘Lovely thought as that is.’
Odile sat and wavered a little, trying to stay upright.
‘What did you think of Madeleine Favreau?’
‘She was all right. Came in here sometimes, but I didn’t know her well. I’m sorry she’s dead. Any idea who did it?’
‘Do you?’
Odile thought.
‘I think it was that friend of hers. Hazel. Always so nice. Too nice. Drive you nuts. Definitely a suspect. Though, actually, maybe she’s more likely to be murdered. Are you sure the right person was killed?’
‘You had words with Madeleine as you all walked to the old Hadley house.’
‘Did I?’ Odile’s skills as a liar rivaled her skills as a poet.
‘You did. You were overheard.’
‘Oh, we talked about this and that.’
‘You argued, madame,’ said Gamache, firmly but quietly. He could see Odile in profile, her jawline weak and soft.
‘No, we didn’t argue,’ she said. Gamache knew all he needed to do was wait, and hope another customer didn’t come in.
‘She was trying to take Gilles,’ said Odile in a fetid explosion, her sour breath hitting Gamache as though the words had been trapped inside too long. ‘I know that’s what she wanted. Always smiling at him, always touching him.’ She mimicked Madeleine’s actions by pawing Gamache’s arm. ‘She just wanted him to pay attention to her, and he wouldn’t.’
‘Is that true?’ Gamache asked.
‘Of course it’s true. He loves me.’ The last word was almost inaudible. Her mouth hung open, some long spittle drooling out. Her nose ran and tears had sprung to her eyes. Her face had dissolved as though in acid.
Did Madeleine try to take Gilles from Odile? Gamache wondered. If so there were two motives for murder. Odile to kill her rival. And Monsieur Béliveau out of jealousy. What had Clara said? Madeleine always got what she wanted. But what had she wanted? Whom had she wanted? Gilles or Monsieur Béliveau? Or neither?
‘What did you argue about that night?’ Gamache pressed.
‘I asked her to stop. All right? Satisfied? I begged her to stay away from Gilles. She could have any man. She was gorgeous and smart. Everyone wanted to be with her. Who wouldn’t? But me? I know what people think of me. I’m stupid and dull and can only do figures. I’ve loved Gilles all my life and he finally chose me. Me. And no one was going to take him away. I begged her to let me have him.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She denied the whole thing. Let me make a fool of myself, humiliate myself, then didn’t even have the courage to admit what a slut she was.’
As they left Gamache shook her hand, feeling it wet and slimy. But that was how grief often felt. Beauvoir managed to get away without the handshake.
