For a moment even Inspector Beauvoir was speechless.
‘The tape wasn’t just torn, it was shredded.’ He hated the way his body felt. All numb, and his head felt light as though something had detached itself and was floating above him. He wanted it back, and he clenched his fists harder and harder until his short nails were biting into his palms.
It worked.
‘What’s that,’ said Nichol. ‘Looks like someone shit.’
‘Agent Nichol,’ said Gamache. ‘We need constructive, not childish, comments.’
‘Well, it does,’ said Nichol, looking at Lemieux and Lacoste, who weren’t about to help her even if they agreed. And Beauvoir for one did. Sitting on the floor in the center of the chairs was a small dark mound. It looked like a small pile of shit. Was it bear poop? Was that what had shredded the tape? Had a brooding bear found shelter in the old Hadley house?
It made sense.
‘It’s a bird,’ said Lacoste. ‘A baby robin.’
Beauvoir was glad he’d kept his mouth shut. Bear. Baby bird. Whatever.
‘Poor thing,’ said Lemieux and received a withering look from Nichol and a small smile from Gamache.
‘This one’s ready to go, sir.’ A technician signaled from one of the computers. The tech sat down and held out his hand. Lacoste handed him the camera and the fingerprint kit. Within moments the prints had been sent to Montreal and the photos were up on the screen. Soon, one by one, each computer came to life, each with the same disturbing scene, like a ghoulish screen saver. From the hallway a picture of the shredded police tape in the foreground and the tiny bird, dead in the middle of the circle of chairs.
What does that house want? Gamache wondered. Anything that went in alive came out either dead or different.
‘Alors,’ said Beauvoir when they were back around the conference table. ‘As you all know, this is now a murder investigation. Let me bring you up to speed.’ He reached forward and took one of the large cups, expertly pinning back the plastic lip to sip from, then opened a box of chocolate glaze doughnuts.
Succinctly Inspector Beauvoir related what they knew of the victim and the murder. As Beauvoir described the séance the noise level in the room dropped until there was silence. Gamache looked up and noticed another ring had formed around them, a ring of technicians who’d gravitated to the account as campers might huddle around a fire listening to a ghost story.
‘Why did they have a séance?’ asked Lemieux.
‘A better question is, whose idea was it,’ said Nichol, dismissing Lemieux.
‘It seems to have been Gabri Dubeau’s idea to do the first one at the bistro,’ said Beauvoir. ‘But we don’t know who thought of the old Hadley house.’
‘Why do you say it’s important to know who first suggested it?’ Gamache asked.
‘Well, isn’t it obvious? If you’re going to scare someone to death you don’t do it in Disneyland. You choose a place that’s already got people scared. The old Hadley house.’
Nichol all but bleated ‘duh’ into the Chief Inspector’s face. There was silence as everyone waited for his reaction. He paused for a moment then nodded.
‘You might be right.’
‘But she wasn’t scared to death,’ said Beauvoir, turning on Nichol. Angry for her insubordination and furious at Gamache for allowing it. What was wrong with him? What game was he playing, allowing her to even be on the team? Why did he cut her so much more slack than he would anyone else? Beyond all the other arguments, it just wasn’t good for discipline. But seeing the look of disgust on their faces he knew no one else in the room was likely to use Agent Yvette Nichol as a role model. ‘If you’d keep your mouth shut and listen you’d know she was poisoned. Right?’
‘Ephedra,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘The doctor first thought she’d died of a heart attack, but since she was so young he decided to do a blood test. Came back with massive levels of ephedra.’
Nichol crossed her arms over her chest and sat silent.
‘I researched ephedra yesterday afternoon,’ said Lemieux, taking out his notebook. ‘It’s not actually a chemical. It’s a plant. An herb called Ephedra dis-ta-chya.’ Lemieux sounded it out slowly and carefully, though no one was likely to correct him. ‘It’s grown all over the world.’
‘Is it like marijuana?’ asked Lacoste.
‘No, it’s not a hallucinogen or relaxant. Just the opposite. It used to be used in Chinese medicine shops as tea for relieving,’ he consulted his notes again, ‘colds and asthma, but then I guess someone—’
