The Cruellest Month by Louise Penny Page A

though he might pass out from the memory alone. Gamache thought he could almost hear the large man’s heartbeat.
    ‘I’ve never been so terrified,’ said Clara. ‘Not even driving through a snowstorm on the highway.’
    Everyone nodded. They’d all felt the stunning certainty that this was how their lives would end. In a fiery crash, spinning out of control, invisible in the swirling, chaotic snow.
    ‘But that was the whole point, wasn’t it?’ asked Peter, perching on the arm of Clara’s wing chair. ‘To scare yourselves?’
    Was that why they’d done it? wondered Clara.
    ‘We were there to cleanse the place of evil spirits,’ said Myrna, but in the clear light of day it sounded ridiculous.
    ‘And maybe to scare ourselves just a little,’ admitted Gabri. ‘Well, it’s true,’ he added, seeing their faces. And Clara had to admit, it was true. Could they have been so foolish? Were their lives so sedate, so boring, they had to seek and manufacture danger? No, not manufacture. It was always there. They’d courted it. And it had responded.
    ‘Jeanne, the psychic,’ Myrna explained to Gamache, ‘said she could hear something coming. We were quiet for a moment and, well, I think I heard something too.’
    ‘So did I,’ said Gabri. ‘By the bed. Someone was turning over on the bed.’
    ‘No, it was from the corridor,’ said Clara, tearing her eyes from the fire and looking at their faces. It was reminiscent of the night before, all their faces lit by the fire, all eyes lunar and their bodies taut, as though prepared to bolt. She was back in that dreadful room. Smelling spring flowers, like a funeral home, and hearing those steps shuffling up behind her. ‘Steps. There were steps. Remember Jeanne said they were coming. The dead were coming.’
    Beauvoir felt his heart contract and his hands grow numb. He wondered whether Lemieux would mind if he held his hand, but decided he’d rather die.
    ‘They’re coming, she said,’ agreed Myrna. ‘Then she said something else.’
    ‘From the roof and somewhere else,’ said Gabri, trying to recall the words.
    ‘From the attic,’ Myrna corrected.
    ‘And the basement,’ said Clara, looking straight at Armand Gamache. He felt the blood drain from his face. The basement of the old Hadley house still haunted him.
    ‘And that was when it happened,’ said Gabri.
    ‘Not quite,’ said Clara. ‘She said one more thing.’
    ‘They’re all around us,’ said Myrna quietly. ‘Be here. Now!’
    She clapped her hands and Beauvoir almost died.

   THIRTEEN   
    ‘ A nd then she died,’ said Gabri. Olivier came up behind and placed his hands on Gabri’s shoulders. Gabri screamed.
    ‘Tabernacle. Are you trying to kill me?’
    The spell was broken. The room brightened again and Gamache noticed that a huge tray of sandwiches had appeared on the coffee table.
    ‘What happened then?’ Gamache asked, taking an open-faced melted goat cheese and arugula sandwich on a warm baguette.
    ‘Monsieur Béliveau carried her downstairs while Gilles ran for his car,’ said Myrna, helping herself to a grilled chicken and mango sandwich on a croissant.
    ‘Gilles?’ asked Gamache.
    ‘Sandon. Works in the woods. He and his partner Odile were there too.’
    Gamache remembered them from the list of witnesses in his pocket.
    ‘Gilles drove. Hazel and Sophie went with them,’ said Clara. ‘The rest of us took Hazel’s car.’
    ‘God, Hazel,’ said Myrna. ‘Has anyone spoken to her today?’
    ‘I called,’ said Clara, looking at the platter, but not really hungry. ‘Spoke to Sophie. Hazel was too upset to speak.’
    ‘Hazel and Madeleine were close?’ Gamache asked.
    ‘Best friends,’ said Olivier. ‘Since high school. They lived together.’
    ‘Not as lovers,’ said Gabri. ‘Well, not as far as I know.’
    ‘Don’t be absurd, of course they’re not lovers,’ said Myrna. ‘Men. They think if two grown women live together and show affection they’re