NINETEENThe walls of the meditation room were a soothing aqua. The floor was carpeted in a deep, warm green. The ceiling was cathedral and a fan moved lazily around. Some pillows were piled in the corners, awaiting bottoms, Gamache guessed.
He and Beauvoir had driven into St-Rémy to visit Mother Bea at her meditation center. He turned around, taking in the floor to ceiling windows looking into the darkness. All he could see was his own reflection, and Beauvoir behind him standing as though he’d entered the Gates of Hell.
‘You expecting some spirit to attack?’
‘You never know.’
‘I thought you were an atheist.’
‘I don’t believe in God, but there might be ghosts. Do you smell something?’
‘It’s incense.’
‘I think it’s making me sick.’
Gamache turned to the back wall. Written in fine ca
