‘I’m sorry,’ Clara said, a dish towel in her hand, taking the warm, wet plates from Peter’s hand. ‘I should have told you about my conversation with Gamache.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s not good enough, Clara. Can it be that you don’t trust me?’
He searched her face, his icy-blue eyes keen and cold. She knew she should hold him, should tell him how much she loved him and trusted him and needed him. But something held her back. There it was again. A silence between them. Something else unsaid. Is this how it starts? Clara wondered. Those chasms between couples, filled not with comfort and familiarity, but with too much unsaid, and too much said.
Once again her lover closed up. Became stone. Still and cold.
Ben had walked in on them at that moment, and caught them in an act more intimate than sex. Their anger and pain was fully exposed. Ben stammered and stumbled and bumbled and finally left, looking like a child who had walked in on his parents.
That night, after everyone had left, Clara said the things she knew Peter had longed to hear. How much she trusted him and loved him. How sorry she was, and how grateful she was for his patience in the face of her own pain at Jane’s death. And she asked for his forgiveness. And he gave it, and they’d held each other until their breathing became deep and even and in sync.
But still, something had been left unsaid.
The next morning Clara rose early, let Lucy out, and made Peter pancakes, maple syrup and bacon. The unexpected smell of cured Canadian bacon, fresh coffee and woodsmoke woke Peter. Lying in bed he resolved to try to move beyond the hard feelings of the day before. Still, it had confirmed for Peter that feelings were too dangerous to expose. He showered, put on clean clothes and his game face, and went downstairs.
‘When do you think Yolande’ll move in?’ Clara asked Peter over breakfast.
‘I guess after the will has been read. A few days, maybe a week.’
‘I can’t believe Jane would leave her home to Yolande, if for no other reason than she knew how much I hate her.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t about you, Clara.’
Zing. And maybe, thought Clara, he’s still pissed off. ‘I’ve been watching Yolande for the last couple of days. She keeps lugging stuff into Jane’s place.’
Peter shrugged. He was getting tired of comforting Clara.
‘Didn’t Jane make a new will?’ she tried again.
‘I don’t remember that.’ Peter knew Clara enough to know this was a ruse, an attempt to take his mind off his hurt and to get him on her side. He refused to play.
‘No, really,’ said Clara. ‘I seem to remember when Timmer was diagnosed and knew it was terminal that they both talked about revising their wills. I’m sure Jane and Timmer went off to that notary in Williamsburg. What was her name? You know. The one who just had the baby. She was in my exercise class.’
‘If Jane made a new will, the police’ll know about it. It’s what they do.’
Gamache got up from the bench. He’d seen what he needed to. What he suspected. It was far from conclusive, but it was interesting. Lies always were. Now, before the day swept him up in its imperatives, he wanted to see the blind again. Maybe not climb it, though. He walked across the green, his duck boots leaving prints in the frost-soaked grass. Up the hill he walked, past the old schoolhouse, and then into the woods. Once again he found himself at the foot of the tree. It was pretty obvious from his first, and he hoped only, visit upwards that the blind hadn’t been used by the killer. But still ...
‘Bang. You’re dead.’
Gamache swung around, but had recognised the voice an instant after he’d begun to turn.
‘You’re a sneak, Jean Guy. I’m going to have to put a cow bell on you.’
‘Not again.’ It wasn’t often he could get the drop on the chief. But Beauvoir had begun to worry. Suppose he snuck up on Gamache sometime and he had a heart attack? It would certainly take the fun out of it. But he worried about the Chief Inspector. His rational mind, which normally had the upper hand, knew it was stupid. The Chief Inspector was slightly overweight and he had crested fifty, but that described many people, and most did just fine without Beauvoir’s help. But. But the Chief Inspector’s job was stressful enough to fell an elephant. And he worked hard. But mostly Jean Guy Beauvoir’s feelings couldn’t be explained. He just didn’t want to lose the Chief Inspector. Gamache clapped him on the shoulder and offered him the last of the café au lait from the thermos, but Beauvoir had had breakfast at the B. & B.
‘Brunch, you mean.’
‘Humm. Eggs Benedict, croissants, homemade jams.’ Beauvoir looked at the crumpled paper bag in Gamache’s fist. ‘It was awful. You’re lucky to have missed it. Nichol is still there. She came down after me and sat at a different table. Odd girl.’
‘Woman, Jean Guy.’
Beauvoir harrumphed. He hated Gamache’s political correctness. Gamache smiled. ‘It’s not that.’ He’d divined the reason for the harrumph. ‘Don’t you see? She wants us all to see her as a girl, as a child, someone who needs to be treated delicately.’
‘If so she’s a spoiled child. She gives me the willies.’
‘Don’t let her get under your skin. She’s manipulative and angry. Just treat her like any other agent. That’ll drive her nuts.’
‘Why’s she even with us? She brings nothing.’
‘She came up with some very good analysis yesterday that helped convince us Philippe Croft is our killer.’
‘True, but she’s a dangerous character.’
‘Dangerous, Jean Guy?’
‘Not physically. She won’t take her gun and shoot us all. Probably.’
‘Not all. One of us would get her before she finished us all off, I hope.’ Gamache smiled.
‘I hope it’s me. She’s dangerous because she’s divisive.’
‘Yes. That makes sense. I’ve been thinking about it. When she picked me up at home Sunday morning I was impressed. She was respectful, thoughtful, answered thoroughly when asked a question but didn’t impose or need to impress. I really thought we had a winner.’
‘She brought you coffee and donuts, didn’t she.’
‘Brioche, actually. Almost promoted her to Sergeant on the spot.’
‘That’s how I made Inspector. That éclair put me over the top. But something happened to Nichol between the time she arrived and now,’ agreed Beauvoir.
‘All I can think is that as she met more team members she began to unravel. Some people do. They’re great one on one. The individual sports types. Brilliant. But put them on a team and they’re awful. I think that’s Nichol, competitive when she should be collaborative.’
‘I think she’s desperate to prove herself and wants your approval. At the same time she sees any advice as criticism and any criticism as catastrophic.’
‘Well she had a catastrophic night, then.’ Gamache filled him in on his conversation with Nichol.
‘Let her go, sir. You’ve done your best. You coming up?’ Beauvoir began climbing the ladder to the blind. ‘This is great. Like a tree house.’ Gamache had rarely seen Beauvoir so animated. Still, he felt no need to see the animation close up.
‘Already been. Do you see the deer trail?’ The night before he’d told Beauvoir about the blind and advised him to take samples. But he hadn’t expected to see the Inspector so early.
‘Mais oui. From up here it’s easy. Still, something occurred to me last night.’ Beauvoir was staring down at him. Oh God, I have to go up, don’t I, thought Gamache. Reaching for the slimy wooden slats he started climbing. Hauling himself on to the platform, he pressed his back against the rough trunk and gripped the railing.
‘Dope.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ For an instant Gamache thought Beauvoir had guessed his secret and was calling him ...
‘Mary Jane. Marijuana. Not just pumpkins get harvested right now. It’s dope season in the townships. I think it’s possible Jane
Neal was killed by growers after she found their crop. She used to walk all over, right? God knows it’s a multi-million dollar industry, and people are sometimes murdered.’
‘True,’ Gamache was intrigued by the suggestion, except for one thing, ‘but most of the growing is done by the Hells Angels and the Rock Machine, the biker gangs.’
‘Right. This is Hells Angels turf. Wouldn’t want to mess with them. They’re killers. Do you think we can transfer Nichol to narcotics?’
‘Focus, Beauvoir. Jane Neal was killed by a forty-year-old arrow. When was the last time you saw a biker with a bow and arrow?’
It was a good point, and one Beauvoir hadn’t thought of. He was glad he’d brought it up to the chief here, hovering above the ground, rather than in the crowded Incident Room. Gamache, clinging to the railing, was just wondering how he was going to get down when he suddenly had to use the toilet. Beauvoir swung his leg over the side, found the ladder and started climbing down. Gamache said a little prayer, inched over to the edge, and put his leg over, feeling nothing but empty air. Then a hand grabbed his ankle and guided his foot to the first rung.
‘Even you need a little help now and then.’ Beauvoir looked up at him then hurriedly descended.
‘Right, let’s have your reports.’ Beauvoir brought the briefing to order a few minutes later. ‘Lacoste, you first.’
‘Matthew Croft. Thirty-eight,’ she said, taking the pen out of her mouth. ‘Head of the roads department for the county of St Rémy. I spoke with the county manager, and he’s glowing in his praise. I actually haven’t heard praise like that since my own evaluation.’
The place erupted. Jean Guy Beauvoir, who conducted their evaluations, was notoriously tough.
‘But, a fired worker lodged a complaint. Said Croft had beaten him.’
‘Who was this worker?’ Gamache asked.
‘André Malenfant.’ There was a rumble of appreciation. ‘Croft won, hands down. Thrown out. But not before Malenfant had gone to the local papers. Nasty piece of work, that man. Next, Suzanne Belanger. Also thirty-eight. Married to Croft for fifteen years. Works part time at Les Reproductions Doug, in St Rémy. Let’s see, what else?’ Lacoste scanned her notes for something worth saying about this woman who had led a quiet, unremarkable life.
‘No arrests?’ Nichol asked.
‘Only the one for murdering an old woman last year.’ Nichol made a sour face.
‘What about Philippe?’
‘He’s fourteen and in grade nine. ‘B plus student until last Christmas. Then something happened. His marks started slipping and his attitude changed. I spoke with the guidance counselor. She says she has no idea what’s wrong. Might be drugs. Might be problems at home. She says at fourteen most boys go a little wacky. She didn’t seem particularly worried.’
‘Any idea whether he was on any school teams?’ Gamache wanted to know.
‘Basketball and hockey, though he didn’t try out for basketball this term.’
‘Do they have an archery team?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s never been on it.’
‘Good,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Nichol, what about the will?’
Yvette Nichol consulted her notebook. Or pretended to. She’d totally forgotten. Well, not totally. She’d remembered at the end of yesterday afternoon, but by then she’d solved the case and it would be just a waste of time. Besides, she had no idea how to find out whether another will existed, and she had absolutely no intention of parading her ignorance in front of so-called colleagues who had so far proven unhelpful.
‘The Stickley will is the latest,’ said Nichol, looking Beauvoir in the eyes. Beauvoir hesitated before dropping his eyes.
And so the reports progressed. The tension rose in the room as the one phone they all willed to ring sat silent in Gamache’s large hand.
Jane Neal, according to reports, had been a dedicated and respected teacher. She had cared about her students, enough to occasionally fail them. Her personal finances were healthy. She was a church warden at St Thomas’s and active in the Anglican Church Women, organising thrift sales and socials. She played bridge and gardened with a passion.
Her neighbors saw and heard nothing on Sunday morning.
All Quiet on the Western front, thought Gamache, listening to this gentle life. His magical thinking allowed him to be surprised that when such a good soul dies it isn’t remarked. The bells of the church didn’t set themselves off. The mice and deer didn’t cry out. The earth didn’t shudder. It should have. If he were God, it would have. Instead, the line in the official report would read, ‘Her neighbors noticed nothing.’
The reports finished, the team went back to their phones and their paperwork. Armand Gamache began pacing. Clara Morrow called to tell Gamache that Matthew Croft’s father had built the blind, a fact of some interest, given their suspicions.
At ten fifteen his palm rang. It was the lab.
NINE
Matthew Croft was to remember for the rest of his life where he was when the police cars drew up. It was three minutes past eleven on the kitchen clock. He’d expected them much earlier. Had been waiting since seven that morning.
Every fall, at canning season, Suzanne’s mother Marthe would come over with her shopping bag of old family recipes. The two women would ‘put up’ the preserves over a couple of days and invariably Marthe would ask, ‘When does a cucumber become a pickle?’
At first he’d tried to answer that question as though she genuinely wanted to know. But over the years he realised there was no answer. At what point does change happen? Sometimes it’s sudden. The ‘ah ha’ moments in our lives, when we suddenly see. But often it’s a gradual change, an evolution.
For four hours, waiting, Matthew wondered what had happened. When did things start to go wrong? This, too, he couldn’t answer.
‘Good morning, Mr Croft.’ Chief Inspector Gamache looked calm, solid. Jean Guy Beauvoir was standing beside Gamache, next to him was that woman officer, and slightly behind was a man Matthew hadn’t met yet. Middle-aged, in a suit and tie, hair streaked with gray and conservatively cut. Gamache followed Croft’s look.
’This is Claude Guimette. He’s one of the provincial guardians. We’ve had the results of the tests from the bow and arrows. May we come in?’
Croft stepped back, and they entered his home. Instinctively he took them into the kitchen.
‘It would be valuable to have you and your wife together right now.’
Croft nodded and went upstairs. Suzanne was sitting on the side of the bed. It had taken her all morning to dress, one piece of clothing at a time then flopping back on the bed, exhausted. Finally, about an hour ago, the last piece was in place. Her body looked fine but her face was a monstrosity, and there was no hiding that.
She’d tried praying, but had forgotten the words. Instead she kept repeating the only thing she could remember:
Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn, the sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.
She’d recited it over and over to Philippe when he was little but now she couldn’t remember the rest. It seemed to matter, even though it wasn’t itself a prayer. It was more than that. It was proof she’d been a good mother. Proof she’d loved her children. Proof, whispered the little girl’s voice inside her head, that it isn’t your fault. But she couldn‘t remember the rest of the nursery rhyme. So maybe it was her fault.
‘They’re here,’ said Matthew, standing at the doorway. ‘They want you downstairs.’
When she appeared, Matthew at her side, Gamache got up and took her hand. She sat at the chair offered, as thougt she’d become a guest in her own home. In her own kitchen.
‘We have the results of the lab tests’. Gamache launched right into it. It would be curel to mince words. ‘Jane Neal’s blood was on the bow we found in your basement. It was also on some pieces of clothing belonging to Philippe. The arrow tip matches the wound. The feathers found in the wound wer of the same type and vintage as the feathers in the old qu
iver. We believe your son accidentally killed Jane Neal’.
There it was.
‘What will happen to him ?’ Matthew asked, all fight had fled. ‘I’d like to talk to him,’ said M. Guimette. My job is to represent him. I came here with the police but I don’t work for them. The Quebec Guardians Office is independent of the police. In fact, I work for Philippe’.
‘I see,’ said Matthew. Would he have to go to jail ?’
‘We spoke in the car on our way out here. Chief Inspector Gamache has no intention of charging Philippe with manslaughter.’
‘So what might happen to him ?’ Matthew asked again.
‘He’ll be taken to the police station in St Rémy and charged with “mischief”.’ Matthew’s brows went up. Had he known you could be charged with mischief’ his own youth might have been far different. He’d been a mischief-maker like his son. It now seemed literally true.
‘But he’s just a boy,’ said Suzanne, who felt she should be saying something in her son”s defense.
‘He’s fourteen. Old enough to know that when he does something wrong,’ however unintentionally, there s a consequence. Was Philippe one of the boys who threw manure at Messieurs Dubeau and Brulé?’
The change of subject seemed to revive Matthew.
‘Yes. He came home and bragged about it.’ Matthew could remember staring at his little boy in the kitchen, wondering who this stranger was.
‘But are you sure? I know Miss Neal called out three names, Philippe’s being one of them, but she may have gotten at least one of them wrong.’
‘Really?’ Suzanne said, hope reviving for a moment before she remembered it didn’t matter. A few days ago she’d been mortified by the thought her son had done such a thing, and been caught. Now it was nothing compared to the next thing he’d done.
‘May I see him?’ M. Guimette asked. ‘Just me and Chief Inspector Gamache.’