A Trick of the Light

SEVENTEEN

“Helloooo,” called Clara. “Bonjour.”

She could hear voices, shouts. But they seemed tinny, far away. As though on TV. Then they stopped and there was silence. The place felt empty, though she knew it probably wasn’t.

She advanced a little further into the old railway station, past the shiny red fire truck, past their equipment. Clara saw her own helmet and boots. Everyone in Three Pines was a member of the volunteer fire department. And Ruth Zardo was the chief, since she alone was more terrifying than any conflagration. Given a choice between Ruth and a burning building, most would choose the building.

“Oui, âllo?”

A man’s voice echoed through the large room and Clara, coming around the truck, saw Inspector Beauvoir at a desk looking in her direction.

He smiled and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks.

“Come, sit. What can I do for you?” he asked.

His manner was cheery, energetic. But Clara had still been shocked to see him at the vernissage, and now. Haggard, tired. Thin even for the always wiry man. Like everyone else, she knew what he’d been through. At least, like everyone else, she knew the words, the story. But Clara realized she didn’t really “know.” Could never know.

“I came for advice,” she said, sitting in the swivel chair beside Beauvoir’s.

“From me?” His surprise was obvious, as was his delight.

“From you.” She saw this and was happy she hadn’t told him the reason she wasn’t asking Gamache was because he wasn’t alone. And Beauvoir was.

“Coffee?” Jean Guy gestured toward a full pot already brewed.

“I’d love one, thanks.”

They got up and poured coffees into chipped white mugs, and each got a couple of Fig Newtons, then sat back down.

“So, what’s the story?” Beauvoir leaned back and looked at her. In a way that was all his own yet reminiscent of Gamache.

It was very comforting, and Clara was glad she’d decided to speak with this young Inspector.

“It’s about Lillian’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. I knew them, you know. Quite well at one stage. I was wondering if they’re still alive.”

“They are. We went to see them yesterday. To tell them about their daughter.”

Clara paused, trying to imagine what that was like, for both parties.

“It must have been horrible. They adored her. She was their only child.”

“It’s always horrible,” admitted Beauvoir.

“I liked them a lot. Even when Lillian and I fell out I tried to keep in touch but they weren’t interested. They believed what Lillian told them about me. It’s understandable, I guess.” She sounded, though, less than convinced.

Beauvoir said nothing, but remembered the venom in Mr. Dyson’s voice when he all but accused Clara of their daughter’s murder.

“I was thinking of visiting them,” said Clara. “Of telling them how sorry I am. What is it?”

The look on Beauvoir’s face had stopped her.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, putting his mug down and leaning forward. “They’re very upset. I think a visit from you wouldn’t help.”

“But why? I know they believed the terrible things Lillian said, but maybe my going could ease some of that. Lillian and I were best friends growing up, don’t you think they’d like to talk about her with someone who loved her?” Clara paused. “Once.”

“Maybe, eventually. But not now. Give them time.”

It was, more or less, the advice Myrna had given her. Clara had gone to the bookstore for ribbon and the dried sage and sweetgrass cigar. But she’d also gone for advice. Should she drive into Montréal to visit the Dysons?

When Myrna had asked why she’d want to do such a thing, Clara had explained.

“They’re old and alone,” Clara had said, shocked her friend needed to be told. “This is the worst thing that could happen. I just want to offer them some comfort. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is drive in to Montréal and do this, but it just seems the right thing to do. To put all the hard feelings behind.”

The ribbon was twisted tight around Clara’s fingers, strangling them.

“For you, maybe,” Myrna had said. “But what about them?”

“How do you know they haven’t let all that go?” Clara unwound the ribbon, then fidgeted with it. Winding it. Worrying it. “Maybe they’re sitting there all alone, devastated. And I’m not going because I’m afraid?”

“Go if you have to,” said Myrna. “But just make sure you’re doing it for them and not for you.”

With that ringing in her ears Clara had crossed the village green and made for the Incident Room, to speak with Beauvoir. But also to get something else.

Their address.

Now, after listening to the Inspector, Clara nodded. Two people had given her the same advice. To wait. Clara realized she was staring at the wall of the old railway station. At the photos of Lillian, dead. In her garden.

Where that strange woman and Chief Inspector Gamache were waiting for her.

“I’ve remembered most of Lillian’s secrets, I think.”

“You think?” asked Gamache. They were strolling around Clara’s garden, stopping now and then to admire it.

“I wasn’t lying to you last night, you know. Don’t tell my sponsees, but I get their secrets all mixed up. After a while it’s hard to separate one from the other. All a bit of a blur, really.”

Gamache smiled. He too was the safe in which many secrets were stored. Things he’d learned in investigations that had no relevance to the case. That never needed to come to light. And so he’d locked them away.

If someone suddenly demanded Monsieur C’s secrets he’d balk. At spilling them, certainly, but also, frankly, he’d need time to separate them from the rest.

“Lillian’s secrets were no worse than anyone’s,” said Suzanne. “At least, not the ones she told me about. Some shoplifting, some bad debts. Stealing money from her mother’s purse. She’d dabbled in drugs and cheated on her husband. When she was in New York she’d steal from her boss’s till and not share some tips.”

“Nothing huge,” said Gamache.

“It never is. Most of us are brought down by a bunch of tiny transgressions. Little things that add up until we collapse under them. It’s fairly easy to avoid doing the big bad things, but it’s the hundred mean little things that’ll get you eventually. If you listen to people long enough you realize it’s not the slap or the punch, but the whispered gossip, the dismissive look. The turned back. That’s what people with any conscience are ashamed of. That’s what they drink to forget.”

“And people without a conscience?”

“They don’t end up in AA. They don’t think there’s anything wrong with them.”

Gamache thought about that for a moment. “You said ‘at least, not the ones she told me about.’ Does that mean she kept some secrets from you?”

He wasn’t looking at his companion. He found people opened up more if given the conceit of their own space. Instead, Chief Inspector Gamache stared straight ahead at the honeysuckle and roses growing up an arbor and warming in the early afternoon sun.

“Some manage to flush it all out in one go,” said Suzanne. “But most need time. It’s not that they’re intentionally hiding anything. Sometimes they’ve buried it so deep they don’t even know it’s there anymore.”

“Until?”

“Until it claws its way back up. By then something tiny has turned into something almost unrecognizable. Something big and stinky.”

“What happens then?” asked the Chief Inspector.

“Then we have a choice,” said Suzanne. “We can look the truth square in the face. Or we can bury it again. Or, at least try.”

To a casual observer they would appear to be two old friends discussing literature or the latest concert at the village hall. But someone more astute might notice their expressions. Not grave, but perhaps a little somber on this lovely, sunny day.

“What happens if people try to bury it again?” Gamache asked.

“I don’t know about normal human beings, but for alcoholics it’s lethal. A secret that rotten will drive you to drink. And the drink will drive you to your grave. But not before it steals everything from you. Your loved ones, your job, your home. Your dignity. And finally, your life.”

“All because of a secret?”

“Because of a secret, and the decision to hide from the truth. The choice to chicken out.” She looked at him closely. “Sobriety isn’t for cowards, Chief Inspector. Whatever you might think of an alcoholic, to get sober, really sober demands great honesty, and that demands great courage. Stopping drinking’s the easy part. Then we have to face ourselves. Our demons. How many people are willing to do that?”

“Not many,” Gamache admitted. “But what happens if the demons win?”

Clara Morrow walked slowly across the bridge, pausing to glance into the Rivière Bella Bella below. It burbled past, catching the sun in silver and gold highlights. She could see the rocks, rubbed smooth at the bottom of the stream, and every now and then a rainbow trout glided past.

Should she go into Montréal? The truth was, she’d already looked up the Dysons’ address, she’d just wanted to confirm it with Beauvoir. It sat in her pocket, and now she glanced over at their car, sitting. Waiting.

Should she go into Montréal?

What was she waiting for? What was she afraid of?

That they would hate her. Blame her. Tell her to go away. That Mr. and Mrs. Dyson, who had once been second parents to Clara, would disown her.

But she knew she had to do it. Despite what Myrna said. Despite what Beauvoir said. She hadn’t asked Peter. Didn’t yet trust him enough with something this important. But she suspected he’d say the same thing.

Don’t go.

Don’t risk it.

Clara turned away from the river and walked off the bridge.

“It’s true,” said Suzanne, “sometimes the demon wins. Sometimes we can’t face the truth. It’s just too painful.”

“What happens then?”

Suzanne was swishing the grass with her feet, no longer looking at the pretty garden.

“Have you ever heard of ‘Humpty Dumpty,’ Chief Inspector?”

“The nursery rhyme? I used to read it to my children.”

Daniel, as he remembered, had loved it. Wanted it read over and over again. Never tired of the illustrations of the silly old egg and the noble King’s horses and men, rushing to the rescue.

But Annie? She’d howled. The tears had gone on and on, staining his shirt where he’d held her to him. Rocking her. Trying to comfort her. It had taken Gamache a while to calm her down and work out what the problem was. And then it was clear. Little Annie, all of four, couldn’t stand the thought of Humpty Dumpty so shattered. Never able to heal. Hurt too badly.

“It’s an allegory, of course,” said Suzanne.

“You mean Mr. Dumpty never existed?” asked Gamache.

“I mean exactly that, Chief Inspector.” Suzanne’s smile faded and she walked in silence for a few paces. “Like Humpty Dumpty, some people are just too damaged to heal.”

“Was Lillian?”

“She was healing. I think she might have done all right. She was sure working hard at it.”

“But?” said Gamache.

Suzanne took a few more steps. “Lillian was damaged, very messed up. But she was putting her life back together again, slowly. That wasn’t the problem.”

The Chief Inspector considered what this woman, so loud and yet so loyal, was trying to tell him. And then he thought he had it.

“She wasn’t Humpty Dumpty,” he said. “She hadn’t fallen off the wall. She pushed others. Others had had great falls, thanks to Lillian.”

Beside him Suzanne Coates’s head bobbed up and down very subtly with each footstep.

“Sorry it took so long,” said Clara, coming around the old lilac bush at the corner of her home. “I got these from Myrna.”

She held up the ribbon and the cigar and was treated to both the Chief Inspector and Suzanne looking disconcerted.

“What sort of a ritual is this exactly?” asked Gamache, with an uncertain smile.

“It’s a ritual of cleansing. Would you like to join us?”

Gamache hesitated, then nodded. He was familiar with this sort of ritual. Some of the villagers had done it at the scenes of earlier murders. But he’d never been asked to join before. Though, God knew, he’d had enough incense wafted over him in his Catholic youth, this couldn’t be any worse.

For the second time in two days Clara lit the sage and sweetgrass. She gently pushed the fragrant smoke toward the intense artist, smoothing it over the woman’s head and down her body. Releasing, Clara explained, any negative thoughts, any bad energy.

Then it was Gamache’s turn. She looked at him. His expression was slightly bemused, but mostly relaxed, attentive. She moved the smoke over him, until it hung like a sweet cloud around him and then dissipated in the breeze.

“All the negative energy taken away,” said Clara, doing it to herself. “Gone.”

If only, they all quietly thought, it was that easy.

Then Clara gave them each a ribbon and invited them to say a silent prayer for Lillian, then tie it to the stick.

“What about the tape?” asked Suzanne.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Clara. “More of a suggestion than a command. Besides, I know the fellow who put it up.”

“Incompetent,” said Gamache, holding the tape down for Suzanne, then stepping through himself. “But well meaning.”

Agent Isabelle Lacoste slowed her car almost to a stop. She was heading out of Three Pines and into Montréal to help search the archives of La Presse for Lillian Dyson’s reviews. To try to find out who that one particularly vicious critique was written about.

As she drove past the Morrow house she saw something she never thought she’d see. A senior Sûreté du Québec officer apparently praying to a stick.

She smiled, wishing she could join him. She’d often said silent prayers at a crime scene. When everyone else had left, Isabelle Lacoste returned. To let the dead know they were not forgotten.

This time, though, it seemed the Chief’s turn. She wondered what he was praying for. She remembered holding that bloody hand, and thought maybe she could guess.

Chief Inspector Gamache placed his right hand on the stick and cleared his mind. After a moment he tied his ribbon to it and stepped back.

“I said the Serenity Prayer,” said Suzanne. “You?”

But Gamache chose not to tell them what he’d prayed for.

“And you?” Suzanne turned to Clara.

She was bossy and inquisitive, Gamache noticed. He wondered if those were good qualities in a sponsor.

Like Gamache, Clara kept quiet.

But she had her answer.

“I need to leave for a little while. I’ll see you later.” Clara hurried into her home. She was now in a rush. Too much time had already been wasted.