Still Life

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 quiver. 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 Remy 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 Brule?'

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.'

Matthew hesitated.

'Remember, Mr Croft, I don't work for the police.' Croft really had no choice anyway and he knew it. He took them upstairs and knocked on the closed door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He put his hand on the knob then took it off and knocked yet again, this time calling his son's name. Gamache watched all this with interest. Finally he reached out, turned the door knob and let himself into Philippe's room.

Philippe had his back to the door and was nodding his head. Even from a distance Gamache could hear the tinny, thin line of music coming from the headphones. Philippe was wearing the uniform of the day, baggy sweatshirt and baggy pants. The walls were plastered with posters of rock and rap groups, all made up of petulant, pouting young men. Barely visible between the posters was the wallpaper. Little hockey players in red Canadiens jerseys.

Guimette touched Philippe on the shoulder. Philippe's eyes flew open and he gave them a look of such loathing both men felt momentarily assaulted. Then the look disappeared. Philippe had hit the wrong target, not for the first time.

'Yeah, what do you want?'

'Philippe, I'm Claude Guimette from the Guardians Office, and this is Chief Inspector Gamache of the Surete.'

Gamache had expected to meet a frightened boy, and he knew fear came in many forms. Aggression was common. People who were angry were almost always fearful. Cockiness, tears, apparent calm but nervous hands and eyes. Something almost always betrayed the fear. But Philippe Croft didn't seem afraid. He seemed… what? Triumphant.

'So?'

'We're here about the death of Jane Neal.'

'Yeah. I heard about that. What's it to do with me?'

'We think you did it, Philippe.'

'Oh? Why?'

'Her blood was on the bow found in your basement, along with your prints. Her blood was also on some of your clothing.'

'That's it?'

'There was blood on your bike, too. Miss Neal's blood.'

Philippe was looking pleased with himself.

'I didn't do it.'

'How do you explain these things?' Gamache asked.

'How do you?'

Gamache sat down. 'Shall I tell you? This is what I think happened. You went out that Sunday morning, early. Something prompted you to take the old bow and arrows and ride your bike to that spot. We know it was where your grandfather used to hunt. He even built the blind in that old maple tree, didn't he?'

Philippe continued to stare at him. Or through him, really, thought Gamache.

'Then something happened. Either your hand slipped and the arrow shot out by mistake, or you deliberately shot, thinking it was a deer. Either way the result was catastrophic. What happened then, Philippe?'

Gamache watched and waited, as did M. Guimette. But Philippe was impassive, his face blank, as though listening to someone else's story. Then he raised his eyebrows and smiled.

'Go on. This is getting interesting. So the old lady kacks out and I'm supposed to be beside myself with grief? But I wasn't there, remember?'

'I forgot,' said Gamache. 'So let me continue. You're a bright lad.' Here Philippe frowned. He clearly didn't like being patronised. 'You could tell she was dead. You searched for the arrow and found it, getting blood on your hands and your clothes. You then came home and hid the bow and arrow in the basement. But your mother noticed the stains on your clothes and asked about it. You probably made up some story. But she also found the bow and arrow in the basement. When she heard about Jane Neal's death she added it all up. She burned the arrow, but not the bow because it was too big to fit into the furnace.'

'Look, man. I know you're old so let me say this again, slowly. I was not there. I did not do it. Comprends?'

'Then who did?' Guimette asked.

'Let's see, who could have done it? Well, who in this house is an expert hunter?'

'Are you saying your father killed Miss Neal?' Guimette asked.

'Are you two idiots? Of course he did it.'

'What about the blood stains on your bike? Your clothes?' Guimette asked, amazed.

'Look, I'll tell you what happened. You might want to write this down.'

But Gamache didn't budge, just watched Philippe quietly.

'My father came home all upset. He had blood all over his gloves. I went out to see if I could help. As soon as he saw me he gave me a hug, and held my hands, for support. He gave me the bloody arrow and the bow and told me to put them in the basement. I began to get a little suspicious.'

'What did you suspect?' Guimette asked.

'When my father hunted he always cleaned his equipment. So this was weird. And there was no deer in the back of the truck. I just put two and two together and figured he'd killed someone.'

Guimette and Gamache exchanged glances.

'The basement's my chore,' continued Philippe. 'So when he told me to put the bloody things down there I began to wonder whether he was, well, setting me up. But I put them down there anyway, then he started yelling at me. "Stupid kid, get your effin' bike off the driveway." Before I could wash my hands I had to move the bike. That's how the blood stains got there.'

'I'd like to see your left arm, please.' Gamache asked.

Guimette turned to Philippe, 'I advise you not to.'

Philippe shrugged and shoved back the loose sleeve, exposing a violent purple bruise. A twin for Beauvoir's.

'How'd you get that?' Gamache asked.

'How do most kids get bruises?'

'You fell down?' Guimette asked.

Philippe rolled his eyes. 'What's the other way?'

Guimette, with sadness, said, 'Your dad did that to you?'

'Duh.'

'He didn't. He couldn't have.' Matthew was silent, as though suddenly emptied of all that made him go. It was Suzanne who finally found her voice, and protested. They must have misheard, misunderstood, be mistaken. 'Philippe couldn't have said those things.'

'We know what we heard, Mrs Croft. Philippe says his father abuses him, and out of fear of a beating Philippe helped Matthew cover up his crime. That's how he came to have the blood on him, and his prints on the bow. He says his father killed Jane Neal.' Claude Guimette explained all this for a second time and knew he might have to do it a few more times.

Astonished, Beauvoir caught Gamache's eye and saw there something he'd rarely seen in Armand Gamache. Anger. Gamache broke eye contact with Beauvoir and looked over at Croft. Matthew realised, too late, that he had gotten it wrong. He'd thought the thing that would destroy his home and his family was marching toward them from a great way off. He never, ever, imagined it had been there all along.

'He's right,' said Croft. 'I killed Jane Neal.'

Gamache closed his eyes.

'Oh, Matthew, please. No. Don't.' Suzanne turned to the others, taking Gamache's arm in a talon grip. 'Stop him. He's lying.'

'I think she's right, Mr Croft. I still believe Philippe killed Miss Neal.'

'You're wrong. I did it. Everything Philippe says is true.'

'Including the beatings?'

Matthew looked down at his feet and said nothing.

'Will you come with us to the station in St Remy?' asked Gamache. Beauvoir noticed, as did the others, that it was a request, not an order. And certainly not an arrest.

'Yes.' Croft seemed relieved.

'I'm coming with you,' said Suzanne, springing up.

'What about Philippe?' Claude Guimette asked.

Suzanne suppressed the urge to scream, 'What about him?' Instead she took a couple of breaths.

Gamache stepped forward and spoke with her softly, calmly. 'He's only fourteen, and as much as he might not show it, he needs his mother.'

She hesitated then nodded, afraid to speak again.

Gamache knew that while fear came in many forms, so did courage.

Gamache, Beauvoir and Croft sat in a small white interview room at the Surete station in St Remy. On the metal table between them sat a plate of ham sandwiches and several tins of soft drinks. Croft hadn't eaten anything. Neither had Gamache. Beauvoir couldn't stand it any longer and slowly, as though his stomach wasn't making that whiny noise filling the room, picked up a half sandwich and took a leisurely bite.

'Tell us what happened last Sunday morning,' said Gamache.

'I got up early, as I usually do. Sunday's Suzanne's day to sleep in. I put the breakfast things on the kitchen table for the kids then went out. Bow hunting.'

'You told us you didn't hunt any more,' said Beauvoir.

'I lied.'

'Why go to the woods behind the schoolhouse?'

'Dunno. I guess because that's where my father always hunted.'

'Your father smoked unfiltered cigarettes and ran your home as a dairy farm. You don't,' said Gamache. 'You've proven you're no slave to your father's way of doing things. There must be another reason.'

'Well, there isn't. It was Thanksgiving and I was missing him. I took his old recurve bow and his old arrows and went to his old hunting grounds. To feel closer to him. Point finale.'

'What happened?'

'I heard a sound, something coming through the trees, like a deer. Slowly and carefully. Almost on tiptoe. That's how deer walk. So I drew my bow and as soon as the shape appeared I fired. You have to be fast with deer 'cause any little thing will set them off.'

'But it wasn't a deer.'

'No. It was Miss Neal.'

'How was she lying?'

Croft stood up, put his arms and legs out, his eyes wide open.

'What did you do?'

'I ran to her, but I could see she was dead. So I panicked. I looked for the arrow, picked it up, and ran to the truck. I threw everything in the back and drove home.'

'What happened then?' In Beauvoir's experience interrogation was really just asking, 'Then what happened?' and listening closely to the reply. Listening was the trick.

'I don't know.'

'What do you mean?'

'I can't remember anything after getting in the truck and driving home. But isn't that enough? I killed Miss Neal. That's all you need to know.'

'Why didn't you come forward?'

'Well, I didn't think you'd find out. I mean, the woods are full of hunters, I couldn't believe you'd come to me. Then when you did, I didn't want to destroy my father's old bow. It means a lot to me. It's like having him in the house still. When I realised it had to be destroyed it was too late.'

'Do you beat your son?'

Croft winced, as though revolted, but said nothing.

'I sat in your kitchen this morning and told you we thought Philippe had killed Miss Neal,' Gamache leaned forward so his head hovered over the sandwiches, but he only had eyes for Croft. 'Why didn't you confess then?'

'I was too stunned.'

'Come on, Mr Croft. You were waiting for us. You knew what the lab tests would show. And yet now you're saying you were going to have your son arrested for a crime you yourself committed? I don't think you're capable of that.'

'You have no idea what I'm capable of.'

'I guess that's true. I mean, if you can beat your son you can do anything.'

Croft's nostrils flared and his lips compressed. Gamache suspected if he truly was violent he'd have taken a swing at him then.

They left Croft sitting in the interview room. 'What'd you think, Jean Guy?' Gamache asked when they reached the privacy of the station commander's office.

'I don't know what to think, sir. Did Croft do it? Philippe's story hangs together. It's possible.'

'We found absolutely no evidence of Jane Neal's blood in Croft's truck, or Mrs Croft's car. His fingerprints weren't anywhere-'

'True, but Philippe said he wore gloves,' Beauvoir interrupted.

'You can't wear gloves and shoot a bow and arrow at the same time.'

'He could have put them on after he shot, once he saw what he'd done.'

'So he had the presence of mind to put on gloves, but not enough to call the police and admit the accident? No. On paper it makes sense. But in real life it doesn't.'

'I don't agree, sir. One thing you've always impressed on me is that we can never know what happens behind closed doors. What really goes on in the Croft home? Yes, Matthew Croft gives every impression of being a thoughtful and reasonable man, but we've found time and again that that's exactly how abusers appear to the outside world. They have to. That's their camouflage. Matthew Croft may very well be abusive.' Beauvoir felt stupid lecturing Gamache on the very things he'd learned from the man himself, but he thought they bore repeating.

'What about the public meeting, when he was so helpful?' Gamache asked.

'Arrogance. He admits himself he never thought we'd find him.'

'I'm sorry, Jean Guy. I just don't buy it. There's absolutely no physical evidence against him. Just the accusation of a very angry teenager.'

'His bruised son.'

'Yes. A bruise that's exactly like yours.'

'But he'd shot arrows before. Croft said only beginners got bruises like that.'

'True, but Croft also said he'd stopped hunting a couple of years ago, so he probably hadn't taken his son hunting since then,' Gamache reasoned. 'That's a long time in kid years. He was probably rusty. Believe me, that boy shot an arrow in the last two days.'

They had a problem and they knew it. What to do about Matthew Croft?

'I've called the prosecutor's office in Granby,' said Gamache. 'They're sending someone around. Should be here soon. We'll put it to him.'

'Her.'

Beauvoir nodded through the glass door at a middle-aged woman standing patiently, briefcase in hand. He got up and brought her in to the now cramped office.

'Maitre Brigitte Cohen,' Beauvoir announced.

'Bonjour, Maitre Cohen. It's almost one o'clock; have you had lunch?'

'Only a brioche on the way over. I consider that an hors d'oeuvre.'

Ten minutes later they were in a comfortable diner across from the station house, ordering lunch. Beauvoir put the situation to Maitre Cohen, succinctly. She grasped the pertinent details immediately.

'So the one with all the evidence against him won't admit it, and the one with no evidence can't stop admitting it. On the surface it appears the father's protecting the son. Yet when you first arrived, Chief Inspector, he seemed willing to let his son be charged with the crime.'

'That's true.'

'What changed his mind?'

'I think he was stunned and deeply wounded by his son's accusations. I don't think he saw that coming at all. It's hard to know, of course, but I get the feeling that had once been a very happy home, but hasn't been for a while now. Having me Philippe I think the unhappiness radiates from him. I've seen it before. The angry kid runs the home because the parents are afraid of him.'

'Yes, I've seen il too. You don't mean physically afraid, do you?' asked Cohen.

'No, emotionally. I think Croft confessed because he couldn't stand what Philippe must think of him. It was a desperate, even momentarily insane action designed to win back his son. To prove to Philippe he loved him. There also seemed to be an element of, what?'

Gamache thought back to Croft's face, across the kitchen table. 'It was like suicide. A resignation. I think he couldn't stand the pain of what his son had accused him of, so he just gave up.' Gamacher looked at his two companions and smiled slightly.

'This is all supposition, of course. Just an impression I got. A strong man finally broken and throwing up his hands. He'll confess to a crime he didn't commit. But Matthew Croft is just that; a strong man. A man of convictions. He'll regret this one day, soon, I hope. From what I saw Philippe is very angry and has his family well trained not to cross him.' Gamache remembered Croft's hand one the door knob then him taking it off. Gamache was under the impression Philippe had given his father hell for opening that door without permission in the past, and Croft had learned that lesson well.

'But why's he so angry?' Beauvoir wanted to know.

'Why is any fuorteen-year-old?' Cohen countered.

'There's normal anger, then there's anger that spills out all over everyone around. Like acid'. Beauvoir told her about the manure thrown at Olivier and Gabri.

'I'm not a psychologist, but it sounds like that boy needs help.'

'I agree,' said Gamache. 'But Beauvoir's question is good. Why is Philippe so angry? Could he be abused?'

He could. The typical reaction of an abused child, though, is to make nice to the abuser and attack the other parent. Philippe seems to scorn both, and have particular disdain for his father. It doesn't fit the profile, but I'm sure many don't. I can't tell you how many times I've prosecuted children who have killed their abusive parents. Eventually they turn. Though most don't turn to murder.'

'Could he be abused by someone else and be projecting?' Gamache was remembering Clara's comment about Bernard Malenfant. She'd said he was a bully and all the boys were terrified of him. She'd even said Philippe would probably admit to murder if it would avoid a beating by Bernard. He passed his thoughts on to Cohen.

'It's possible. We're just getting a handle on how destructive bullies and bullying can be. Philippe might be a victim of bullying and that would certainly make him angry, feel powerless, impotent. And he might become overly controlling at home. It's a familiar, sadly cliched, reality. The abused becomes an abuser. But we don't know.'

'That's true. We don't. But I do know there's no evidence against Croft in the death of Miss Neal.'

'Though we have his confession.'

'The confession of a man who isn't in his right mind. That can't be enough. We must have evidence. Sometimes our job is to save people from themselves.'

'Inspector Beauvoir, what do you think?'

This put Beauvoir exactly where he didn't want to be.

'I think there's reason to seriously consider prosecuting Matthew Croft in the death of Jane Neal.' Beauvoir watched Gamache as he said this. Gamache was nodding. 'We have Philippe's eye-witness account,' continued Beauvoir, 'which fits all the evidence, and we have strong circumstantial evidence that the death demanded a skilled bow hunter, which Philippe isn't. Croft described the scene perfectly, even showing us how Jane Neal was lying. And he knew about the deer trail. All that combined with Croft's confession should be enough to lay charges.'

Maitre Cohen ate a forkful of Caesar salad. 'I'll go over your reports and let you know this afternoon.'

On the way back to the station house Beauvoir tried to apologise to Gamache for contradicting him.

'Now, don't patronise me,' Gamache laughed, putting an arm across Beauvoir's shoulder. 'I'm glad you spoke your mind. I'm just annoyed you made such a strong case. Maitre Cohen is likely to agree with you.'

Gamache was right. Cohen called from Granby at 3.30 in the afternoon, instructing Gamache to arrest Croft and charge him with manslaughter, leaving the scene of a crime, obstruction, and destroying evidence.

'Jesus, she's really going after him,' commented Beauvoir.

Gamache nodded and asked Beauvoir for a few minutes of privacy in the Commander's office. Surprised, Beauvoir left. Armand Gamache dialed home and spoke with Reine-Marie, then he called his boss, Superintendent Brebeuf.

'Oh, come on, Armand, you've got to be kidding.'

'No, Superintendent. I'm serious. I won't arrest Matthew Croft.'

'Look, it's not your call. I don't need to tell you of all people how the system works. We investigate and get the evidence, lay it before the prosecutors, and they decide who to charge. It's out of your hands. You've been given your instructions, do it, for pity's sake.'

'Matthew Croft didn't kill Jane Neal. There's absolutely no evidence he did it. There's the accusation of a probably unbalanced son and his own confession.'

'What more do you need?'

'When you were investigating that serial killer in Brossard, did you arrest everyone who confessed?'

'This is different and you know it.'

'I don't know it, Superintendent. Those people who confessed were confused individuals who were fulfilling some obscure need of their own, right?'

'Right,' but Michel Brebeuf sounded guarded. He hated arguing with Armand Gamache, and not only because they were friends. Gamache was a thoughtful man and Brebeuf knew he was a man of his convictions. But he isn't always right, Brebeuf told himself.

'Croft's confession is meaningless. I think it's his form of self-punishment. He's confused and hurt.'

'Poor baby.'

'Yes, well, I'm not saying it's noble or attractive. But it's human. And just because he's begging for punishment doesn't mean we should comply.'

'You're such a sanctimonious bastard. Lecturing me on the moral role of a police force. I know damn well what our job is. You're the one who wants to be police, judge and jury. If Croft didn't do it he'll be released. Trust the system, Armand.'

'He won't even come to trial if he continues in this ludicrous confession. And even if he's eventually released, you and I know what happens to people arrested for a crime. Especially a violent crime. They're stigmatised for the rest of their lives. Whether they did it or not. We'd be inflicting on Matthew Croft a wound that will stay with him for ever.'

'You're wrong. He's inflicting it on himself.'

'No, he's challenging us to do it. Goading us into it. But we don't have to react. That's what I'm saying. A police force, like a government, should be above that. Just because we're provoked doesn't mean we have to act.'

'So, what are you telling me, Chief Inspector? From now on you'll only arrest people if you're guaranteed a conviction? You've arrested people before who turned out not to have committed the crime. Just last year, remember the Gagne case? You arrested the uncle, but it turned out the nephew had done it?'

'True, I was wrong. But I believed the uncle had done it.

That was a mistake. This is different. This would be deliberately arresting someone I believe did not commit the crime. I can't do it.'

Brebeuf sighed. He'd known from the first minute of this conversation that Gamache wouldn't change his mind. But he had to try. Really, a most annoying man.

'You know what I'm going to have to do?'

'I do. And I'm prepared for it.'

'So as punishment for insubordination you'll walk through Surete Headquarters wearing Sergeant LaCroix's uniform?' Mai LaCroix was the immense desk Sergeant who presided over the entry to HQ like Buddha gone bad. To add to the dimension of the horror, she wore a Surete-issue skirt some sizes too small.

Gamache laughed at the image. 'I'll make you a deal, Michel. If you can get that uniform off her. I'll wear it.'

'Never mind. I guess I'll just have to suspend you.' Michel Brebeuf had come close to doing this once before, after the Arnot case. His own superiors had ordered him to suspend Gamache, again for insubordination. That case had almost ended both their careers, and the stink still stuck to Gamache. He'd been wrong then, too, in Brebeuf's opinion. All he had to do was say nothing, it wasn't as though their superiors were proposing letting the criminals go. Just the opposite, really. But Gamache had defied the authorities. He wondered if Gamache really believed the Arnot case was over.

Brebeuf never thought he'd be doing this, 'You're suspended from this moment for the period of one week, without pay. A disciplinary hearing will be held at that time. Don't wear a skirt.'

'Thanks for the tip.'

'D'accord. Give me Beauvoir.'

It took a lot to stun Jean Guy Beauvoir, but his conversation with the Superintendent did just that. Gamache knew that he cared deeply for Beauvoir, like a son, but the younger man had never shown him any feelings, except that of junior to respected superior. That had been enough. But now Gamache saw the depth of Beauvoir's pain at having to do this thing, and he received a great gift. The gift of knowing he was cared for in return.

'Is it true?'

Gamache nodded.

'Is this my fault? Did I do this by arguing against you? What a fool. Why didn't I just keep my mouth shut?' Beauvoir was pacing the small office like a leopard trapped.

'This isn't about you. You did the right thing. The only thing you could do. As did I. As did Superintendent Brebeuf, for that matter.'

'I thought he was a friend of yours.'

'He is. Look, don't feel badly about this. I knew when I called the Super he'd have to do this. I called Reine-Marie before, to run it by her.'

Beauvoir felt pricked, a tiny little point of pain that the Chief Inspector had consulted his wife but not him. He knew it was unreasonable, but feelings so often were. It was why he tried to avoid them.

'When she said "do it" I called him with a clear conscience. I can't arrest Matthew Croft.'

'Well, if you can't, I can't. I won't do Brebeuf's dirty work for him.'

'It's Superintendent Brebeuf, and it's your job. What was that this afternoon I heard? Just some Devil's Advocate bullshit? You know how I hate that. Say what you really think, don't play pretentious little mind games. Is that all that was? Taking the other position like some empty adolescent intellectual game?'

'No, it wasn't. I believe Matthew Croft did it.'

'So arrest him.'

'There's more.' Now Beauvoir looked really miserable. 'Superintendent Brebeuf ordered me to take your badge and gun.'

This shook Gamache. Had he thought this all the way through he wouldn't have been surprised, but he hadn't seen it coming. He felt his stomach lurch. The force of his reaction stunned him. He'd have to think about why and fortunately he had a long drive home in which to consider.

Gamache pulled himself together, reached into his breast pocket and handed over both his badge and his warrant card. Then he slipped the holster off his belt.

'I'm sorry,' whispered Beauvoir. Gamache had been quick to recover, but not quick enough to hide his feelings from Beauvoir. As he took the items Beauvoir remembered one of the many things he'd learned from Gamache. Matthew 10:36.

The funeral for Jane Neal, spinster of the village of Three Pines in the county of St Remy, Province of Quebec, was held two days later. The bells of the Eglise Ste Marie rang and echoed along the valleys, heard miles away, and felt deep in the earth, where creatures lived who might not otherwise, had Jane Neal herself not lived and been the sort of person she'd been.

And now people gathered to say a formal goodbye. Armand Gamache was there, having driven in from Montreal. It made a nice break from his forced inaction. He sailed through the crowd, through the front of the small church, and found himself in the gloom inside. It always struck Gamache as paradoxical that churches were gloomy. Coming in from the sunshine it took a minute or so to adjust. And even then, to Gamache, it never came close to feeling like home. Churches were either great cavernous tributes not so much to God as the wealth and privilege of the community, or they were austere, cold tributes to the ecstasy of refusal.

Gamache enjoyed going to churches for their music and the beauty of the language and the stillness. But he felt closer to God in his Volvo. He spotted Beauvoir in the crowd, waved, then made his way over.

'I hoped you'd be here,' said Beauvoir. 'You'll be interested to hear we've arrested the entire Croft family and their farm animals.'

'You've found the safe side.'

'Damn straight, pardner.' Gamache hadn't seen Beauvoir since he'd left that Tuesday afternoon, but they'd talked on the phone several times. Beauvoir wanted to keep Gamache in the loop, and Gamache wanted to make sure Beauvoir knew there were no hard feelings.

Yolande wobbled behind the casket as it was led into the church. Andre, slim and greasy, was beside her and Bernard slouched behind, his furtive, active eyes darting everywhere as though in search of his next victim.

Gamache felt deeply sorry for Yolande. Not for the pain she felt, but for the pain she didn't feel. He prayed, in the silence, that one day she wouldn't have to pretend to emotions, other than resentment, but could actually feel them. Others in the church were sad but Yolande cut the saddest figure. Certainly the most pathetic.

The service was short and anonymous. The priest clearly had never met Jane Neal. No member of the family got up to speak, except Andre, who read one of the beautiful scriptures with less enlightenment than he might read the TV Guide listings. The service was entirely in French, though Jane herself had been English. The service was entirely Catholic, though Jane herself had been Anglican. Afterwards Yolande, Andre and Bernard accompanied the casket to a 'family only' burial, though Jane's friends had actually been her family.

'A real chill in the air today,' said Clara Morrow, who had appeared at his elbow, her eyes bloodshot. 'There'll be frost on the pumpkins tonight.' She managed a smile. 'We're having a memorial service for Jane at St Thomas's on Sunday. A week to the day since she died. We'd like you to be there, if you don't mind coming down again.'

Gamache didn't mind. Looking around he realised how much he liked this place and these people. Too bad one of them was a murderer.