Still Life

TEN

The memorial service for Jane Neal was short and sweet, and had it been plump it would have been an exact replica of the woman. The service was really nothing more than Jane's friends getting up one after the other and talking about her, in French and English. The service was simple, and the message was clear. Her death was just one instant in a full and lovely life. She'd been with them for as long as she was meant to be. Not a minute longer, not a moment less. Jane Neal had known that when her time came God wouldn't ask how many committees she'd sat on, or how much money she'd made, or what prizes she'd won. No. He'd ask how many fellow creatures she'd helped. And Jane Neal would have had an answer.

At the end of the service Ruth stood at her seat and sang, in a thin, unsure, alto, 'What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?' She sang the unlikely sea shanty at a quarter speed, like a dirge, then slowly picked up speed. Gabri joined in, as did Ben and in the end the whole church was alive with people clapping and swinging their hips and asking the musical question, 'What do you do with a drunken sailor, err-lie in the morning?'

In the basement after the service the Anglican Church Women served up homemade casseroles and fresh apple and pumpkin pies, accompanied by the thin hum of the sea shanty heard here and there.

'Why "Drunken Sailor"?' Approaching the buffet, Armand Gamache found himself standing next to Ruth.

'It was one of Jane's favorite songs,' said Ruth. 'She was always singing it.'

'You were humming it that day in the woods,' Gamache said to Clara.

'Wards off bears. Didn't Jane learn it in school?' Clara asked Ruth.

Olivier jumped in. 'She told me she learned it for school. To teach, right, Ruth?'

'She was expected to teach every subject, but since she couldn't sing or play piano she didn't know what to do about the music course for her students. This was when she first started, back fifty years ago. So I taught her the song,' said Ruth.

'Can't say I'm surprised,' mumbled Myrna.

'It was the only song her students ever learned,' said Ben.

'Your Christmas pageants must have been something,' said Gamache, imagining the Virgin Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus and three drunken sailors.

'They were,' laughed Ben, remembering. 'We sang all the carols, but they were all to the tune of "Drunken Sailor". The looks on the parents' faces at the Christmas concert when Miss Neal would introduce, "Silent Night", and we'd sing!' Ben started singing, 'Silent Night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright', but to the tune of the shanty. Others in the room laughed and joined in.

'I still find it really hard to sing the carols correctly,' said Ben.

Clara spotted Nellie and Wayne and waved at them. Nellie left Wayne and made a bee-line for Ben, beginning to talk before she was halfway across the room.

'Ah, Mr Hadley, I was hoping to find you here. I'm going to be over to do your place next week. How's Tuesday?' Then she turned to Clara and said confidentially, as though passing a State secret, 'I haven't cleaned since before Miss Neal died, Wayne's had me that worried.'

'How is he now?' asked Clara, remembering Wayne's hacking and coughing during the public meeting a few days earlier.

'Now he's complaining, so there's nothing much wrong. Well, Mr Hadley? Haven't got all day, ya know.'

'Tuesday's fine.' He turned to Clara once Nellie had gone back to her pressing job, which seemed to be eating the entire buffet. 'The place is filthy. You won't believe the mess an old bachelor and his dog can create.'

As the line crawled forward, Gamache spoke to Ruth. 'When I was in the notary's office asking about Miss Neal's will, he mentioned your name. When he said, "nee Kemp", something twigged, but I couldn't figure it out.'

'How did you finally get it?' Ruth asked.

'Clara Morrow told me.'

'Ah, clever lad. And from that you deduced who I was.'

'Well, it took a while after that, but eventually I got it,' Gamache smiled. 'I do love your poetry.' Gamache was just about to quote from one of his favorites, feeling himself a pimply youth in front of a matinee idol. Ruth was backing up, trying to get out of the way of her own beautiful words coming toward her.

'Sorry to interrupt,' said Clara, to two people apparently maniacally happy to see her. 'But did you say, "he"?'

'He?' repeated Gamache.

'He? The notary.'

'Yes. Maitre Stickley in Williamsburg. He was Miss Neal's notary.'

'Are you sure? I thought she saw that notary who just had a baby. Solange someone-or-other.'

'Solange Frenette? From exercise class?' Myrna asked.

'That's her. Jane said he and Timmer were off to see her about wills.

Gamache stood very still, staring at Clara.

'Are you sure?'

'Frankly? No. I seem to remember her saying that because I asked Jane how Solange was feeling. Solange would have been in her first trimester. Morning sickness. She just had her baby, so she's on maternity leave.'

'I suggest one of you get in touch with Maitre Frenette as soon as possible.'

'I'll do it,' said Clara, suddenly wanting to drop everything and hurry home to call. But there was something that had to be done first.

The ritual was simple and time-worn. Myrna led it, having grounded herself with a full lunch of casseroles and bread. Very important, she explained to Clara, to feel grounded before a ritual. Looking at her plate Clara thought there wasn't much chance she'd fly away. Clara examined the twenty or so faces gathered in a cluster on the village green, many of them apprehensive. The farm women stood in a loose semi-circle of woolen sweaters and mitts and toques, staring at this huge black woman in a bright green cape. The Jolly Green Druid.

Clara felt perfectly relaxed and at home. Standing in the group she closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths and prayed for the grace to let go of the anger and fear that hung around her, like black funeral crepe. This ritual was designed to end that, to turn the dark into light, to banish the hate and fear and invite the trust and warmth back.

'This is a ritual of celebration and cleansing,' Myrna was explaining to the gathering. 'Its roots go back many thousands of years, but its branches reach out and touch us today, and embrace anyone who wants to be included. If you have any questions, just ask.' Myrna paused but no one spoke up. She had a few things in a bag and now she fished into it and brought out a stick. Actually, it looked more like a thick, straight branch, stripped of its bark and whittled to a sharp point at one end.

'This is a prayer stick. It might look familiar to some of you,' she waited and heard a small laugh.

'Isn't that a beaver stick?' Hanna Parra asked.

'That's exactly what it is,' laughed Myrna. She passed it around and the ice was broken. The women who'd been apprehensive, even a little frightened at what they thought might be witchcraft, thawed, and realised there was nothing to be afraid of here. 'I found it by the mill pond last year. You can see where the beaver gnawed it.'

Eager hands reached out to touch the stick and see the teeth marks and see where the beaver had eaten away the end until it was sharp.

Clara had gone home briefly to get Lucy, now standing quietly on her leash. When the prayer stick got back to Myrna she offered it to the Golden Retriever. For the first time in a week, since Jane had died, Clara saw Lucy's tail wag. Once. She gently took the stick in her teeth. And held it there. Her tail gave another tentative wag.

Gamache sat on the bench on the green. He'd come to think of it as 'his' bench, since that morning when they'd greeted the dawn together. Now he and the bench were in the sunshine, which was a few precious degrees warmer than the shade. Still, his breath was coming out in puffs. As he sat quietly he watched the women gather, form a line, and with Myrna in front and Clara behind with Lucy they walked around the green.

"Bout time for Indian Summer,' said Ben, sitting down in a way that made it look like all his bones had dissolved. 'The sun's getting lower in the sky.'

'Humm,' Gamache agreed. 'Do they do this often?' he nodded to the procession of women.

'About twice a year. I was at the last ritual. Didn't get it.' Ben shook his head.

'Perhaps if they tackled each other now and then we'd understand,' suggested Gamache, who actually understood perfectly well. The two men sat in companionable silence watching the women.

'How long have you loved her?' Gamache asked quietly, not looking at Ben. Ben turned in his seat and stared at Gamache's profile, flabbergasted.

'Who?'

'Clara. How long have you loved her?'

Ben gave a long sigh, like a man waiting all his life to exhale. 'We were all at art school together, though Peter and I were a couple of years ahead of Clara. He fell for her right away.'

'And you?'

'Took me a little longer. I think I'm more guarded than Peter. I find it harder to open up to people. But Clara's different, isn't she?' Ben was watching her, smiling.

Myrna lit the knot of Jane's sage, and it started to smoke. As they walked around the green the procession of women stopped at the four directions, North, South, East and West. And at each stop Myrna handed the smoking knot to another woman, who softly wafted her hand in front of the sage, encouraging the sweet-smelling smoke to drift toward the homes.

Myrna explained this was called 'smudging'. It was cleansing away the bad spirits and making room for the good. Gamache breathed deeply and inhaled the fragrant mix of woodsmoke and sage. Both venerable, both comforting.

'Is it obvious?' Ben asked anxiously. 'I mean, I used to dream about us getting together, but that was long ago. I could never, ever do anything like that. Not to Peter.'

'No, it isn't obvious.' Ben and Gamache watched as the line of women walked up rue du Moulin and into the woods.

It was cold and dark, dead leaves underfoot and overhead and swirling in the air in between. The women's high spirits had been replaced by restlessness. A shadow crept over the jovial gathering. Even Myrna became subdued, her smiling, friendly face growing watchful.

The forest creaked. And shivered. The poplar leaves trembled in the wind.

Clara wanted to leave. This was not a happy place.

Lucy began to growl, a long, low song of warning. Her hackles rose and she slowly sunk to the ground, her muscles bunched as though ready to spring.

'We must form a circle,' said Myrna, trying to sound casual while actually looking around the gathering trying to figure out who she could outrun if it came to that. Or would she be the straggler? Damn that grounding casserole.

The circle, the tiniest, tightest known to math, was made, the women grasping hands. Myrna picked up the prayer stick from where Lucy had dropped it and thrust it into the ground, deep. Clara half expected the earth to howl.

'I've brought these ribbons.' Myrna opened her bag. Piled there were brightly colored ribbons, all intertwined. 'We asked you all to bring something that was symbolic of Jane.'

From her pocket Myrna brought out a tiny book. She rummaged around in the bag until she found a crimson ribbon. First she tied the book to the ribbon, then she went to the prayer stick and spoke as she tied the ribbon on to it.

'This is for you, Jane, to thank you for sharing your love of the written word with me. Bless you.'

Myrna stood at the prayer stick for a moment, huge head bowed, and then she stepped away, smiling for the first time since coming to this place.

One by one the women took a ribbon, tied an item to it, tied the ribbon to the stick and spoke a few words. Some were audible, some weren't. Some were prayers, some were simple explanations. Hanna tied an old 78 record to the prayer stick, Ruth a faded photograph. Sarah tied a spoon and Nellie, a shoe. Clara reached into her head and pulled out a duck barrette. She tied that to a bright yellow ribbon and the ribbon to the now festooned prayer stick.

'This is for helping me see more clearly,' said Clara. 'I love you, Jane.' She looked up and spotted the blind, hovering above them in the near distance. Blind. How strange, thought Clara, blind, but now I see.

And Clara had an idea. An inspiration. 'Thank you, Jane,' she whispered, and felt the elderly arms around her for the first time in a week. Before moving off Clara pulled a banana out of her pocket, and tied it to the stick, for Lucy. But she had one more item to add. From her other pocket she drew a playing card. The Queen of Hearts. Tying it to the prayer stick Clara thought of Yolande, and the wonderful gift she'd been offered as a child, and either rejected or forgot. Clara stared at the pattern on the Queen of Hearts, memorising it. She knew the magic wasn't in it staying the same, but in the changes.

By the end the prayer stick was brilliant with waving and weaving colored ribbons, dangling their gifts. The wind caught the objects and sent them dancing into the air around the prayer stick, clinking and clanging into each other, like a symphony.

The women looked around and saw their circle was no longer bound by fear, but was loose and open. And in the center, on the spot Jane Neal had last lived and died, a wealth of objects played, and sang the praises of a woman who was much loved.

Clara allowed her gaze, free now from fear, to follow the ribbons as they were caught in the wind. Her eye caught something at the end of one of the ribbons. Then she realised it wasn't attached to a ribbon at all, but to the tree behind.

High up in one of the maple trees she saw an arrow.

Gamache was just getting into his car to drive back to Montreal when Clara Morrow shot out of the woods, running toward him down du Moulin as though chased by demons. For a wild moment Gamache wondered whether the ritual had inadvertently conjured something better left alone. And, in a way, it had. The women, and their ritual, had conjured an arrow, something someone must sorely wish had been left undisturbed.

Gamache immediately called Beauvoir in Montreal then followed Clara to the site. He hadn't been there for almost a week and was impressed by how much it'd changed. The biggest changes were the trees. Where they'd been bright and bold with cheery color a week ago, now they were past their prime, with more leaves on the ground than in the branches. And that's what had revealed the arrow. When he'd stood at this spot a week ago and looked up he would never, could never, have seen the arrow. It'd been hidden by layers of leaves. But no longer.

The other change was the stick in the ground with ribbons dancing around it. He supposed it had something to do with the ritual. Either that or Beauvoir had very quickly become very weird without his supervision. Gamache walked over to the prayer stick, impressed by its gaiety. He caught at some of the items to look at them, including an old photograph of a young woman, plump and short-sighted, standing next to a rugged, handsome lumberjack. They were holding hands and smiling. Behind them a slender young woman stood, looking straight into the camera. A face taken by bitterness.

'So? It's an arrow.' Matthew Croft looked from Beauvoir to Gamache. They were in the cell at the Williamsburg jail. 'You've got five of them. What's the big deal with this one?'

'This one,' said Gamache, 'was found twenty-five feet up a maple tree two hours ago. Where Jane Neal was killed. Is this one of your father's?'

Croft examined the wood shaft, the four-bladed tip, and finally, critically, the feathering. By the time he pulled away he felt faint. He took a huge breath, and collapsed on to the side of the cot.

'Yes,' he whispered on the exhale, having difficulty focusing now. 'That was Dad's. You'll see for sure when you compare it to the others from the quiver, but I can tell you now. My father made his own feathering, it was a hobby of his. He wasn't very creative, though, and they were all the same. Once he found what he liked and what worked he saw no need to change.'

'Good thing,' said Gamache.

'Now,' Beauvoir sat on the cot opposite him. 'You have a lot to tell us.'

'I need to think.'

'There's nothing to think about,' said Gamache. 'Your son shot this arrow, didn't he?' Croft's mind was racing. He'd so steeled himself to stick to his story it was hard now to give it up, even in the face of this evidence. 'And if he shot this arrow and it ended up in that tree,' continued Gamache, 'then he couldn't have killed Jane Neal. He didn't do it. And neither did you, this arrow proves someone else did it. We need the truth from you now.'

And still Croft hesitated, afraid there was a trap, afraid to give up his story.

'Now, Mr Croft,' said Gamache in a voice that brooked no argument. Croft nodded. He was too stunned to feel relief, yet.

'All right. This is what happened. Philippe and I had had an argument the night before. Some stupid thing, I can't even remember what. The next morning when I got up Philippe was gone. I was afraid he'd run away, but about 7.15 he comes skidding into the yard on his bike. I decided not to go out and see him, but to wait for him to come to me. That was a mistake. I found out later he went directly to the basement with the bow and arrow then took a shower and changed his clothes. He never did come to see me, but stayed in his room all day. That wasn't unusual. Then Suzanne started to act strange.'

'When did you hear about Miss Neal?' Beauvoir asked.

'That night, a week ago. Roar Parra called, said it was a hunting accident. When I went to your meeting next day I was sad, but not like it was the end of the world. Suzanne, on the other hand, couldn't sit still, couldn't relax. But honestly I didn't think much about it, women can be more sensitive than men, that's all I figured it was.'

'How'd you find out about Philippe?'

'When we got home. Suzanne had been silent in the car, then once we got back she laid into me. She was furious, violent almost, because I'd asked you back to look at the bows and arrows. She told me then. She'd found out because she found Philippe's clothes ready for the wash, blood stains on them. Then she'd gone into the basement and found the bloody arrow. She got the story from Philippe. He thought he'd killed Miss Neal, so he grabbed the bloody arrow and ran, thinking it was his. He didn't look at it, neither did Suzanne. I guess they didn't notice it wasn't the same as the others. Suzanne burned the arrow.'

'What did you do when you heard all this?'

'I burned his clothes in the furnace but then you arrived so I told Suzanne to burn the bow, to destroy everything.'

'But she didn't.'

'No. When I put the clothes in it smothered the flames, so she had to build them back up. Then she realised the bow would have to be chopped up. She didn't think she could do it without making a noise so she came upstairs, to try to warn me. But you wouldn't let her go back down. She was going to do it when we were out shooting arrows.'

'How'd you know how Miss Neal's body was lying?'

'Philippe showed me. I went to his room, to confront him, to hear the story from him. He wouldn't speak to me. Just as I was leaving his room he stood up and did that.' Croft shuddered at the memory, baffled by where this child could have come from. 'I didn't know what he meant by it at the time but later, when you asked me to show you how she was lying, it clicked. So I just did what Philippe had done. What does that mean?' Croft nodded to the arrow.

'It means', said Beauvoir, 'someone else shot the arrow that killed Miss Neal.'

'It means', clarified Gamache, 'that she was almost certainly murdered.'

Beauvoir tracked down Superintendent Michel Brebeuf at the Montreal Botanical Gardens, where he volunteered one Sunday a month in the information booth. The people gathered around waiting to ask where the Japanese garden was were left to wonder just how wide a mandate these volunteers had.

'I agree, it sounds like murder,' said Brebeuf over the phone, nodding and smiling to the suddenly guarded tourists waiting in front of him. 'I'm giving you the authority to treat this as a homicide.'

'Actually, sir, I was hoping it'd be Chief Inspector Gamache's investigation. He was right, Matthew Croft didn't kill Miss Neal.'

'Do you really think that's what this was about, Inspector? Armand Gamache was suspended not because we disagreed over who did it, but because he refused to carry out a direct order. And that's still true. Besides, as I recall, left to himself he would've arrested a fourteen-year-old boy.'

A tourist reached out and took the hand of his teenage son, who was so shocked he actually allowed his father to hold it, for about a nanosecond.

'Well, not arrested, exactly,' said Beauvoir.

'You're not helping your case here, Inspector.'

'Yes, sir. The Chief Inspector knows this case and these people. It's been a week already, and we've let the trail go cold by being forced to treat this as a probable accident. He's the logical person to lead this investigation. You know it, and I know it.'

'And he knows it.'

'At a guess I'd have to agree. Voyons, is this about punishment, or getting the best results?'

'All right. And tell him he's lucky to have an advocate like you. I wish I did.'

'You do.'

When Brebeuf hung up he turned his attention to the tourists at his booth and found he was alone.

'Thank you, Jean Guy,' Gamache took his warrant card, badge and gun. He'd thought about why it had stung so much to give them up. Years ago, when he'd first been issued with the card and gun, he'd felt accepted, a success in the eyes of society and, more important, in the eyes of his parents. Then, when he'd had to give up the card and gun he'd suddenly felt afraid. He'd been stripped of a weapon, but more than that, he'd been stripped of approval. The feeling had passed, it was no more than an echo, a ghost of the insecure young man he'd once been.

On the way home after being suspended, Gamache had remembered an analogy someone told him years ago. Living our lives was like living in a long house. We entered as babies at one end, and we exited when our time came. And in between we moved through this one, great, long room. Everyone we ever met, and every thought and action lived in that room with us. Until we made peace with the less agreeable parts of our past they'd continue to heckle us from way down the long house. And sometimes the really loud, obnoxious ones told us what to do, directing our actions even years later.

Gamache wasn't sure he agreed with that analogy, until the moment he'd had to place his gun into Jean Guy's palm. Then that insecure young man lived again, and whispered, You're nothing without it. What will people think? Realising how inappropriate the reaction was didn't banish the fearful young man from Gamache's long house, it just meant he wasn't in charge.

'Where to now? Jane Neal's home?' Now they could officially treat the case as a murder investigation, Beauvoir was dying to get in, as was Gamache.

'Soon, We have a stop to make first.'

'Oui, allo?' a cheery voice answered the phone followed by a baby's shriek.

'Solange?' asked Clara.

'Allo? Allo?'

'Solange' called Clara.

'Bonjour? Hello?' a wail filled Solange's home and Clara's head.

'Solange,' Clara shrieked.

'C'est moi-meme,' cried Solange.

'It's Clara Morrow,' yelled Clara.

'No, I can't tomorrow,'

'Clara Morrow.'

'Wednesday?'

Oh, dear, God, thought Clara, thank you for sparing me children.

'Clara!' she wailed.

'Clara? Clara who?' asked Solange, in a perfectly normal voice, the spawn from Hell having been silenced, probably bv a breast.

'Clara Morrow, Solange. We met in exercise class. Congratulations on the child,' she tried to sound sincere.

'Yes, I remember. How are you?'

'Just fine. But I called with a question. I'm sorry to disturb you on your leave, but this has something to do with your notary practice.'

'Oh, that's all right. The office calls every day. What can I help you with?'

'Did you know that Jane Neal had died?'

'No, no, I hadn't heard. I'm sorry.'

'It was an accident. In the woods.'

'Oh, I did hear about that when I got back. I was visiting my parents in Montreal for Thanksgiving, so I missed it. You mean, that was Jane Neal?'

'Yes.'

'Weren't the police involved?'

'Yes. They seem to think Norman Stickley, in Williamsburg, was her notary. But I thought she'd come to you.'

'Could you come to my office tomorrow morning?'

'What time's good for you?'

'Say eleven? Clara, could you invite the police? I think they'll be interested.'

It took Philippe Croft a few minutes to trust it wasn't a trap before he admitted everything. His long pale fingers picked at a pill of fluff on his sweatpants as he told his story. He'd wanted to punish his father, so he'd taken the old bow and arrows and gone hunting. He'd fired just once. But that was enough. Instead of the stag he knew he'd killed, he found Jane Neal, spread-eagled. Dead. He could still see those eyes. They followed him.

'You can let them go now,' said Gamache, quietly. 'They're someone else's nightmare.'

Philippe had simply nodded and Gamache was reminded of Myrna, and the pain we choose to carry around. He wanted to take Philippe in his arms and tell him he wouldn't be fourteen for ever. Just to hold on.

But Gamache didn't. He knew that while the intention was kind, the act would be seen as an assault. An insult. Instead he stuck out his large, steady hand to the boy. After a moment Philippe slipped his own pale hand in, as though he'd never shook hands with a man before, and squeezed.

Gamache and Beauvoir arrived back in the village to find Agent Lacoste fending off Yolande. She'd been sent to Jane Neal's cottage, warrant in hand. She'd managed to get Yolande out and to lock the door, and was now practicing her impression of a Palace Guard, immutable in the face of provocation.

'I'll sue your ass. I'll get you fired, you ugly little tramp.' Spying Beauvoir, Yolande turned on him. 'How dare you kick me out of my own home?'

'Did you show Ms Fontaine the warrant, Agent?'

'I did, sir.'

'Then you know', Beauvoir turned to Yolande, 'that this is now a homicide investigation. I take it you want to find out who killed your aunt?'

It was a low blow, but almost always effective. Who could say no?

'No. I don't care. Will it bring her back? Tell me it'll bring her back and I'll let you into my home.'

'We're already in, and this isn't a negotiation. Now, I need to speak with you and your husband. Is he home?'

'How should I know?'

'Well, why don't we just go and see.'

When they'd pulled up in Gamache's car they'd seen Yolande going after Lacoste, who seemed to have been stuffed.

'Poor woman.' Gamache smiled. 'This will make a story she can bore her rookies with one day. Listen, we're both anxious to get into that house, but I'd like to get a couple of things out of the way first. Go and interview Yolande and try to get Andre as well. I want to speak with Myrna Landers.'

'Why?'

Gamache told him.

'I need to know what Timmer Hadley said that day you were sitting with her.'

Myrna locked the door to her bookshop and poured them each a cup of tea. Then she sat down in the comfortable chair opposite him. 'I think you'll be disappointed. I can't see that it matters to anyone now, alive or dead.'

'You'd be surprised.'

'I dare say.' She sipped her tea and looked out the window into the dusk, her mind going back to that afternoon just a few months ago. Seemed like years. Timmer Hadley a skeleton draped with flesh. Her eyes bright in the head made huge by a shriveled body. They'd sat together, Myrna perched on the side of the bed, Timmer wrapped in blankets and hot-water bottles. The big old brown album between them. The photos falling out, their glue long since turned to grit. One that had slipped out was of a young Jane Neal and her parents and sister.

Timmer told Myrna about Jane's parents, prisoners of their own insecurities and fears. Those fears passed on to the sister Irene, who had also become a social climber and searched for security in objects and the approval of others. But not Jane. And then came the story Gamache had asked about:

'This was taken on the last day of the county fair. The day after the dance. You can see how happy Jane is,' Timmer had said, and it was true. Even in the grainy photo she glowed, even more in comparison to the glum faces of her parents and sister.

'She'd become engaged to her young man that night,' said Timmer, wistfully. 'What was his name? Andreas. He was a lumberjack, of all things. Doesn't matter. She hadn't told her parents yet, but she had a plan. She'd elope. They made a wonderful couple. Rather odd to look at, until you got to know them and saw how good they were together. They loved each other. Except,' and here Timmer's brow had clouded, 'Ruth Kemp went to Jane's parents, here at the fair, and told them what Jane planned to do. She did it in secret but I overheard. I was young, and my big regret to this day was not going to Jane right away to warn her. But I didn't.'

'What happened?' Myrna asked.

'They took Jane home and broke up the relationship. Spoke to Kaye Thompson, who employed Andreas, and threatened to take away the mills' business from her operation if this lumberjack so much as looked at Jane. You could do that in those days. Kaye's a good woman, a fair woman, and she explained it all to him, but it broke his heart. He apparently tried to see Jane, but couldn't.'

'And Jane?'

'She was told she couldn't see him. No debate. She was only seventeen, and not a very headstrong person. She gave in. It was a horrible thing.'

'Did Jane ever know it was Ruth who did it?'

'I never told her. Perhaps I should have. Seemed there was enough pain, but probably I was just afraid.'

'Did you ever say anything to Ruth?'

'No.'

Myrna looked down at the photograph in Timmer's translucent hand. A moment of joy caught just before it was extinguished.

'Why did Ruth do it?'

'I don't know. For sixty years I've wondered that. Maybe she wonders the same thing. There's something about her, something bitter, that resents happiness in others, and needs to ruin it. That's probably what makes her a great poet, she knows what it is to suffer. She gathers suffering to her. Collects it, and sometimes creates it. I think that's why she likes to sit with me, she feels more comfortable in the company of a dying woman than a thriving one. But perhaps I'm being unfair.'

Listening to Myrna's narrative, Gamache thought he would've liked to meet Timmer Hadley. But too late. He was, though, about to meet Jane Neal, or at least get as close as he would ever come to doing so.

Beauvoir stepped into the perfect home. So perfect it was lifeless. So perfect a tiny part of him found it attractive. He shoved that part down and pretended it didn't exist.

Yolande Fontaine's home gleamed. Every surface glowed with polish. In his stockinged feet he was shown into the living room, a room whose only blemish sat in an overstuffed chair and read the sports section. Andre didn't move, didn't acknowledge his wife. Yolande made her way to him. Actually, to his pile of dumped newspaper, forming a teepee village on the tasteful area rug. She picked up the paper, folded it, and put it in a neat stack on the coffee table, all the edges lining up. Then she turned to Beauvoir.

'Now, Inspector, would you like a coffee?'

Her change in attitude almost gave him whiplash, then he remembered. They were in her home. Her territory. It was safe for the lady of the manor to make an appearance.

'No, thank you. I just need some answers.'

Yolande inclined her head slightly, a gracious gesture to a working man.

'Did you take anything out of Miss Neal's home?'

This question brought a rise, but not from Yolande. Andre lowered his paper and scowled. 'And what business is it of yours?'

'We now believe Miss Neal was murdered. We have a warrant to search her home and seal it off.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means no one but the police are allowed in.'

A look was exchanged between husband and wife, the first since Beauvoir had arrived. It wasn't a loving, supportive glance, more a question from him and a confirmation from her. Beauvoir was convinced. They'd done something in that home.

'Did you take anything?' he repeated.

'No,' said Yolande.

'If you're lying, I'll have you charged with interfering with the investigation and that, M. Malenfant, won't look good on your already impressive record.' Malenfant smiled. He didn't care.

'What've you been doing in there for five days, Ms. Fontaine?'

'Decorating.' She swept her arm around the living room. It screamed cheap 'taste'. The curtains struck him as a little odd, then he noticed she'd put the pattern on both sides, so it showed outside as well as in the home. He'd never seen that before, but wasn't surprised. Yolande Fontaine only really existed with an audience. She was like those novelty lamps that came on when you clapped your hands. She switched to life with applause, or the sharp clap of rebuke. Any reaction, as long as it was directed at her, was sufficient. Silence and solitude drained her of life.

'This is a lovely room,' he lied. 'Is the rest of the home as – elegant?'

She heard his clapping and sprung into action. 'Come with me,' she said, practically dragging him around the tiny home. It was like a hotel room, sterile and anonymous. It seemed Yolande had become so self-absorbed she no longer existed. She'd finally absorbed herself.

He saw a door ajar off the kitchen and made a guess. Reaching out he opened it and in a bound he was down the stairs and looking at an unholy mess.

'Don't go down there, that's Andre's area.' He ignored her and quickly moved around the dank room until he found what he'd been looking for. A pair of still-wet Wellingtons and a bow leaning against the wall.

'Where were you on the morning Jane Neal was killed?' Beauvoir asked Andre, once they'd returned to the living room.

'Sleeping, where else?'

'Well, how about hunting?'

'Mebbe. Dunno. I got a license you know.'

'That wasn't the question. Were you hunting last Sunday morning?'

Andre shrugged.,

'I saw a dirty bow in the basement.' So like Andre, he thought, not to clean his equipment. But looking at the antiseptic home Beauvoir could see why Andre might yearn for mud. And disorder. And time away from Lemon Pledge.

'And you think it's still wet and dirty from last week?' Andre hooted.

'No, from today. You hunt on Sundays, don't you? Every Sunday, including one week ago, the day Jane Neal was killed. Let me make this clear. This is now a murder investigation. Who's the most likely suspect in any murder? A family member. Who's the next most likely suspect? Someone who benefits from the death. And if that person has the opportunity as well, we might as well start making your bed in the penitentiary right now. You two win. We know you're in debt.' He took a calculated guess, 'You believed you inherited everything, and you, Andre, know how to shoot a bow and arrow well enough to kill. Am I making myself clear?'

'Look, Inspector,' Andre rose from the chair, dropping the sports section a page at a time on the floor. 'I went hunting and I bagged a deer the day Jane Neal was killed. You can ask Boxleiter at the abattoir, he dressed it for me.'

'But you were out hunting today. Isn't the limit one deer?'

'What, now you're a game warden? Yes. I went out today. I'll kill as many deer as I want.'

'And your son, Bernard? Where was he last Sunday?'

'Sleeping.'

'Sleeping like you were sleeping?'

'Look, he's fourteen, that's what kids do on weekends. He sleeps, he wakes up long enough to piss me off and eat the food I put in the fridge, and then he goes back to bed. Wish I had his life.'

'What do you do for a living?'

'I'm unemployed. I was an astronaut, but I got laid off.' And Andre roared at his own cleverness, a putrid laugh that seemed to deaden the room even further. 'Yeah, they hired a one-armed black lesbian to replace me.'

Beauvoir left their home wanting to call his wife and tell her how much he loved her, and then tell her what he believed in, and his fears and hopes and disappointments. To talk about something real and meaningful. He dialed his cell phone and got her. But the words got caught somewhere south of his throat. Instead he told her the weather had cleared, and she told him about the movie she'd rented. Then they both hung up. Driving back to Three Pines Beauvoir noticed an odor clinging to his clothes. Lemon Pledge.

He found the chief standing outside Miss Neal's home, the key pressed into the palm of his hand. Gamache had waited for him. Finally, exactly a week after her death, the two men walked into Jane Neal's home.