Still Life

THIRTEEN

It was Thursday evening and Arts Williamsburg was enjoying a record turnout for a vernissage. The tail of Hurricane Kyla was forecast to hit later that night and the expectation added a frisson to the event, as though going to the opening meant taking your life in your hands and reflected both character and courage. Which wasn't, actually, all that far off the mark for most Arts Williamsburg shows.

At past openings only the artists themselves and a few scraggly friends would show up, fortifying themselves with wine from boxes and cheese produced by a board member's goat. This night a gnarly knot of people surrounded Jane's work, which was sitting cloaked on an easel in the center of the room. Around the white walls the other artists' works were ranged, as were the artists themselves. They'd had the misfortune to be chosen for an exhibition in which their work was clearly upstaged by that of a murdered woman. A few might have agreed their misfortune was eclipsed by that of the person actually dead, but even then she'd bested them, even in misfortune. Life as an artist was indeed unfair.

Gamache was waiting for Fair Day to be unveiled. The board of Arts Williamsburg had decided to make it an 'event', so they'd invited the press, which meant the Williamsburg County News and now the chairperson of the jury was waiting for 'le moment juste'. Gamache glanced enviously at Jean Guy, sprawled on one of the comfortable chairs, refusing to give it up to an elderly man. He was exhausted. Bad art did this to him. Actually, he had to admit, any art did this to him. Bad wine, stinky cheese and pretty smelly art took the will to live right out of him. He looked around and came to the sad but inevitable conclusion that the building wouldn't collapse when Kyla finally blew into town later that night.

'As you know, a tragic event has robbed us of a fine woman and as it turns out, a gifted artist,' Elise Jacob, the jury chair, was saying.

Clara sidled up between Ben and Peter. Elise was going on, and on, and on about the virtues of Jane. She practically had her sainted. Then, finally, just as Clara's eyes began to bulge she said, 'Here, without further ado' – Clara, who knew and loved Jane, figured there'd been plenty of doodoo already – 'is Fair Day by Jane Neal.'

The veil was whisked off and Fair Day was finally revealed, to gasps. Then a silence which was even more eloquent. The faces staring slack-jawed at Fair Day were variously amused, repulsed and stunned. Gamache wasn't looking at the easel, he was staring at the crowd, at their reactions. But the only reaction that was even close to odd was Peter's. His anxious smile faded as Fair Day was revealed, and after a moment's contemplation he cocked his head to one side and furrowed his brow. Gamache, who'd been watching these people for almost two weeks, knew that for Peter Morrow this was the equivalent of a scream.

'What is it?'

'Nothing.' Peter turned his bak on Gamache and walked away. Gamache followed.

'Mr Morrow, my question wasn't about aesthetics, but about murder. Please answer it.'

Peter was brought up short, as were most people who thought gamache was incapable of forceful speech. 'The painting disturbs me. I can't tell you why because I don't know why. It doesn't seem to be the same work we judged two weeks ago, and yet, I know it is.'

Gamache stared at Fair Day. He'd never liked it so he wasn't a good judge, but unlike the work one Jane Neal's walls, this piece moved him not at all.

'So what's changed?'

'Nothing. Maybe me. is that possible? Like that card trick of Jane's with the Queen of Hearts. Does art change too? I know at the end of a day I'll look at my work and think it's great, then next morning look at it and think it's crap. The work didn't change, but I did. Maybe Jane's death changed me so much that whatever I saw ini this painting isn't there anymore.'

'Do you believe that?'

Damn the man, thought Peter. 'No.'

The two men stared at Fair Day, then slowly, lowly, a noise was heard unlike any anyone there had heard before. It grew and magnified until it reverberated around the circle of spectators. Clara could feel the blood race from her face and hands. Was it the storm? Was this what the tail end of a disaster sounded like? Had Kyla joined them after all? But the rumbling seemed to be coming from inside the building. Inside the room. In fact, right beside Clara. She turned and found the source. Ruth.

'That's me! ' Ruth jabbed a finger at the dancing goat in Fair Day. Then the rumbling burst into a geyser of laughter. Ruth roared. She laughed until she had to steady herself on Gabri. Her laughter infected the entire room until even the sour-faced and forgotten artists were laughing. Much of the rest of the evening was taken with people recognising themselves or others in Jane's work. Ruth also found Timmer's parents and her brother and sister, both now dead. There was the first-grade teacher and Timmer's husband, and the exercise class they all belonged to. They were the chicks. Over the course of the hour or so just about every figure had been identified. Still, Peter stared, not joining in the laughter.

Something was wrong.

'I've got it!' Clara pointed at the painting. 'This was painted at the closing parade, right? The day your mother died. In fact, isn't that your mother?' Clara showed Ben the cloud with trotters. The flying lamb.

'You're right,' laughed Myrna. 'It's Timmer.'

'Do you see? This was Jane's tribute to your mother. Everyone in this picture was meaningful to her. From her grandparents to her dogs, to everyone in between.' Now Clara turned to Peter. 'Remember that last dinner we all had together?'

'Thanksgiving?'

'Yes, that's it. We were talking about great art, and I said I thought art became art when the artist put something of themselves into it. I asked Jane what she'd put into this work, and do you remember what she said?'

'Sorry, I can't.'

'She agreed that she'd put something in it, that there was some message in this work. She wondered if we'd figure it out. In fact, I remember she looked directly at Ben when she spoke, as though you'd understand. I'd wondered why at the time, but now it makes sense. This is for your mother.'

'You think?' Ben moved closer to Clara and stared at the picture.

'Well, that doesn't make any sense,' said Agent Nichol, who'd wandered over from her post by the door, drawn to the laughter as though to a crime. Gamache started making his way toward her, hoping to cut her off before she said something totally offensive. But his legs, while long, were no match for her mouth.

'Who was Yolande to Timmer? Did they even know each other?' Nichol pointed at the face of the blonde woman in the stands next to the acrylic Peter and Clara. 'Why would Jane Neal put in a niece she herself despised? This can't be what you said, a tribute to Mrs Hadley, with that woman there.'

Nichol was clearly enjoying getting one up on Clara. And Clara, despite herself, could feel her anger rising. She stared speechless at the smug young face on the other side of the easel. And what made it worse was that she was right. There was the big blonde woman, undeniably in Fair Day, and Clara knew that if anything Timmer disliked Yolande even more than Jane did.

'May I see you, please?' Gamache placed himself between Clara and Nichol, cutting off the young woman's triumphant stare. Without another word he turned and walked toward the exit, Nichol hesitating an instant then following.

'There's a bus for Montreal tomorrow morning at six from St Remy. Take it.'

He had no more to say. Agent Yvette Nichol was left shaking with rage on the cold dark stoop of Arts Williamsburg. She wanted to pound on the closed door. It seemed all her life doors were being shut in her face and here she was again, on the outside. Throbbing with fury she took two steps over to the window and looked in, at the people milling around, at Gamache talking to that Morrow woman and her husband. But there was someone else in the picture. After a moment she realised it was her own reflection.

How was she going to explain this to her father? She'd blown it. Somehow, somewhere, she'd done something wrong. But what? But Nichol was beyond reasoning. All she could think of was walking into her miniscule home with the immaculate front yard in east end Montreal, and telling her father she'd been kicked off the case. Shame on you. A phrase from the investigation floated into her head.

You're looking at the problem.

That meant something. Something significant she was sure. And then, finally, she understood.

The problem was Gamache.

There he was talking and laughing, smug and oblivious to the pain he caused. He was no different than the police her father had told her about in Czechoslovakia. How could she have been so blind? With relief she realised she needn't tell her father anything. After all, it wasn't her fault.

Nichol turned away, the sight too painful, of people having fun and her own lonely reflection.

An hour later the party had emigrated from Arts Williamsburg to Jane's home. The wind was picking up and the rain was just beginning. Clara stationed herself in the middle of the living room, just as Jane might have, so that as everyone arrived she could see their reactions.

'Oh. My. God.' was heard a lot, as was 'Holy shit' and 'Tabarouette'. 'Tabarnouche' and 'Tabernacle' bounced off the walls. Jane's living room had become a shrine to multilingual swearing. Clara felt pretty much at home. A beer in one hand and cashews in the other, she watched as the guests arrived and were swept away by amazement. Most of the downstairs walls had been exposed and there, swooping and swirling before them, was the geography and history of Three Pines. The cougars and lynx, long since disappeared, the boys marching off to the Great War, and straight on to the modest stained-glass window of St Thomas's, commemorating the dead. There were the dope plants growing outside the Williamsburg police station, a happy cat sitting on the window looking down at the healthy growth.

The first thing Clara did, of course, was find herself on the wall. Her face poked out from a bush of Old Garden Roses, while Peter was found crouching behind a noble statue of Ben in shorts, standing on his mother's lawn. Peter was in his Robin Hood outfit and sported a bow and arrow, while Ben stood bold and strong, staring at the house. Clara looked quite closely to see whether Jane had painted snakes oozing out of the old Hadley home, but she hadn't.

The home was quickly filling with laughter and shrieks and howls of recognition. And sometimes a person was moved to tears they couldn't explain. Gamache and Beauvoir worked the room, watching and listening.

'… but what gets me is the delight in the images,' Myrna was saying to Clara. 'Even the deaths, accidents, funerals, bad crops, even they have a kind of life. She made them natural.'

'Hey, you,' Clara called out to Ben who came over eagerly. 'Look at yourself.' She waved at his image on the wall.

'Very bold.' He smiled. 'Chiseled, even.'

Gamache looked over at Ben's image on Jane's wall, a strong man, but staring at his parent's home. Not for the first time he thought Timmer Hadley's death might have been quite timely for her son. He might finally get away from her shadow. Interestingly, though, it was Peter who was standing in shadow. Ben's shadow. Gamache wondered what that could mean. He was beginning to appreciate that Jane's home was a kind of key to the community. Jane Neal had been a very observant woman.

Elise Jacob arrived at that moment, nodding to Gamache as she walked in. 'Phew, what a night, -' but her eyes quickly refocused to the wall behind him. Then she spun around to examine the wall behind her.

'Christ,' said the lovely, soignee woman, waving to Gamache and the room in general as though perhaps she was the first to notice the drawings. Gamache simply smiled and waited for her to gather herself.

'Did you bring it?' he asked, not altogether sure her ears were working yet.

'C'est brillant,' she whispered. 'Formidable. Magnifique. Holy shit.'

Gamache was a patient man and he gave her a few minutes to absorb the room. Besides, he realised he had developed a kind of pride about the home, as though he had had something to do with its creation.

'It's genius, of course,' said Elise. 'I used to work as a curator at the Musee des Beaux Arts in Ottawa before retiring down here.' Gamache again marveled at the people who chose to live in this area. Was Margaret Atwood a garbage collector perhaps? Or maybe Prime Minister Mulroney had picked up a second career delivering the mail. No one was who they seemed. Everyone was more. And one person in this room was very much more.

'Who'd have thought the same woman who painted that dreadful Fair Day did all this?' Elise continued. 'I guess we all have bad days. Still, you'd have thought she'd have chosen a better one to submit.'

'It was the only one she had,' said Gamache, 'or at least the only one not on construction material.'

'That's strange.'

'To say the least,' agreed Gamache. 'Did you bring it?' he repeated.

'Sorry, yes, it's in the mudroom.'

A minute later Gamache was setting Fair Day on to its easel in the center of the room. Now all of Jane's art was together.

He stood very still and watched. The din increased as the guests drank more wine and recognised more people and events on the walls. The only one behaving at all oddly was Clara. Gamache watched as she wandered over to Fair Day then back to the wall. Then over to Fair Day and back to the same spot on the wall. Then back to the easel. But this time with more purpose. Then she practically ran to the wall. And stood there for a very long time. Then she very slowly came back to Fair Day as though lost in thought.

'What is it?' Gamache asked, coming to stand beside her.

'This isn't Yolande,' Clara pointed to the blonde woman next to Peter.

'How do you know?'

'Over there,' Clara pointed to the wall she'd been examining. 'That's Yolande as painted by Jane. There are similarities, but: not many.'

Gamache had to see for himself, though he knew Clara. would be right. Sure enough the only thing she'd been wrong about was saying there were similarities. There were none, as far as he could tell. The Yolande on the wall, even the child, was clearly Yolande. Physically, but also emotionally. She radiated contempt and greed and something else. Cunning. The woman on the wall was all those things. And just a little: needy. In the painting on the easel the woman in the stands was simply blonde.

'Then who is she?' he asked when he got back.

'I don't know. But I do know one thing. Have you noticed that Jane never made up a face? Everyone on these walls was someone she knew, someone from the village.'

'Or a visitor,' said Gamache.

'Actually,' said Ruth, joining their conversation, 'there are no visitors. People who moved away and would come home to visit, yes, but they're considered villagers. Everyone on the walls she knew.'

'And everyone in Fair Day she knew, except her.' Clara pointed a cashew at the blonde woman. 'She's a stranger. But there's more. I've been wondering what's wrong with Fair Day. It's clearly Jane's, but it's not. If this was the first thing she'd done I'd say she just hadn't found her style. But this was the last.' Clara leaned into the work, 'Everything in it is strong, confident, purposeful. But taken as a whole it doesn't work.'

'She's right,' said Elise. 'It doesn't.'

The circle around Fair Day was growing, the guests attracted by the mystery.

'But it worked when we were judging it, right?' Clara turned to Peter. 'It's her. Jane didn't paint her.' Clara pointed a ramrod straight 'J'accuse' finger at the blonde in the stands next to Peter. As though sucked down a drain, all heads leaned into the center of the circle, to peer at the face.

'That's why this picture doesn't work,' continued Clara. 'It did before this face was changed. Whoever changed it changed the whole picture without realising it.'

'How do you know Jane didn't paint this face?' Gamache asked, his voice becoming official. Across the room Beauvoir heard it and went over, taking out his notepad and pen as he arrived.

'First of all, it's the only face in here that doesn't look alive.' Gamache had to agree with that. 'But that's subjective. There's actual proof if you want.'

'It would make a nice change.'

'Look.' Clara pointed again at the woman. 'Jesus, now that I look more closely I must have been blind not to see it before. It's like this huge carbuncle.' Try as they might none of them could see what she meant.

'For God's sake, just tell us, before I spank you,' said Ruth.

'There.' Clara zigzagged her finger around the woman's face, and sure enough, looking more closely, they could see a tiny smudging. 'It's like a wart, a huge blemish on this work.' She pointed to nearly invisible fuzzy marks. 'That's done by a rag and mineral spirits, right, Ben?'

But Ben was still peering almost cross-eyed at Fair Day.

'And look at that, those brush strokes. All wrong. Look at Peter's face beside her. Totally different strokes.' Clara waved her whole arm back and forth then up and down. 'Up and down. Jane doesn't do up and down strokes. Lots of sideways, but no straight up and down. Look at this woman's hair. Up and down strokes. A dead giveaway. Do you notice the paint?' She turned to Peter, who seemed uncomfortable.

'No. Nothing strange about the paints.'

'Oh, come on. Look. The whites are different. Jane used Titanium white here, here and here. But over here,' she pointed to the woman's eyes, 'this is Zinc white. That's Ochre Yellow.' Clara was pointing to the woman's vest. 'Jane never used Ochre, only Cadmium. So obvious. You know, we've done so much art, teaching it, and even sometimes picking up extra money restoring things for the McCord, that I can tell you who painted what, just by their brush strokes, never mind their choice of brushes and paints.'

'Why would someone paint in a face?' Myrna asked.

'That's the question,' agreed Gamache.

'And not the only one. Why add a face, yes, great question, but whoever did it also took out a face. You can tell by the smudges. They didn't just paint on top of the existing face, the one Jane did, they actually erased that whole face. I don't get it. If Jane, or anyone, wanted to erase a face it would be easiest to just paint over the existing one. You can do that with acrylic, in fact, everyone does that with acrylic. You almost never bother erasing. Just paint over your mistakes.'

'But if they did that could you remove that face and find the original underneath?' Gamache asked.

'It's tricky,' said Peter, 'but a good art restorer could.

It's like we're doing upstairs here, taking off one layer of paint to find the image underneath. With a canvas, though, you can also do it with x-ray. It's a little blurry, but you might get an idea of who's there. Now, well, it's destroyed.'

'Whoever did this didn't want the face found,' said Clara. 'So she removed hers and painted in another woman's.'

'But', Ben jumped in, 'they gave themselves away when they erased the original face and drew a new one on top. They didn't know Jane's work. Her code. They made up a face not realising Jane never did that

'And they used the wrong strokes,' said Clara.

'Well, that lets me out,' said Gabri.

'But why do it at all? I mean, whose face was erased?' Myrna asked.

There was silence for a moment while they all considered.

'Can you take this face off and get an idea of the original?' Gamache asked.

'Maybe. Depends how thoroughly the original face was removed. Do you think the murderer did this?' Clara asked.

'I do. I just don't know why.'

'You said, "she",' said Beauvoir to Clara. 'Why?'

'I guess because the new face is female. I assumed the person who did this would paint the easiest thing and that's what we see in the mirror every day.'

'You think this is the murderer's face?' Beauvoir asked.

'No, that wouldn't be very smart. I think it's the murderer's gender, that's all. Under pressure a white man is most likely to paint a white man, not a black man, not a white woman – but the thing he's most familiar with. The same here.'

It's a good point, thought Gamache. But he also thought that if a man was painting to deceive he might very well paint a woman.

'Would it take skill to do this?' he asked.

'Remove one face and replace it with another? Yes, quite a lot. Not necessarily to take the first face off, but then again most people wouldn't know how. Would you?' she asked Beauvoir.

'No, not a clue. You mentioned mineral spirits and a rag, but the first time I ever heard of mineral spirits was a few days ago when you needed them for your work here.'

'Exactly. Artists know these things, but most people don't. Once the face is off she'd have to paint on another, using Jane's style. That takes skill. Whoever did this is an artist, and I'd say a good one. It took us quite a while to find the mistake. We probably never would have if your Agent Nichol hadn't been so obnoxious. She said this was Yolande. I was so pissed off I went in search of Jane's Yolande to see if it was true. And it wasn't. But it forced me to look more closely at the face to see who it might be. That's when I noticed the differences. So you can tell Nichol she helped solve the case.'

'Anything else you'd like us to tell her?' Beauvoir smiled at Clara.

Gamache knew he wouldn't lead Nichol to believe her rudeness had paid off, and yet he knew if he'd sent her away earlier they'd never be this far now. In a sense Clara was right but she'd failed to give herself enough credit. Her own need to prove Nichol wrong had played quite a role as well.

'You thought Fair Day was good enough for the exhibition when you judged it on the Friday before Thanksgiving?' he asked Peter.

'I thought it was brilliant.'

'It had changed by Thanksgiving Monday,' said Clara, turning to Gamache and Beauvoir. 'Remember when you two came in and I showed you Fair Day? The magic was gone then.'

'Saturday and Sunday,' said Beauvoir. Two days. Somewhere in there the murderer changed this painting. Jane Neal was killed Sunday morning.'

They all stared at it, willing it to tell them who did this. Gamache knew that Fair Day was screaming at them. The reason for Jane Neal's murder was in that picture. Clara could hear a tap tap tapping on the living-room window and went over to see who was out there. Staring into the darkness a branch suddenly appeared and hit the glass. Hurricane Kyla had arrived, and wanted in.

The party broke up quickly after that, everyone racing for their homes or cars before the worst of the storm hit.

'Don't let a house fall on you,' Gabri shouted after Ruth, who may or may not have given him the finger as she disappeared into the dark. Fair Day was taken to the B. & B. where a group now sat in the large living room sipping liqueurs and espresso. A fire had been laid and lit and outside Kyla moaned and called the leaves from the trees. Rain now whipped against the windows causing them to tremble. Inside the group instinctively huddled closer, warmed by the fire, the drinks and the company.

'Who knew about Fair Day before Miss Neal was killed?' Gamache asked. Peter and Clara were there, as were Ben, Olivier, Gabri and Myrna.

'The jury,' said Peter.

'Didn't you talk about it at your Thanksgiving dinner that Friday night?'

'We talked about it a lot. Jane even described it,' confirmed Clara.

'It's not the same thing,' said Gamache. 'Who saw Fair Day before tonight?'

They looked at each other, shaking their heads.

'Who was on the jury again?' Beauvoir asked.

'Henri Lariviere, Irenee Calfat, Elise Jacob, Clara and me,' said Peter.

'And who else might have seen it?' Gamache asked again. It was a crucial question. The murderer killed Jane because of Fair Day. He or she had to have seen it and seen the threat, enough to alter the picture, enough to murder.

'Isaac Coy,' said Clara. 'He's the caretaker. And I guess it's possible anyone who came in to see the other exhibition, the abstract art, could have wandered into the storeroom and seen it.'

'But not likely,' said Gamache.

'Not by mistake,' Clara agreed. She got up. 'I'm sorry, but I think I've left my purse at Jane's. I'm just going to nip over and get it.'

'In the storm?' Myrna asked, incredulous.

'I'm going home as well,' said Ben. 'Unless there's something else I can do?'

Gamache shook his head and the gathering broke up. One by one they made their way into the black night; arms instinctively up to protect their faces. The night air was filled with driving rain and dead leaves and running people.

Clara needed to think, and for that she needed her safe place, which happened to be Jane's kitchen. She turned on all the lights and sank into one of the big old chairs beside the wood stove.

Was it possible? Surely she'd gotten something wrong. Forgotten something, or read too much into something. It'd struck her first staring at Fair Day during the cocktail, though the beginnings of the idea had started at Arts Williamsburg earlier in the evening. But she'd rejected the thought. Too painful. Too close. Much too close.

But the damning idea had come back with force in the B. & B. just now. As they'd stared at Fair Day all the pieces had come together. All the clues, all the hints. Everything made sense. She couldn't go home. Not now. She was afraid to go home.

'What do you think?' Beauvoir asked, sitting in the chair opposite Gamache. Nichol was lounging on the sofa reading a magazine, punishing Gamache with her silence. Gabri and Olivier had gone to bed.

'Yolande,' said Gamache. 'I keep coming back to that family. So many lines of enquiry lead us back there. The manure throwing, papering the walls. Andre has a hunting bow.'

'But he doesn't have a recurve,' said Beauvoir, sadly.

'He'll have destroyed it,' said Gamache, 'but why use it at all, that's the problem. Why would anyone use an old bow instead of a new compound-hunting bow?'

'Unless it was a woman,' said Beauvoir. This was his favorite part of the job, sitting with the chief late at night with a drink and a fireplace, hashing out the crime. 'A recurve is easier to use and an old recurve easier still. We saw that with Suzanne Croft. She wasn't able to use the modem bow, but she'd obviously used the older one. We're back to Yolande. She'd know her aunt's art, probably better than anyone, and art runs in the family. If we dug we'd probably find she's done some painting in her life. Everyone around here does, I think it's a law.'

'OK, so let's follow this through. Why would Yolande want to kill Jane?'

'For money, or the home, which comes to the same thing. She probably thought she inherited, she probably bribes that crooked notary in Williamsburg for information and God knows she'd be highly motivated to find out about her aunt's will.'

'Agreed. But what's the connection with Fair Day? What was in the painting that would make Yolande change it? It's of the closing parade of this year's fair, but it seems to be a tribute to Timmer Hadley. How could Yolande have seen it, and even if she did see it, why would she need to change it?'

This met with silence. After a few minutes Gamache moved on.

'OK, let's look at others. What about Ben Hadley?'

'Why him?' Beauvoir asked.

'He had access to the bows, has the skill and local knowledge, Miss Neal would have trusted him, and he knows how to paint. Apparently he's very good. And he's on the board of Arts Williamsburg, so he had a key to the gallery. He could have let himself in any time to see Fair Day.'

'Motive?' asked Beauvoir.

'That's the problem. There's no clear motive, is there? Why would he need to kill Jane Neal? Not for money. Why?'

Gamache stared into the dying flames, racking his brain. He wondered whether he was trying too hard, trying not to come to the other conclusion.

'Come on. Peter Morrow did it. Who else?'

Gamache didn't have to look up to know who spoke. The pumpkin on the cover of Harrowsmith Country Life had found its voice.

Clara stared at her reflection in the window of Jane's kitchen. A ghostly, frightened woman looked back. Her theory made sense.

Ignore it, the voice inside said. It's not your business. Let the police do their work. For God's sake, don't say anything. It was a seductive voice, one that promised peace and calm and the continuation of her beautiful life in Three Pines. To act on what she knew would destroy that life.

What if you're wrong? cooed the voice. You'll hurt a lot of people.

But Clara knew she wasn't wrong. She was afraid of losing this life she loved, this man she loved.

He'll be furious. He'll deny it, shrieked the now panicked voice in her head. He'll confuse you. Make you feel horrible for suggesting such a thing. Best not to say anything. You have everything to lose and nothing to gain. And, no one need know. No one will ever know that you said nothing.

But Clara knew the voice lied. Had always lied to her. Clara would know and that knowing would eventually destroy her life anyway.

Gamache lay in bed staring at Fair Day. Conversations and snippets of conversations swirled in his head as he stared at the stylised people and animals and remembered what each person had said at one time or another over the past two weeks.

Yvette Nichol had been right. Peter Morrow was the likeliest suspect, but there was no evidence. Gamache knew that their best chance of catching him lay with this picture and the analysis tomorrow. Fair Day was their smoking gun. But as he stared at each face in the picture something suggested itself, something so unlikely he couldn't believe it. He sat up in bed. It wasn't what was in Fair Day that would prove who murdered Jane Neal. It was what wasn't in Fair Day. Gamache leapt out of bed and threw on his clothes.

Clara could barely see for the rain, but the wind was the worst. Kyla had turned the autumn leaves, so beautiful on the trees, into small missiles. They whipped around her, plastering against her face. She put an arm up to protect her eyes and leaned into the wind, stumbling over the uneven terrain. The leaves and twigs smacked her raincoat, trying to find her skin. Where the leaves failed the frigid water succeeded. It poured up her sleeves and down her back, into her nose and pelted her eyeballs when she squinted them open. But she was almost there.

'I was getting worried. I expected you earlier,' he said, coming over to hug her. Clara stepped back, out of his embrace. He looked at her surprised and hurt. Then he looked down at her boots, puddling water and mud on the floor. She followed his gaze and automatically removed her boots, almost smiling at the normalcy of the action. Maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe she could just take off her boots, sit down, and not say anything. Too late. Her mouth was already working.

'I've been thinking.' She paused, not sure what to say, or how to say it.

'I know. I could see it in your face. When did you figure it out?'

So, she thought, he's not going to deny it. She didn't know whether to be relieved or horrified.

'At the party, but I couldn't get it all. I needed time to think, to work it out.'

'Was that why you said "she", when describing the forger?'

'Yes. I wanted to buy some time, maybe even throw the police off.'

'It threw me off. I was hoping you meant it. But then at the B. & B. I could see your mind working. I know you too well. What're we going to do?'

'I needed to see if you'd really done it. I felt I owed you this, because I love you.' Clara felt numb, as though she was having an out of body experience.

'And I love you,' he said in a voice that struck her as suddenly mincing. Was it always like this? 'And I need you. You don't have to tell the police, there's no evidence. Even the tests tomorrow won't show anything. I was careful. Once I put my mind to something I'm very good, but you know that.'

She did. And she suspected he was right. The police would have a hard time convicting him.

'Why?' she asked, 'why did you kill Jane? And why did you kill your mother?'

'Wouldn't you?' Ben smiled, and advanced.

Gamache had woken Beauvoir and now the two were banging on the Morrows' door.

'Did you forget your key?' Peter was saying as he unlocked it. He stared, uncomprehending, at Gamache and Beauvoir. 'Where's Clara?'

'That's what we wanted to ask you. We need to speak with her, now.'

'I left her at Jane's, but that was', Peter consulted his watch, 'an hour ago.'

'That's a long time to search for a purse,' said Beauvoir.

'She didn't have a purse, it was just a ruse to leave the B. & B. and go into Jane's home,' explained Peter. 'I knew it, but I figured she wanted time alone, to think.'

'But she's not back yet?' Gamache asked. 'Weren't you worried?'

'I'm always worried about Clara. The instant she leaves the house I'm worried.'

Gamache turned and hurried through the woods to Jane's home.

Clara awoke with a throbbing head. At least, she assumed she was awake. Everything was black. Blinding black. Her face was on a floor and she was breathing in dirt. It was sticking to her skin, wet from the rain. Her clothes under her raincoat clung to her body where the rain had driven in. She felt cold and sick. She couldn't stop shivering. Where was she? And where was Ben? She realised her arms were tied behind her. She'd been at Ben's home, so this must be Ben's basement. She had a memory of being carried, drifting in and out of consciousness. And of Peter. Of hearing Peter. No. Of smelling Peter. Peter had been close by. Peter had been carrying her.

'I see you're awake,' Ben stood above her holding a flashlight.

'Peter?' Clara called in a reedy voice. Ben seemed to find this funny.

'Good. That's what I was hoping, but bad news, Clara. Peter isn't here. In fact, this is pretty much a night of bad news for you. Guess where we are.'

When Clara didn't speak Ben slowly moved the flashlight around so it played on the walls, the ceiling, the floors. It didn't have to go far before Clara knew. She probably knew earlier but her brain wouldn't accept it.

'Can you hear them, Clara?' Ben was silent again, and sure enough Clara heard it. A slithering. A sliding. And she could smell them. A musky, swampy smell.

Snakes.

They were in Timmer's home. Timmer's basement.

'But, the good news is, you won't have to worry about them for long.' Ben brought the flashlight up so she could see his face. She could also see he was wearing one of Peter's coats. 'You came here, and fell down the stairs,' he said, in a reasonable voice, as though expecting her to agree with him. 'Gamache may suspect, but no one else will. Peter would never suspect me, I'll be the one comforting him in his loss. And everyone else knows I'm a kind man. And I really am. This doesn't count.'

He turned away from her and walked toward the wooden stairs, the flashlight throwing fantastic shadows across the dirt floor. 'The electricity's been turned off and you stumbled and fell. I'm just fixing the steps now. Rickety old things. Asked Mother for years to repair them, but she was too mean to part with the money. Now you're paying the tragic price. Happily, if Gamache doesn't buy that I've sprinkled enough clues so that Peter'll be charged. I expect a whole lot of fibers from his jacket are on you now. You probably breathed some in too. They'll find those in the autopsy. You'll help to convict your own husband.'

Clara rocked herself to a sitting position. She could see Ben working on the stairs. She knew she had a matter of minutes, maybe moments. She strained against the cords binding her wrists. Fortunately, Ben hadn't tied them tightly. He probably didn't want to cause bruising, but it meant she was able to work her wrists loose though not free.

'What you doing over there?' Ben turned the light on Clara, who leaned back to mask her movements. Her back touched the wall and something brushed into her hair and neck. Then was gone. Oh God. Dear Mother of God. The instant the light turned back to the steps Clara worked frantically, more desperate to get away from the snakes than from Ben. She could hear them slithering, moving along the beams and ventilation shafts. Finally her hands burst free and she scrambled off into the dark.

'Clara? Clara!' The light flashed back and forth wildly searching. 'I don't have time for this.'

Ben left the stairs and started frantically searching. Clara backed further and further into the basement, toward the rank smell. Something brushed her cheek then fell on to her foot. She bit through her lip, trying not to scream, the metallic taste of blood helping her focus. She kicked hard and heard a soft thump as it hit a nearby wall.

Gamache, Beauvoir and Peter ran through Jane's home, but Gamache knew she wouldn't be there. If something bad was going to happen to Clara, it wouldn't be in this home.

'She's at Hadley's place,' said Gamache, making for the door. Once out Beauvoir quickly sped by him, as did Peter. Their footsteps sounded like wild horses as they raced through the storm toward the home with its welcoming lights.

Clara wasn't sure whether the roaring she heard was Kyla, furious Kyla, or her own terrified breath. Or blood pounding in her ears. The whole home above her seemed to shudder and moan. She held her breath but her body screamed for oxygen and after a moment she was forced to breathe, hungrily and noisily.

'I heard that,' Ben swung around, but he moved so fast he lost his grip on the flashlight and the thing flew out of his hand, landing with two thumps. The first sent the light bouncing, hitting Clara full in the face. The second thump plunged the basement into total darkness.

'Shit,' hissed Ben.

Oh God, Oh God, thought Clara. Complete and utter darkness descended. She was frozen, petrified. She heard a movement to her right. This was just enough to get her going. She crawled quietly, slowly left, feeling along the base of the rough stone wall, looking for a rock, a pipe, a brick, anything. Except…

Her hand closed around it and it in turn curled up and closed around her. With a spasm she hurled it into the darkness and heard it bounce across the room.

'Here I come,' Ben whispered. As he spoke Clara realised she'd crawled right up to him in the darkness. He was a step away, but blind as well. She squatted frozen in place, waiting for his hands to grip her. Instead she heard him moving off across the room. Toward the tossed snake.

'Where is she?' Peter pleaded. They'd searched Ben's home and found only a puddle. Now Peter was striding in concentric circles around Ben's living room, coming ever closer to Gamache, who was standing stock still in the center.

'Be quiet, please, Mr Morrow.' Peter stopped pacing. The words were spoken softly, with authority. Gamache was staring ahead. He could barely hear himself think for the force of the storm outside, and the force of Peter's terror inside.

Clara knew she had two chances, which was better than she'd had a few minutes ago. She needed to find the stairs, or she needed to find a weapon and get Ben before he got her. She knew Ben. He was strong, but he was slow. This wasn't a big help since a race probably wasn't on the cards, but it was something.

She had no idea where to find a weapon, except maybe on the floor. But while a brick or pipe might be lying on the floor, she knew what else certainly was. She could hear Ben stumble a few feet ahead of her. She turned and dropped to her knees, scuttling across the dirt floor, waving her hands ahead of her hoping, dear God, please, to grip something that didn't grip back. Again Clara heard a pounding, and wished her heart quieter, though not completely still. Her hand brushed against something and in a flash she knew what it was. But too late. With a snap the mousetrap whacked against her fingers, breaking the middle two and forcing a shout of pain and shock out of her. Adrenaline shot through her and she instantly pulled the trap off her wounded hand and flung it away. She rolled sideways, knowing mousetraps are laid against walls. A wall must lie directly ahead. If Ben was rushing through the darkness to grab her…

Peter heard Clara's cry of pain and its abrupt end. He and the policemen had arrived a few moments earlier to find Timmer's front door banging open in the wind. Gamache and Beauvoir pulled flashlights from their coats and played them on the hardwood floor. Watery steps trailed into the heart of the dark home. They followed at a run. Just as they rounded into the kitchen they heard the scream.

'Over here.' Peter opened a door into darkness. The three big men plunged down the basement stairs together.

Clara rolled then stopped just as Ben ploughed headlong into the stone wall. He hit it at full run and Clara had been wrong. He was fast. But not so much now. The impact had sent a shudder through the basement. Then Clara heard another noise.

Stairs breaking.