Still Life

TWO

Armand Gamache got the call Thanksgiving Sunday just as he was leaving his Montreal apartment. His wife Reine-Marie was already in the car and the only reason he wasn't on the way to his grand-niece's christening was because he suddenly needed to use the facilities.

'Oui, allo?'

'Monsieur l'Inspedeur?' said the polite young voice at the other end. 'This is Agent Nichol. The Superintendent asked me to call. There's been a murder.'

After decades with the Surete du Quebec, most of them in homicide, those words still sent a frisson through him. 'Where?' he was already reaching for the pad and pen, which stood next to every phone in their flat.

'A village in the Eastern Townships. Three Pines. I can be by to pick you up within a quarter hour.'

'Did you murder this person?' Reine-Marie asked her husband when Armand told her he wouldn't be at the two-hour service on hard benches in a strange church.

'If I did, I'll find out. Want to come?'

'What would you do if I ever said yes?'

'I'd be delighted,' he said truthfully. After thirty-two years of marriage he still couldn't get enough of Reine-Marie. He knew if she ever accompanied him on a murder investigation she would do the appropriate thing. She always seemed to know the right thing to do. Never any drama, never confusion. He trusted her.

And once again she did the right thing, by declining his invitation.

'I'll just tell them you're drunk, again,' she said when he asked whether her family would be disappointed he wasn't there.

'Didn't you tell them I was in a treatment center last time I missed a family gathering?'

'Well, I guess it didn't work.'

'Very sad for you.'

'I'm a martyr to my husband,' said Reine-Marie, getting into the driver's seat. 'Be safe, dear heart,' she said.

'I will, mon coeur.' He went back to his study in their second-floor flat and consulted the huge map of Quebec he had tacked to one wall. His finger moved south from Montreal to the Eastern Townships and hovered around the border with the United States.

'Three Pines… Three Pines,' he repeated, as he tried to find it. 'Could it be called something else?' he asked himself, unable for the first time with this detailed map to find a village. 'Trois Pins, perhaps?' No, there was nothing. He wasn't worried since it was Nichol's job to find the place. He walked through the large apartment they'd bought in the Outremont quartier of Montreal when the children had been born and even though they'd long since moved out and were having children of their own now, the place never felt empty. It was enough to share it with Reine-Marie. Photos sat on the piano and shelves bulged with books, testament to a life well lived. Reine-Marie had wanted to put up his commendations, but he'd gently refused. Each time he came across the framed commendations in his study closet he remembered not the formal Surete ceremony, but the faces of the dead and the living they left behind. No. They had no place on the walls of his home. And now the commendations had stopped completely, since the Arnot case. Still, his family was commendation enough.

Agent Yvette Nichol raced around her home, looking for her wallet.

'Oh, come on, Dad, you must have seen it,' she pleaded, watching the wall clock and its pitiless movement.

Her father felt frozen in place. He had seen her wallet. He'd taken it earlier in the day and slipped twenty dollars in. It was a little game they played. He gave her extra money and she pretended not to notice, though every now and then he'd come home from the night shift at the brewery and there'd be an eclair in the fridge with his name on it, in her clear, almost childlike, hand.

He'd taken her wallet a few minutes ago to slip the money in, but when the call had come through for his daughter to report for a homicide case he'd done something he never dreamed he'd do. He hid it, along with her Surete warrant card. A small document she'd worked years to earn. He watched her now, throwing cushions from the sofa on to the floor. She'll tear the place apart looking for it, he realised.

'Help me, Dad, I've got to find it.' She turned to him, her eyes huge and desperate. Why's he just standing in the room not doing anything? she wondered. This was her big chance, the moment they'd talked about for years. How many times had they shared this dream of her one day making it on to the Surete? It had finally happened, and now, thanks to a lot of hard work and, frankly, her own natural talents as an investigator, she was actually being handed the chance to work on homicide with Gamache. Her Dad knew all about him. Had followed his career in the papers.

'Your Uncle Saul, now he had a chance to be on the police force, but he washed out,' her father had told her, shaking his head. 'Shame on him. And you know what happens to losers?'

'They lose their lives.' Yvette knew the right answer to that. She'd been told the family story since she'd had ears to hear.

'Uncle Saul, your grandparents. All. Now you're the bright one in the family, Yvette. We're counting on you.'

And she'd exceeded every expectation, by qualifying for the Surete. In one generation her family had gone from victims of the authorities in Czechoslovakia, to the ones who made the rules. They'd moved from one end of the gun to the other.

She liked it there.

But now the only thing standing between the fulfillment of all their dreams and failure, like stupid Uncle Saul, was her missing wallet and her warrant card. The clock was ticking. She'd told the Chief Inspector she'd be at his place in fifteen minutes. That was five minutes ago. She had ten minutes to get across town, and to pick up coffee on the way.

'Help me,' she pleaded, dumping the contents of her purse on to the living-room floor.

'Here it is.' Her sister Angelina came out of the kitchen holding the wallet and the warrant card. Nichol practically fell on Angelina and, kissing her, she rushed to put her coat on.

Ari Nikulas was watching his beloved youngest child, trying to memorise every inch of her precious face and trying not to give in to the wretched fear nesting in his stomach. What had he done, planting this ridiculous idea into her head? He'd lost no family in Czechoslovakia. Had made it up to fit in, to sound heroic. To be a big man in their new country. But his daughter had believed it, had believed there had once been a stupid Uncle Saul and a slaughtered family. And now it had gone too far. He couldn't tell her the truth.

She flew into his arms and kissed him on his stubbled cheek. He held her for a moment too long and she paused, looking into his tired, strained eyes.

'Don't worry, Dad. I won't let you down.' And she was off.

He'd just had time to notice how a tiny curl of her dark hair hooked on to the side of her ear, and hung there.

Yvette Nichol rang the doorbell within fifteen minutes of hanging up the phone. Standing awkwardly on the stoop she looked around. This was an attractive quartier, within an easy walk of the shops and restaurants along Rue Bernard. Outremont was a leafy neighborhood populated by the intellectual and political elite of French Quebec. She'd seen the Chief Inspector at headquarters, bustling through the halls, always with a group of people in his slipstream. He was very senior and had a reputation for acting as a mentor to the people lucky enough to work with him. She counted herself fortunate.

He opened the door promptly, just fixing his tweed cap to his head and gave her a warm smile. He held out his hand and after a slight hesitation she shook it.

'I'm Chief Inspector Gamache.'

'It's an honour.'

As the passenger door of the unmarked car was opened for him, Gamache caught the unmistakable fragrance of Tim Horton's coffee in cardboard cups and another aroma. Brioche. The young agent had done her homework. Only while on a murder case did he drink fast-food coffee. It was so associated in his mind with the teamwork, the long hours, the standing in cold, damp fields, that his heart raced every time he smelt industrial coffee and wet cardboard.

'I downloaded the preliminary report from the scene. A hard copy is in the file back there.' Nichol waved toward the back seat while negotiating Blvd St Denis to the autoroute which would take them over the Champlain Bridge and into the countryside.

The rest of the trip was made in silence, as he read the scant information, sipped coffee, ate pastry and watched the flat farmlands around Montreal close in and become slowly rolling hills, then larger mountains, covered with brilliant autumn leaves.

About twenty minutes after turning off the Eastern Townships autoroute they passed a small pockmarked sign telling them Three Pines was two kilometers off this secondary road. After a tooth-jarring minute or two along the washboard dirt road they saw the inevitable paradox. An old stone mill sat beside a pond, the mid morning sun warming its fieldstones. Around it the maples and birches and wild cherry trees held their fragile leaves, like thousands of happy hands waving to them upon arrival. And police cars. The snakes in Eden. Though, Gamache knew, the police were not the evil ones. The snake was already here.

Gamache walked straight toward the anxious crowd that had gathered. As he approached he could see the road dip down, gently sloping into a picturesque village. The growing crowd stood on the brow of the hill, some looking into the woods, where they could just make out the movement of officers in bright yellow jackets, but most were looking at him. Gamache had seen their expression countless times, people desperate for news they desperately didn't want to hear.

'Who is it? Can you tell us what happened?' A tall, distinguished man spoke for the others.

'I'm sorry, I haven't even seen for myself yet. I'll tell you as soon as I can.'

The man looked unhappy with the answer but nodded. Gamache checked his watch: 11 a.m., Thanksgiving Sunday. He turned from the crowd and walked to where they were staring, to the activity in the woods and the one spot of stillness he knew he'd find.

A yellow plastic tape circled the body and within that circle the investigators worked, bowing down like some pagan ritual. Most had been with Gamache for years, but he always kept one position open for a trainee.

'Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir, this is Agent Yvette Nichol.'

Beauvoir gave a relaxed nod. 'Welcome.'

At thirty-five years old, Jean Guy Beauvoir had been Gamache's second in command for more than a decade. He wore cords and a wool sweater under his leather jacket. A scarf was rakishly and apparently randomly whisked around his neck. It was a look of studied nonchalance which suited his toned body but was easily contradicted by the cord-tight tension of his stance. Jean Guy Beauvoir was loosely wrapped but tightly wound.

'Thank you, sir.' Nichol wondered whether she would ever be as comfortable at a murder scene as these people.

'Chief Inspector Gamache, this is Robert Lemieux,' Beauvoir introduced a young officer standing respectfully just outside the police cordon. 'Agent Lemieux was the duty officer with the Cowansville Surete. He got the call and came here immediately. Secured the scene then called us.'

'Well done.' Gamache shook his hand. 'Anything strike you when you arrived?'

Lemieux looked dumbfounded by the question. At best he'd hoped to be allowed to hang around and watch, and not be shooed away from the scene. He'd never expected to meet Gamache, never mind actually answer a question.

'Bien sur, I saw that man there. An Anglais, I suspected by his clothes and his pallor. The English, I have noticed, have weak stomachs.' Lemieux was pleased to pass this insight on to the Chief Inspector even though he'd just made it up. He had no idea whether Les Anglais were more prone to pallor than the Quebecois, but it sounded good. It had also been Lemieux's experience that the English had no clothes sense, and this man in his plaid flannel shirt could not possibly be francophone. 'His name is Benjamin Hadley.'

On the far side of the circle, half sitting against a maple tree, Gamache could see a middle-aged man. Tall, slim, looking very, very ill. Beauvoir followed Gamache's gaze.

'He found the body,' said Beauvoir.

'Hadley? As in Hadley's Mills?'

Beauvoir smiled. He couldn't imagine how he knew this, but he did. 'That's the one. You know him?'

'No. Not yet.' Beauvoir cocked his eyebrow at his chief and waited. Gamache explained, 'The mill has faded writing at the top.'

'Hadley's Mills.'

'Well deduced, Beauvoir.'

'A wild guess, sir.'

Nichol could have kicked herself. She'd been everywhere Gamache had been and he had noticed that and she hadn't. What else did he see? What else didn't she? Damn. She looked suspiciously at Lemieux. He seemed to be ingratiating himself to the Chief Inspector.

'Merci, Agent Lemieux,' she said, putting out her hand while the Chief Inspector's back was turned, watching the wretched 'Anglais'. Lemieux took it, as she hoped he would. 'Au revoir.' Lemieux stood uncertainly for a moment, looking from her to Gamache's broad back. Then he shrugged and left.

Armand Gamache turned his attention from the living to the dead. He walked a few paces and knelt down beside the body that had brought them there.

A clump of hair had fallen into Jane Neal's open eyes. Gamache wanted to brush it away. It was fanciful, he knew. But he was fanciful. He had come to allow himself a certain latitude in that area. Beauvoir, on the other hand, was reason itself, and that made them a formidable team.

Gamache stared quietly at Jane Neal. Nichol cleared her throat, thinking perhaps he'd forgotten where he was. But he didn't react. Didn't move. He and Jane were frozen in time, both staring, one down, one up. Then his eyes moved along her body, to the worn camel-hair cardigan, the light-blue turtleneck. No jewelry. Was she robbed? He'd have to ask Beauvoir. Her tweed skirt was where you'd expect it to be, in someone who'd fallen. Her leotards, patched in at least one place, were otherwise unmarred. She might have been robbed, but she hadn't been violated. Except for being killed, of course.

His deep brown eyes lingered on her liver-spotted brown hands. Rough, tanned hands that had known seasons in a garden. No rings on her fingers, or sign there had ever been. He always felt a pang when looking at the hands of the newly dead, imagining all the objects and people those hands had held. The food, the faces, the doorknobs. All the gestures they'd made to signal delight or sorrow. And the final gesture, surely, to ward off the blow that would kill. The most poignant were the hands of young people who would never absently brush a lock of gray hair from their own eyes.

He stood up with Beauvoir's help and asked, 'Was she robbed?'

'We don't think so. Mr Hadley says she never wore jewelry, and rarely carried a handbag. He thinks we'll find it in her home.'

'Her house key?'

'No. No key. But again, Mr Hadley says people don't lock up around here.'

'They will now.' Gamache stooped over the body and stared at the tiny wound, hardly large enough, you'd have thought, to drain the life from a whole human being. It was about the size of the tip of his little finger.

'Any idea what did this?'

'It's hunting season, so perhaps a bullet, though it doesn't look like any bullet wound I've ever seen.'

'It's actually bow-hunting season. Guns don't start for two weeks,' said Nichol.

The two men looked at her. Gamache nodded and the three of them stared at the wound as though perhaps with enough concentration it would talk.

'So where's the arrow?' Beauvoir asked.

'Is there an exit wound?'

'I don't know,' said Beauvoir. 'We haven't let the medical examiner move her.'

'Let's get her over here,' said Gamache as Beauvoir waved to a young woman in jeans, field coat and carrying a medical bag.

'Monsieur l'Inspecteur,' said Dr Sharon Harris, nodding and kneeling. 'She's been dead about five hours, perhaps slightly less. That's just a guess.' Dr Harris rolled Jane over. Dried leaves clung to the back of her sweater. A retching noise was heard and Nichol looked over to see Ben Hadley, his heaving back turned to them, throwing up.

'Yes, there's an exit wound.'

'Thank you, doctor. We'll leave you to it. Now, walk with me, Beauvoir, you too, Agent Nichol. Tell me what you know.'

In all the years Jean Guy Beauvoir had worked with Gamache, through all the murders and mayhem, it never ceased to thrill him, hearing that simple sentence. 'Tell me what you know.' It signaled the beginning of the hunt. He was the alpha dog. And Chief Inspector Gamache was Master of the Hunt.

'Her name's Jane Neal. Aged seventy-six. Never been married. We got this information from Mr Hadley who says she was the same age as his mother who died a month ago.'

'That's interesting. Two elderly women die within a month of each other in this tiny village. I wonder.'

'I wondered too, so I asked. His mother died after a long battle with cancer. They could see it coming for a year.'

'Go on.'

'Mr Hadley was walking in the woods at about eight this morning, a regular occurrence. Miss Neal's body was lying across the path. Impossible to miss.'

'What did he do?'

'He says he recognised her immediately. He knelt down and shook her. He thought she'd had a stroke or heart attack. Says he was about to begin CPR when he noticed the wound.'

'Didn't he notice she was staring blank-eyed and was cold as marble?' Nichol was feeling more confident.

'Would you?'

'Of course. You couldn't miss it.'

'Unless…' Here Gamache was inviting her to argue against herself. She didn't want to. She wanted to be right. Clearly he thought she wasn't.

'Unless. Unless I was in shock, I suppose.' She had to admit that was a remote possibility.

'Look at the man. It's been three hours since he found her and he's still sick. He just threw up. This woman was important to him,' said Gamache, looking over at Ben Hadley. 'Unless he's faking it.'

'Sorry, sir?'

'Well, it's easy enough to stick a finger down your throat and throw up. Makes quite an impression.' Gamache turned to Beauvoir. 'Do any others know about the death of Miss Neal?'

'There was a group of villagers on the road, sir,' said Nichol. Gamache and Beauvoir looked at her. She'd done it again, she realised. In an effort to impress and redeem herself she'd in fact done the opposite. She'd answered a question not directed at her, interrupting a senior officer with information obvious to a three-year-old. Inspector Gamache had seen those people as well as she had. Damn! Nichol knew with a creeping chill that in trying to impress them with her brilliance she was having the opposite effect. She was proving herself a fool.

'Sorry, sir.'

'Inspector Beauvoir?'

'I've tried to keep this a sterile site.' He turned to Nichol.

'No outsiders, and none of our people talking about the crime outside our perimeter.' Nichol blushed a deep red. She hated that he felt he had to explain it to her, and she hated even more that she needed the explanation.

'But-' Beauvoir shrugged.

'Time to speak with Mr Hadley,' said Gamache, walking with a measured pace in his direction.

Ben Hadley had been watching them, understanding clearly that the boss had arrived.

'Mr Hadley, I'm Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Surete du Quebec.'

Ben had been expecting a francophone, perhaps even a unilingual French detective, so he'd spent a few minutes practicing his French, and how to describe his movements. Now this immaculate man with the trimmed moustache, the deep-brown eyes looking at him over the rim of his half-moon glasses, the three-piece suit (could that possibly be a Burberry coat?), the tweed cap with graying, groomed hair underneath, was extending his large hand-as though this was a slightly formal business occasion-and speaking English with a British accent. Yet he'd heard snippets of his conversation with his colleagues and that was definitely in fast and fluid French. In Quebec it was far from unusual that people spoke both languages, even fluently. But it was unusual to find a francophone speaking like a hereditary member of the House of Lords.

'This is Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir and Agent Yvette Nichol.' They all shook hands, though Nichol was slightly leery, not sure what he'd wiped his face with after throwing up.

'How can I help?'

'Let's walk,' Gamache pointed down the path through the woods, 'just a little away from here.'

'Thank you,' said Ben, genuinely grateful.

'I'm sorry about the death of Miss Neal. Was she a close friend?'

'Very. She actually taught me at the school house here.'

Gamache was watching him attentively, his dark brown eyes on Ben's face, taking in what was being said, without judgment or accusation. Ben could feel himself relax for the first time in hours. Gamache said nothing, just waited for Ben to continue.

'She was a wonderful woman. I wish I was good with words, I could begin to describe her for you.' Ben turned his face away, ashamed of the tears that came up again. He balled his hands into fists and could feel the welcome pain of his fingernails biting into his palms. That was a pain he could understand. The other was beyond his comprehension. Strangely it was so much greater than when his mother had died. He gathered himself again, 'I don't understand what's happened. Jane's death wasn't natural, was it?'

'No, Mr Hadley, it wasn't.'

'Someone killed her?'

'Tell us about this morning, please.'

By now their walking had slowed and petered to a stop.

'I found Jane just lying-'

Gamache interrupted, 'From the time you woke up, please.' Ben raised an eyebrow but did as he was asked.

'I woke up at about seven. I always get up with the sun. The light comes into my bedroom and I never bothered to get curtains. I got up, had a shower and the rest, and fed Daisy.' He watched their faces closely, looking for some sign that he was giving too much or too little detail. The woman agent looked as puzzled as he felt. The tall good-looking Inspector (Ben had already forgotten their names) was writing everything down. And the boss looked interested and encouraging. 'Then we went outside for a walk, but she has arthritis and this morning she was very sore. Daisy's a dog, by the way. Anyway, I let her back in the house and took myself off for a walk. This was a quarter to eight.' Ben figured, correctly, they'd be interested in the timing. 'It takes just a few minutes to walk here, up the road and past the school house then into the woods.'

'Did you see anyone?' Beauvoir asked.

'No, I didn't. It's possible someone saw me, but I missed them. I tend to walk with my head down, lost in thought. I've passed right by people without noticing them. My friends know that about me and don't take offense. I was walking along the path and something made me look up.'

'Please try to remember, Mr Hadley. If you normally walk with your head down, why would you raise it?'

'Odd, isn't it? I can't remember. But unfortunately, as I said, I'm normally lost in thought. Never deep or important thoughts. My mother used to laugh and say some people try to be in two places at once. I, on the other hand, am generally nowhere.' Ben laughed, but Nichol privately thought that was an awful thing for a mother to say.

'She was right, of course. Look at today. Beautiful sunshine. I'm walking through the gorgeous woods. It's like a postcard, but I don't notice anything, don't appreciate it, except perhaps sometime later when I'm somewhere else and thinking about this walk. It seems my mind is constantly one step behind my body.'

'Looking up, sir,' Beauvoir prompted.

'I really can't think what made me look up, but it's a good thing I did. I might have fallen right over her. Funny but it never occurred to me that she was dead. I was reluctant to disturb her. I kind of tiptoed up and called her name. Then I noticed a stillness and my mind just kind of exploded. I thought she'd had a stroke, or heart attack.' He shook his head, still in disbelief.

'Did you actually touch the wound?' Beauvoir asked.

'I think I might have. I just remember leaping up and wiping my hands on my pants. I panicked and like a-I don't know what – an hysterical child I ran in circles. Idiot! Anyway, I finally got a hold of myself and dialed 911 on my cell phone.'

'I'm curious,' said Gamache. 'Why did you bring a cell phone to walk in the woods?'

'These woods belong to my family and every fall hunters trespass. I'm not a brave man, I'm afraid, but I can't tolerate killing. Killing anything. I have spiders in my home with names. In the mornings when I go for a walk I bring a cell phone. Partly out of fear that I'll get shot by some drunken hunter and need to call for help and partly to call Natural Resources and get a warden up here if I do spot someone.'

'And what would that number be?' asked Chief Inspector Gamache pleasantly.

'I don't know. I have it on my speed dial. I know that my hands shake when I'm nervous, so I just programmed the number in.' Ben looked concerned for the first time and Inspector Gamache took him by the arm and led him further up the path.

'I'm sorry about these questions. You're an important witness and, frankly, the person who finds the body is near the top of our list of suspects.'

Ben stopped in his tracks and looked at the Inspector, incredulous.

'Suspected of what? What are you saying?' Ben turned around and looked back in the direction they'd come, toward Jane's body. 'That's Jane Neal over there. A retired schoolteacher who tended roses and ran the ACW, the Anglican Church Women. It can't be anything other than an accident. You don't understand. Nobody would kill her on purpose.'

Nichol was watching this exchange and now waited with some satisfaction for Chief Inspector Gamache to set this stupid man straight.

'You're absolutely right, Mr Hadley. That's by far the likeliest possibility.' Yvette Nichol couldn't believe her ears. Why didn't he just tell Hadley to get off his soapbox and let them do their jobs? After all, he was the idiot who disturbed the body then ran around messing up and contaminating the whole site. He was hardly in a position to lecture a man as senior and respected as Gamache.

'In the few hours you've been standing here, has anything about the scene or about Miss Neal seemed out of place?'

Gamache was impressed that Ben chose not to say the obvious. Instead he thought for a minute.

'Yes. Lucy, her dog. I can't remember Jane ever going for a walk without Lucy, especially a morning walk.'

'Did you call anyone else on your cell?'

Ben looked as though he'd been presented with a totally new, and brilliant, idea.

'Oh. Such an idiot! I can't believe it. It never occurred to me to call Peter, or Clara or anyone. Here I was all alone, not wanting to leave Jane, but having to wave down the police. And it never occurred to me to call for help, except 911. Oh my God, the shock, I suppose.'

Or maybe, thought Nichol, you really are an idiot. So far it would be difficult to find a human being less effective than Ben Hadley.

'Who are Peter and Clara?' Beauvoir asked.

'Peter and Clara Morrow. My best friends. They live next door to Jane. Jane and Clara were like mother and daughter. Oh, poor Clara. Do you think they know?'

'Well, let's find out,' said Gamache suddenly, walking with surprising speed back down the path toward the body. Once at the scene he turned to Beauvoir.

'Inspector, take over here. You know what you're looking for. Agent, stay with the Inspector and help him. What time is it?'

'Eleven-thirty, sir,' said Nichol.

'Right. Mr Hadley, is there a restaurant or cafe in the village?'

'Yes, there's Olivier's Bistro.'

Gamache turned to Beauvoir. 'Assemble the team at Olivier's at one-thirty. We'll miss the lunch rush and should have the place almost to ourselves. Is that correct, Mr Hadley?'

'Hard to say, really. It's possible as word gets out the village will congregate there. Olivier's is the Central Station of Three Pines. But he has a back room he opens only for dinner. It overlooks the river. He'd probably open it for you and your team.'

Gamache looked at Ben with interest. 'That's a good idea. Inspector Beauvoir, I'll stop by and speak with Monsieur Olivier-'

'It's Olivier Brule,' Ben interrupted. 'He and his partner Gabriel Dubeau run it and the only B. & B. in the village.'

'I'll speak with them and arrange a private room for lunch. May I walk with you, Mr Hadley, to the village? I haven't been there yet.'

'Yes, of course.' Ben almost said, 'It would be a pleasure', but stopped himself. Somehow this police officer emitted and invited courtesy and a certain formality. Though they must have been about the same age, Ben felt it was very like being with his grandfather.

'There's Peter Morrow.' Ben pointed into the crowd which had turned as though choreographed in their direction as the two men made their way out of the woods. Ben was pointing to the tall worried-looking man who'd spoken to Gamache earlier.

'I'm going to tell you all I can right now,' Gamache spoke to the crowd of about thirty villagers. He noticed Ben walk over to stand next to Peter Morrow.

'The dead woman's name is Jane Neal,' Gamache knew it was a false kindness to cushion a blow like this. A few of the people started to cry, some brought their hands up to their mouths as though covering a wound. Most dropped their heads as though the information was too heavy. Peter Morrow stared at Gamache. Then at Ben.

Gamache took all this in. Mr Morrow showed no surprise. And no sorrow. Anxiety, yes. Concern, without doubt. But sadness?

'How?' someone asked.

'We don't know yet. But it wasn't natural.'

A moan escaped the crowd, involuntary and heartfelt. Except Peter Morrow.

'Where's Clara?' Ben looked around. It was unusual to see one without the other.

Peter tilted his head toward the village. 'St Thomas's.'

The three men found Clara alone in the chapel, eyes closed, head bowed. Peter stood at the open door looking at her hunched back, braced against the blow that was to fall. He quietly walked up the short path between the pews, feeling as though he was floating above his body, watching his movements.

It was the minister who had brought the news earlier that morning that the police were active in the woods behind the old school house. Then, as the service of Thanksgiving progressed, their unease grew. Soon the tiny church was sick with rumors of a hunting accident. A woman. Injured? No, killed. Don't know who. Terrible. Terrible. And deep down in her stomach Clara knew just how terrible it was. With each opening of the door, each shaft of sunlight, she begged Jane to appear, late and flustered and apologetic. 'I've just slept in. Silly of me. Lucy, poor dear, woke me with a little cry to go out. So sorry.' The minister, either oblivious to the drama or out of his depth, just kept droning on.

Sun poured in through the stained-glass boys in uniforms from the Great War, scattering blues and deep reds and yellows across the pine floor and oak pews. The chapel smelled like every small church Clara had ever known. Pledge and pine and dusty old books. As the choir stood to sing the next hymn Clara turned to Peter.

'Can you go see?'

Peter took Clara's hand and was surprised to feel it freezing cold. He rubbed it between his own hands for a moment.

'I'll go. It'll be all right. Look at me,' he said, trying to get her frantic mind to stop its twirling.

'Praise, my soul, the King of heaven,' sang the choir.

Clara blinked, 'It will be all right?'

'Yes.'

'Alleluia, Alleluia. Praise the everlasting King.'

That had been an hour ago and now everyone had left, including the minister, late for Thanksgiving service in Cleghorn Halt. Clara heard the door open, saw the square of sunlight grow down the aisle, and saw the shadow appear, the outline familiar even in its distortion.

Peter hesitated then slowly made his way to her pew.

She knew then.