Still Life

FOUR

'Toast?' Peter ventured next morning to Clara's blubbering back.

'High doan whan doast,' she sobbed and slobbered, a fine thread of spittle descending to the floor to pool, glistening, at her feet. They were standing barefoot in the kitchen where they'd begun to make breakfast. Normally they'd have already showered and if not dressed at least put on slippers and a dressing gown over their flannel pajamas. But this morning wasn't normal. Peter simply hadn't appreciated how far from normal it was until this moment.

Lying all night, holding Clara, he'd dared to hope that the worst was over. That maybe the grief, while still there, would today allow some of his wife to be present. But the woman he knew and loved had been swallowed up. Like Jonah. Her white whale of sorrow and loss in an ocean of body fluid.

'Clara? We need to talk. Can we talk?' Peter yearned to crawl back into their warm bed with a pot of coffee, some toast and jam, and the latest Lee Valley catalogue. Instead, he stood barefoot in the middle of their cold kitchen floor wielding a baguette like a wand at Clara's back. He didn't like the wand image. Maybe a sword. But was that appropriate? To wield a sword at your wife? He gave it a couple of swishes through the air and the crisp bread broke. Just as well, he thought. The imagery was getting too confusing.

'We need to talk about Jane.' He remembered where he really. was, placed the tragically broken sword on the counter and put his hand on her shoulder. He felt the soft flannel for an instant before her shoulder jerked away from his hand. 'Remember when you and Jane would talk and I'd make some rude comment and leave?' Clara stared ahead, snorting every now and then as a fresh drip left her nose. 'I'd go into my studio to paint. But I left the door open. You didn't know that, did you?'

For the first time in twenty-four hours he saw a flicker of interest. She turned to face him, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Peter resisted the urge to get a Kleenex.

'Every week while you and Jane talked I'd listen and paint. For years, and years. Did my best work in there, listening to you two. It was a little like when I was a kid lying in bed, listening to Mom and Dad downstairs, talking. It was comforting. But it was more than that. You and Jane talked about everything. Gardening, books, relationships, cooking. And you talked about your beliefs. Remember?'

Clara looked down at her hands.

'You both believed in God. Clara, you have to figure out what you believe.'

'What do you mean? I know what I believe.'

'What? Tell me.'

'Screw off. Leave me alone!' Now she rounded on him. 'Where're your tears? Eh? You're more dead than she is. You can't even cry. And now what? You want me to stop? It hasn't even been a day yet, and you're what? Bored with it? Not the center of the universe anymore? You want everything to go back to the way it was, like that.' Clara snapped her fingers in his face. 'You disgust me.'

Peter leaned away from the assault, wounded, and wanting to say all the things he knew would hurt her the way she'd just hurt him.

'Go away!' she screamed through hiccups and gasps. And he wanted to. He'd wanted to go away since this time yesterday. But he'd stayed. And now, more than ever, he wanted to flee. Just for a little while. A walk around the Commons, a coffee with Ben. A shower. It sounded so reasonable, so justified. Instead, he leaned toward her again, and took her snot-smeared hands in his and kissed them. She tried to pull away, but he held on firmly.

'Clara, I love you. And I know you. You have to figure out what you believe, what you really, truly believe. All these years you've talked about God. You've written about your faith. You've done dancing angels, and yearning goddesses. Is God here, now, Clara? Is he in this room?'

Peter's kind voice calmed Clara. She began to listen.

'Is he here?' Peter slowly brought his forefinger to her chest, not quite touching. 'Is Jane with him?'

Peter pressed on. He knew where he had to go. And this time it wasn't somewhere else. 'All those questions you and Jane debated and laughed about and argued over, she has the answer to. She's met God.'

Clara's mouth dropped open and she stared straight ahead. There. There it was. Her mainland. That's where she could put her grief. Jane was dead. And she was now with God. Peter was right. She either believed in God, or she didn't. Either was OK. But she could no longer say she believed in God and act otherwise. She did believe in God. And she believed that Jane was with him. And suddenly her pain and grief became human and natural. And survivable. She had a place to put it, a place where Jane was with God.

It was such a relief. She looked at Peter, his face bent to her. Dark rings under his eyes. His gray wavy hair sticking out. She felt in her hair and found a duck clip buried in the chaos of her head. Taking it out, and with it some of her own hair, she placed her hand on the back of Peter's head. Silently she drew it toward her and with her other hand she smoothed a section of his unruly hair, and put her clip on it. And as she did so she whispered in his ear, 'Thank you. I'm sorry.'

And Peter started to cry. To his horror he felt his eyes sting and well up and there was a burning in the back of his throat. He couldn't control it any longer and it came bursting out. He cried like he'd cried as a child when, lying in bed listening to the comfort of his parents talking downstairs, he realised they were talking about divorce. He took Clara in his arms and held her to his chest and prayed he would never lose her.

The meeting at the Surete headquarters in Montreal didn't last long. The coroner hoped to have a preliminary report that afternoon and would bring it by Three Pines on her way home. Jean Guy Beauvoir reported his conversation with Robert Lemieux, of the Cowansville Surete, still eager to help.

'He says Yolande Fontaine herself is clean. Some vague suspicions of slippery practices as a real estate agent, but nothing against the law, yet. But her husband and son are quite popular with the police, both the local and the Surete. Her husband is Andre Malenfant, aged thirty-seven. Five counts of drunk and disorderly. Two of assault. Two of breaking and entering.'

'Has he done any jail time?' Gamache asked.

'Couple of stretches at Bordeaux and lots of single nights in the local lock-up.'

'And the son?'

'Bernard Malenfant. Age fourteen. Seems to be apprenticing to his father. Out of control. Lots of complaints from the school. Lots of complaints from parents.'

'Has the boy ever actually been charged with anything?'

'No. Just a couple of stern talkings to.' A few officers in the room snorted their cynicism. Gamache knew Jean Guy Beauvoir well enough to know he always kept the best for last. And his body language told Gamache there was more to come.

'But,' said Beauvoir, his eyes lit in triumph, 'Andre Malenfant is a hunter. Now with his convictions he isn't allowed a gun-hunting permit. But-'

Gamache enjoyed watching Beauvoir indulge his flamboyant side, and this was about as flamboyant as Beauvoir got. A dramatic pause.

'-this year, for the first time, he applied for and got a bow-hunting permit.'

Ta da.

The meeting broke up. Beauvoir handed out the assignments and the teams went off. As the room cleared Nichol made to get up but Gamache stopped her. They were alone now and he wanted a quiet talk. He'd watched her during the meeting, again choosing a seat one removed from the next person, not grabbing a coffee and Danish with the others. In fact, not doing anything anyone else did. It was almost willful, this desire to separate herself from the team. The clothes she was wearing were plain, not the kind you might expect from a Montreal woman in her mid-twenties. There was none of the characteristic Quebecoise flamboyance. He realised he'd grown used to a certain individuality among his team members. But Nichol seemed to strive to be invisible. Her suit was dull blue and made of cheap material. The shoulders were slightly padded, the lumps of foam screamed bargain bin. Creeping out from her armpits was a thin white line where the tide of perspiration had reached the last time she'd worn this suit. And not cleaned it. He wondered if she made her own clothes. He wondered if she still lived at home with her parents. He wondered how proud they must be of her, and how much pressure she felt to succeed. He wondered if all that explained the one thing that did distinguish her from everyone else. Her smugness.

'You're a trainee, here to learn,' he said quietly, directly into the slightly pursed face. 'Therefore a certain teaching is necessary. Do you enjoy learning?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And how do you learn?'

'Sir?'

'The question is clear. Think about it, please, and answer.'

His deep brown eyes, as always, were lively and warm. He spoke calmly, but firmly. Without hostility but with an expectation. His tone was clearly one of boss and trainee. She was taken aback. He had been so friendly yesterday, so courteous, she thought she could take advantage of that. Now she began to realise her mistake.

'I learn by watching and listening, sir.'

'And?'

And what? They sat there, Gamache looking as though he had all day, though she knew he had to conduct the public meeting in Three Pines in just two hours and they still had to drive there. Nichol's mind froze. And… and…

'Think about it. Tonight you can tell me what you've come up with. For now, though, let me tell you how I work. And what my expectations of you are.'

'Yes sir.'

'I watch. I'm very good at observing. Noticing things. And listening. Actively listening to what people are saying, their choice of words, their tone. What they aren't saying. And this, Agent Nichol, is the key. It's choice.'

'Choice?'

'We choose our thoughts. We choose our perceptions. We choose our attitudes. We may not think so. We may not believe it, but we do. I absolutely know we do. I've seen enough evidence, time after time, tragedy after tragedy. Triumph after triumph. It's about choice.'

'Like choice of schools? Or dinner?'

'Clothes, hairstyle, friends. Yes. It starts there. Life is choice. All day, everyday. Who we talk to, where we sit, what we say, how we say it. And our lives become defined by our choices. It's as simple and as complex as that. And as powerful. So when I'm observing, that's what I'm watching for. The choices people make.'

'What can I do, sir?'

'You can learn. You can watch and listen, and do as you're told. You're a trainee. Nobody expects you to know anything. If you pretend to know you aren't going to actually learn.'

Nichol could feel herself blush and cursed her body, which had betrayed her for as long as she could remember. She was a blusher. Maybe, came some voice from deep down below blushing level, maybe if you stop pretending you'll also stop blushing. But it was a very weak voice.

'I watched you yesterday. You did some good work. You got us on to the arrow possibility early. Excellent. But you also have to listen. Listen to the villagers, listen to the suspects, listen to gossip, listen to your instincts and listen to your colleagues.'

Nichol liked the sound of that. Colleagues. She'd never had them before. In the Highway Division of the Surete she'd worked more or less on her own, and before that in the local Repentigny force she'd always felt people were waiting to undermine her. It would be nice to have colleagues. Gamache leaned toward her.

'You need to learn that you have choices. There are four things that lead to wisdom. You ready for them?'

She nodded, wondering when the police work would begin.

'They are four sentences we learn to say, and mean.' Gamache held up his hand as a fist and raised a finger with each point. 'I don't know. I need help. I'm sorry. And one other.' Gamache thought for a moment but couldn't bring it to mind. 'I forget. But we'll talk more about it tonight, right?'

'Right, sir. And thank you.' Oddly enough, she realised she meant it.

After Gamache had left, Nichol brought out her notebook. She hadn't wanted to take notes while he was talking. She figured it would make her look foolish. Now she quickly wrote: I'm sorry, I don't know, I need help, I forget.

When Peter got out of the shower and came into the kitchen he noticed two things. The coffee was brewing and Clara was wrapped around Lucy who herself was a tight ball of Golden Retriever, her nose between her back legs.

'It worked for me last night,' said Clara, arching her head back to look at Peter's slippers, and instinctively up his bathrobe.

Peter knelt down and kissed Clara. Then he kissed Lucy's head. But the dog didn't stir. 'Poor one.'

'I offered her some banana but she didn't even look up.'

Everyday for Lucy's entire dog life Jane had sliced a banana for breakfast and had miraculously dropped one of the perfect disks on to the floor where it sat for an instant before being gobbled up. Every morning Lucy's prayers were answered, confirming her belief that God was old and clumsy and smelt like roses and lived in the kitchen.

But no more.

Lucy knew her God was dead. And she now knew the miracle wasn't the banana, it was the hand that offered the banana.

After breakfast Peter and Clara both got into their fall clothing and headed across the village green to Ben's place. The gray clouds were threatening rain and the wind had a dampness and a bite. The aroma of sauteed garlic and onions met them as they stepped on to Ben's front veranda. Clara knew if she was struck blind she'd always be able to tell when she was in Ben's home. It smelled of stinky dog and old books. All of Ben's dogs had smelled, not just Daisy, and it seemed to have nothing to do with age. Clara wasn't sure if he created or attracted them. But now, suddenly, his place smelled of home cooking. Instead of welcoming it, Clara felt a little queasy, as though one more certainty had been removed. She wanted the old smell back. She wanted Jane back. She wanted everything to stay the same.

'Oh, I wanted to surprise you,' said Ben, coming over to hug Clara. 'Chili con carne.'

'My favorite comfort food.'

'I've never made it before but I have some of my mother's recipe books and found it in The Joy of Cooking. It won't bring Jane back, but it might ease the pain.'

Clara looked at the huge cookbook open on the counter, and felt revolted. It had come from that house. Timmer's place. The home that repulsed love and laughter and welcomed snakes and mice. She wanted nothing to do with it, and she realised her revulsion stretched even to objects that had come from there.

'But Ben, you loved Jane too. And you found her. It must have been a nightmare.'

'It was.' He told them briefly about it, his back to them, not daring to face Peter and Clara as though he was responsible. He stirred the ground meat as it cooked while Clara opened the tins of ingredients and listened to Ben. After a moment she handed the can opener to Peter and had to sit down. Ben's story was playing in her head like a movie. But she kept expecting Jane to get up. As Ben finished Clara excused herself and went through the kitchen into the living room.

She put another small log on the fire and listened to the quiet murmur of Peter and Ben. She couldn't make out the words, just the familiarity. Another wave of sadness enveloped her. She'd lost her murmuring partner. The one with whom she made comforting noises. And she felt something else, a wisp of jealousy that Peter still had Ben. He could visit any time, but her best friend was gone. She knew it was unspeakably petty and selfish but there it was. She took a deep breath and inhaled garlic and onions and frying mince and other calming smells. Nellie must have cleaned recently because there was the fresh aroma of detergents. Cleanliness. Clara felt better and knew that Ben was her friend too, not just Peter's. And that she wasn't alone, unless she chose to be. She also knew Daisy could best sauteed garlic any day and her smell would re-emerge triumphant.

St Thomas's was filling up when Peter, Clara and Ben arrived. The rain was just beginning so there wasn't much milling about. The tiny parking lot at the side of the chapel was packed, and trucks and cars lined the circular Commons. Inside, the small church was overflowing and warm. It smelled of damp wool and the earth trod in on boots. The three squeezed in and joined the line of people leaning against the back wall. Clara felt some small knobs pushing into her and turning around she saw she'd been leaning against the cork bulletin board. Notices of the semi-annual tea and craft sale, the Brownie meeting, Hanna's exercise classes Monday and Thursday mornings, the bridge club Wednesdays at 7.30, and old yellowed announcements of 'new' church hours, from 1967.

'My name is Armand Gamache.' The big man had taken center stage. This morning he was dressed in a tweed jacket and gray flannel slacks with a simple and elegant burgundy tie around the neck of his Oxford shirt. His hat was off and Clara saw he was balding, without attempt to hide it. His hair was graying, as was his trimmed moustache. He gave the impression of a county squire addressing the village. He was a man used to being in charge, and he wore it well. The room hushed immediately, save for a persistent cough at the back. 'I'm the chief inspector of homicide for the Surete du Quebec.' This produced quite a buzz, which he waited out.

'This is my second in command, Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir.' Beauvoir stepped forward and nodded. 'There are other Surete officers around the room. I expect they're obvious to you.' He didn't mention that most of his team were off turning the archery clubhouse upside down.

It struck Clara that the person who had killed Jane was probably among the crowd gathered in St Thomas's. She looked around and spotted Nellie and her husband Wayne, Myrna and Ruth, Olivier and Gabri. Matthew and Suzanne Croft sat in the row behind them. But no Philippe.

'We think the death of Jane Neal was an accident, but so far no one has come forward.' Gamache paused and Clara noticed how still and focused he could become. His intelligent eyes quietly swept the room before he continued. 'If this was an accident, and the person who killed her is here, I want you to know a few things.' Clara didn't think the room could get any quieter, but it did. Even the coughing stopped, miraculously cured by curiosity.

'It must have been horrible when you realised what you'd done. But you need to come forward and admit it. The longer you wait the harder it will be. For us, for the community and for yourself.' Chief Inspector Gamache paused and slowly looked around the room, each and every person feeling that he was looking inside them. The room waited. There was a frisson, an idea each person held that maybe the one responsible would get up.

Clara caught the eye of Yolande Fontaine, who smiled weakly. Clara disliked her intensely, but smiled back. Andre, Yolande's scrawny husband, was there picking his cuticles and occasionally nibbling them. Their remarkably unattractive son Bernard sat slack-jawed and sullen, slumped in his pew. He looked bored and was making faces at his friends across the way between mouthfuls of candy.

Nobody moved.

'We will find you. That's what we do.' Gamache took a deep breath, as though changing the subject. 'We're investigating this as though it was a murder, though we doubt that. I have the coroner's preliminary report here.' He flipped open his palm pilot. 'It confirms that Jane Neal died between six-thirty and seven yesterday morning. The weapon appears to have been an arrow.'

This produced more than a few murmurs.

'I say "appears" because no weapon was found. And that's a problem. It argues against this being just an accident. That, combined with the fact that nobody has taken responsibility, is why we need to treat this as suspicious.'

Gamache paused and looked at the gathering. A sea of well-meaning faces looked back, with a few rocks of petulance thrown in here and there. They have no idea what's about to happen to them, thought Gamache.

'This is how it starts. You'll see us everywhere. We'll be asking questions, checking backgrounds, talking-not just to you, but your neighbors and your employers and your family and your friends.'

Another murmur, this one with an edge of hostility. Gamache was pretty sure he heard 'fascist' from his lower left side. He stole a look and saw Ruth Zardo sitting there.

'You didn't ask for any of this to happen but it's here now. Jane Neal is dead and all of us need to deal with it. We need to do our job and you need to help us, and that means accepting things you wouldn't normally accept. That's just life. I'm sorry for it. But it doesn't change the facts.'

The murmuring diminished and there were even nods of agreement.

'We all have secrets, and before this is over I'll know most of yours. If they're not pertinent then they'll die with me. But I will find them out. Most days in the late afternoon I'll be at Mr Brule's bistro, reviewing notes. You're welcome to join me for a drink and a talk.'

Crime was deeply human, Gamache knew. The cause and the effect. And the only way he knew to catch a criminal was to connect with the human beings involved. Chatting in a cafe was the most pleasant, and disarming, way to do it.

'Any questions?'

'Are we in danger?' Hanna Parra, the local elected representative, asked.

Gamache had been expecting this. It was a tough one since they really didn't know whether it was an accident or murder.

'I don't think so. Should you be locking your doors at night? Always. Should you be careful walking in the woods or even around the Common? Yes. Should you not do these things?'

He paused and saw a whole congregation of concern.

'Did you lock the door last night?' Clara whispered to Peter. He nodded and Clara gave his hand a relieved squeeze. 'Did you?' she asked Ben, who shook his head, 'No, but I will tonight.'

'That's up to you,' Gamache was saying. The reaction I see most is caution for about a week after an event of this sort. Then people go back to the way of life that's most comfortable. Some continue the precautions all their lives, others revert to their old way of doing things. Most find a middle ground of prudence. There's no right or better way. Frankly, I would take care right now, but there is absolutely no need for panic.'

Gamache smiled and added, 'You don't look like the panicking kind.' And they didn't, though most did have slightly wider eyes then when they had walked in. 'Besides, I'll be staying at the B. & B. here, if you have any concerns.'

'My name's Old Mundin.' A man aged about twenty-five got up. He was impossibly handsome with curly dark hair, chiseled, rugged face, and a body that spoke of lots of lifting. Beauvoir shot Gamache a look both amused and confused. Was this man's name really 'Old' Mundin? He wrote it down but without conviction.

'Yes, Mr Mundin?'

'I heard as that Lucy weren't with Jane when she died. Is that right?'

'Yes. I understand that's very unusual.'

'You're right there, boy. She went everywhere with that dog. She wouldn't have gone into the woods without Lucy.'

'For protection?' Gamache asked.

'No, just because. Why would you have a dog and not take it on your walk? And first thing in the morning, when a dog yearns to run and do its business. No, sir. Makes no sense.'

Gamache turned to the gathering. 'Can any of you think why Jane would leave Lucy behind?'

Clara was impressed by the question. Here was the head of the investigation, a senior Surete officer, asking for their opinion. There was suddenly a shift, from mourning and a kind of passivity, to involvement. It became 'their' investigation.

'If Lucy was sick or in heat Jane might leave her,' Sue Williams called out.

'True,' called Peter, 'but Lucy's fixed and healthy.'

'Could Jane have seen some hunters and put Lucy back in the house so they didn't shoot her by mistake?' Wayne Robertson asked, then a coughing jag caught him and he sat down. His wife Nellie put her generous arm around him, as though flesh could ward off sickness.

'But', asked Gamache, 'would she go back alone into the woods to confront a hunter?'

'She might,' Ben said. 'She's done it before. Remember a couple of years ago when she caught -' he stopped and grew flustered. Some uncomfortable laughter and a hum followed his aborted remarks. Gamache raised his brows and waited.

'That was me, as you all know.' A man rose from his seat. 'My name's Matthew Croft.' He was in his mid-thirties, Gamache guessed, medium build, pretty nondescript. Beside him sat a slim, tense woman. The name was familiar.

'Three years ago I was hunting illegally on the Hadley property. Miss Neal spoke to me, asked me to leave.'

'Did you?'

'Yes.'

'Why were you there at all?'

'My family has been here for hundreds of years and we were raised to believe that private property doesn't exist in hunting season.'

'That's not right,' a voice resonated from the back of the room. Beauvoir busily made notes.

Croft turned to face the interruption. 'That you, Henri?'

Henri Lariviere, the stone artist, rose majestically to his feet.

'It's the way I was raised,' Croft continued. 'I was taught it was only right to be able to hunt where you chose, since your very survival depended upon getting enough meat for the season.'

'Grocery stores, Matthew. Loblaws not good enough?' Henri said, quietly.

'IGA, Provigo,' others yelled.

'Me,' said Jacques Beliveau, the owner of the local general store. Everyone laughed. Gamache was letting this go on, watching, listening, seeing where it would go.

'Yes, times change,' an exasperated Croft agreed. 'It's no longer necessary, but it's a fine tradition. And a fine philosophy of neighbor helping neighbor. I believe in that.'

'No one says you don't, Matt,' said Peter, stepping forward. 'And I can't think you have to justify yourself or your actions, especially from years ago.'

'He does, Mr Morrow,' Gamache broke in just as Beauvoir handed him a note. 'Jane Neal was probably killed by a hunter trespassing on Mr Hadley's property. Anyone with a history of this needs to explain.' Gamache glanced at the note. In block letters Beauvoir had printed, 'Philippe Croft threw manure. Son?' Gamache folded the note and put it in his pocket.

'Do you still hunt where you choose, Mr Croft?'

'No, sir, I don't.'

'Why not?'

'Because I respected Miss Neal, and because I finally heard what people have been telling me for years and years. And I agreed. In fact I don't hunt at all anymore, anywhere.'

'Do you own a bow-hunting set?'

'Yes sir, I do.'

Gamache looked around the room, 'I'd like everyone here who owns a bow hunting set, even if you haven't used it in years, to give your name and address to Inspector Beauvoir here.'

'Just hunting?' Peter asked.

'Why? What do you have in mind?'

'The bows and arrows for recreational archery are called recurve and are different to the hunters' equipment. Those are compound.'

'But they would bring the same results, if used against a person?'

'I think so.' Peter turned to Ben who thought for an instant.

'Yes,' said Ben. 'Though the arrows are different. You'd have to be amazingly lucky, or unlucky, I guess, to kill with a target-shooting arrow.'

'Why?'

'Well, a target-shooting arrow has a very small head, not unlike the tip of a bullet. But a hunter's arrow, well, that's different. I've never shot one, but Matt, you have.'

'A hunter's arrow has four, sometimes five razors at the end, tapering into a tip.'

Beauvoir had set up the easel with paper near the altar. Gamache went to it and quickly drew a big black circle, with four lines radiating from it, a duplicate of the one Beauvoir had drawn at lunch the day before.

'Would it produce a wound like that?'

Matthew Croft walked forward a bit, appearing to drag the gathering with him as everyone swayed forward in their seats.

'Exactly like that.'

Gamache and Beauvoir locked eyes. They had at least part of their answer.

'So,' said Gamache almost to himself, 'this would have to have been done by a hunting arrow.'

Matthew Croft wasn't sure if Gamache was speaking to him, but he answered anyway, 'Yes, sir. No question.'

'What's a hunting arrow like?'

'It's made of metal, very light and hollow, with wings at the back.'

'And the bow?'

'A hunter's bow is called a compound and it's made from alloys.'

'Alloy?' Gamache asked. 'That's metal of some sort. I thought they were wood.'

'They used to be,' agreed Matthew.

'Some still are,' someone called from the crowd to general laughter.

'They're mocking me, Inspector,' admitted Ben. 'When I set up the archery club it was with old bows and arrows. The traditional recurve sort-'

'Robin Hood,' someone called, again to some chuckles.

'And his merry men,' Gabri chimed in, pleased with his contribution. More quiet chuckles, but Gabri didn't hear them, he was concentrating on getting Olivier's vice-like grip off his leg.

'It's true,' continued Ben. 'When Peter and I started the club we had a fascination with Robin Hood, and cowboys and Indians. We used to dress up.' Beside him, Peter groaned and Clara snorted at the long-forgotten memory of these two friends stalking the forests, in green tights and ski toques doubling as medieval caps. They were in their mid-twenties at the time. Clara also knew that sometimes, when they thought no one was watching, Peter and Ben still did it.

'So we only used wooden recurve bows and wooden arrows,' said Ben.

'What do you use now, Mr Hadley?'

'The same bows and arrows. Saw no reason to change. We only use it for target shooting out behind the schoolhouse.'

'So let me get this straight. Modern bows and arrows are made of some metal or other. The old ones are wood, right?'

'Right.'

'Would an arrow go through a body?'

'Yes, right through,' said Matthew.

'But, well, Mr Hadley, you talked about cowboys and Indians. In all those old movies the arrows stay in the body.'

'Those movies weren't actually real,' said Matthew. Behind him Gamache heard Beauvoir give a brief laugh. 'Believe me, an arrow would go straight through a person.'

'Alloy and wood?'

'Yup. Both.'

Gamache shook his head. Another myth exploded. He wondered if the church knew. But at least they had an answer to the exit wound puzzle, and it was now more certain than ever that Jane Neal had been killed by an arrow. But where was it?

'How far would the arrow go?'

'Humm, that's a good question. Ten, fifteen feet.'

Gamache looked at Beauvoir and nodded. The arrow would have gone right through her chest, out her back and flown into the woods behind. Still, they'd searched there and found nothing.

'Would it be hard to find?'

'Not really. If you're an experienced hunter you know exactly where to look. It'll be sticking up from the ground a bit, and the feathering makes it slightly easier. Arrows are expensive, Inspector, so we always look for them. Becomes second nature.'

'The coroner found a few slivers of real feathers in the wound. What could that mean?' Gamache was surprised to see the hubbub created by his simple statement. Peter was looking at Ben who was looking confused. Everyone, in fact, seemed to suddenly pop into activity.

'If it was an arrow then it could only be an old arrow, a wooden one,' said Peter.

'Wouldn't you find real feathers on an alloy arrow?' Gamache was asking, finally feeling like he was getting a grasp on the subject.

'No.'

'So. Forgive me for going over the ground several times, I just need to be sure. Since there were real feathers in the wound we're talking about a wooden arrow. Not alloy, but wood.'

'Right,' half the congregation spoke up, sounding like a revival meeting.

'And,' said Gamache, edging another small step forward in the case, 'not a target-shooting arrow, like the archery club uses, but a hunting arrow? We know that because of the shape of the wound.' He pointed to the drawing. Everyone nodded. 'It would have to have been a wooden arrow with a hunting tip. Can you use wooden hunting arrows with the new alloy bows?'

'No,' said the congregation.

'So it would have to be a wooden bow, right?'

'Right.'

'A Robin Hood bow.'

'Right.'

'I've got it, thank you. Now, I have another question. You keep using the words "recurve" and "compound". What's the difference?' He looked over at Beauvoir, hoping he was taking good notes.

'A recurved', said Ben, 'is the Robin Hood bow. The cowboys and Indians bow. It's a long slim piece of wood that's thicker in the middle where there's a sort of carved grip for your hand. And on either end of the stick there are notches. You put your string on one end then the other and the wood curves to make a bow. Simple and effective. The design is thousands of years old. When you've finished you take the string off and store the bow, which is now back to being a slightly curved stick. The name "recurved" is because you recurve it every time you use it.'

Simple enough, thought Gamache.

'Compound', said Matthew 'is a fairly new design. Basically, it looks like a really complex bow, with pulleys at both ends and lots of strings. And a very sophisticated sighting mechanism. It also has a trigger.'

'Is a recurved as powerful and accurate as, what was the name of the other bow?'

'Compound,' about twenty people said at once, including at least three of the officers in the room.

'As accurate… yes. As powerful, no.'

'You hesitated over accuracy.'

'With a recurved you have to release the string with your fingers. A rough release would affect the accuracy. A compound bow has a trigger so it's smoother. It also has a very accurate device for sighting.'

'There are hunters today who choose to use the wooden recurve bows and wooden arrows. Is that right?'

'Not many,' said Helene Charron. 'It's very rare.' Gamache turned back to Matthew, 'If you were going to kill someone, which would you use? Recurve or compound?'

Matthew Croft hesitated. He clearly didn't like the question. Andre Malenfant laughed. It was a humorless, snarky sound.

'No question. A compound. I can't imagine why anyone would be hunting in this day and age with an old wooden recurved bow, and with arrows with real feathers. It's like someone stepped out of the past. Target practice, sure. But hunting? Give me modern equipment. And frankly, if you were going to kill someone deliberately? Murder? Why take chances with a recurve? No, a compound is far more likely to do the job. Actually, I'd use a gun.'

And that's the puzzle, thought Gamache. Why? Why an arrow and not a bullet? Why an old-fashioned wooden bow and not the state-of-the-art hunting bow? At the end of the investigation there was always an answer. And one that made sense, at least on some level. To someone. But for now it seemed nonsense. An old-fashioned wooden arrow with real feathers used to kill an elderly retired country schoolteacher. Why?

'Mr Croft, do you still have your hunting equipment?'

'Yes, sir, I do.'

'Perhaps you could give me a demonstration this afternoon.'

'With pleasure.' Croft didn't hesitate, but Gamache thought he saw Mrs Croft tense. He looked at his watch: 12.30.

'Does anyone have any other questions?'

'I have one.' Ruth Zardo struggled to her feet. 'Actually, it's more a statement than a question.' Gamache looked at her with interest. Inside he steeled himself.

'You can use the old train station if you think it would be suitable as a headquarters. I heard you were looking. The volunteer fire department can help you set things up.'

Gamache considered for a moment. It wasn't perfect, but it seemed like the best option now that the schoolhouse was cordoned off.

'Thank you, we will use your fire hall. I'm most grateful.'

'I want to say something.' Yolande rose. 'The police will no doubt tell me when I can have the funeral for Aunt Jane. I'll let you all know when and where it will be.'

Gamache suddenly felt deeply sorry for her. She was dressed head to toe in black and seemed to be waging an internal battle between being weak with grief, and the need to claim ownership of this tragedy. He'd seen it many times, people jockeying for position as chief mourner. It was always human and never pleasant and often misleading. Aid workers, when handing out food to starving people, quickly learn that the people fighting for it at the front are the people who need it least. It's the people sitting quietly at the back, too weak to fight, who need it the most. And so too with tragedy. The people who don't insist on their sorrow can often be the ones who feel it most strongly. But he also knew there was no hard and fast rule.

Gamache wrapped the meeting up. Just about everyone sprinted through the gusty rain to the Bistro for lunch, some to cook, some to serve, most to eat. Gamache was anxious to hear the results of the search of the archery clubhouse.