Still Life

SIX

Even in the rain and wind Gamache could see how beautiful the countryside was. The maples had turned deep reds and oranges, and leaves blown down in the storm were spread along the road and gully like a tapestry. Their drive had taken them out of Williamsburg toward Three Pines, through the mountain range that separated the two. The road, like most sensible ones, followed the valleys and the river and was probably the old stagecoach route, until Beauvoir turned off on to an even smaller dirt road. Huge potholes jarred their car and Gamache could barely read his notes. He'd long since trained his stomach not to lurch with whatever vehicle he was in, but his eyes were proving more recalcitrant.

Beauvoir slowed down at a large metal mailbox painted sunny yellow. Hand printed in white was the number and the name, 'Croft'. He turned in. The huge maples continued up the drive, creating a Tiffany tunnel.

Through the furious windscreen wiper Gamache saw a white clapboard farmhouse. The home had a comfortable, lived-in look. Tall, end-of-season sunflowers and hollyhocks leaned against it. Woodsmoke whispered out of the chimney to be grabbed away by the wind and taken home to the woods beyond.

Homes, Gamache knew, were a self-portrait. A person's choice of color, furnishing, pictures. Every touch revealed the individual. God, or the Devil, was in the details. And so was the human. Was it dirty, messy, obsessively clean? Were the decorations chosen to impress, or were they a hodgepodge of personal history? Was the space cluttered or clear? He felt a thrill every time he entered a home during an investigation. He was desperate to get into Jane Neal's home, but that would have to wait. For now the Crofts were about to reveal themselves.

Gamache turned to look at Nichol. 'Keep your eyes open and take detailed notes of what's being said. And just listen, got it?'

Nichol glared back.

'I asked you a question, Agent.'

'Got it.' Then after a significant pause, she added, 'Sir.'

'Good. Inspector Beauvoir, will you take the lead?'

'Right,' replied Beauvoir, getting out of the car.

Matthew Croft was waiting at the screen door. After taking their sodden coats he led them straight into the kitchen. Bright reds and yellows. Cheery tableware and dishes in the hutch. Clean white curtains with flowers embroidered on the border. Gamache looked across the table at Croft who was straightening the rooster salt and pepper shakers. His clever eyes couldn't seem to rest and he held himself as though waiting. Listening. It was all very subtle, hidden below the friendly exterior. But it was there, Gamache was sure of it.

'I've got the archery set in the screen porch. It's wet out, but if you'd still like a demonstration I could show you how they're fired.' Croft had said this to Gamache but Beauvoir answered, dragging Croft's eyes away from his chief.

'That would be very useful, but I have a few questions first, just some background I'd like to get straight.'

'Sure, anything.'

'Tell me about Jane Neal, your relationship with her.'

'We weren't that close. I'd sometimes go over to her place to visit. It was quiet. Peaceful. She was my teacher, long ago now, up at the old schoolhouse.'

'What was she like as a teacher?'

'Remarkable. She had this really amazing ability to look at you and make you feel you were the only person on earth. You know?'

Beauvoir knew. Armand Gamache had the same ability. Most people when talking are also watching the rest of the room, and nodding to others, waving. Never Gamache. When he looked at you, you were the universe. Though Beauvoir knew the boss was also taking in every detail of what was happening. He just didn't show it.

'What do you do for a living?'

'I work for the township of St Remy in the road department.'

'Doing what?'

'I'm the head of road maintenance. I assign crews, assess problem areas. Sometimes I just drive, looking for problems. Don't want to find a problem at the same time as I find an overturned car.'

It happened far too often. Normally death came at night, taking a person in their sleep, stopping their heart or tickling them awake, leading them to the bathroom with a splitting headache before pouncing and flooding their brain with blood. It waits in alleys and metro stops. After the sun goes down plugs are pulled by white-clad guardians and death is invited into an antiseptic room.

But in the country death comes, uninvited, during the day. It takes fishermen in their longboats. It grabs children by the ankles as they swim. In winter it calls them down a slope too steep for their budding skills, and crosses their skies at the tips. It waits along the shore where snow met ice not long ago but now, unseen by sparkling eyes, a little water touches the shore, and the skater makes a circle slightly larger than intended. Death stands in the woods with a bow and arrow at dawn and dusk. And it tugs cars off the road in broad daylight, the tires spinning furiously on ice or snow, or bright autumn leaves.

Matthew Croft was always called to road accidents. Sometimes he was the first there. As he worked to free the body Matthew Croft's bruised heart and brain would go home to poetry. He would recite poems learned by heart from books borrowed from Miss Neal. And Ruth Zardo's poetry was his favorite.

On quiet days off he would often visit Miss Neal and sit in her garden in an Adirondack chair looking across the phlox to the stream beyond, and memorise poems, to be used to ward off the nightmares. As he memorised, Miss Neal would make pink lemonade and deadhead her perennial borders. She was aware of the irony of deadheading while he banished death from his head. For some reason Matthew was loath to tell the police about this, to let them that far in.

Before he could say more he tensed, slightly. A moment later Gamache heard it too. Suzanne opened the door from the basement which led into the kitchen and came in.

Suzanne Croft didn't look well at all. She'd looked strained at the public meeting, but nothing compared to this. Her skin was almost translucent, except for the blotches. And a thin layer of sweat lent it a sheen, not unlike a reptile. Her hand, when shaken by Gamache, was ice-cold. She was terrified, he realised. Scared sick. Gamache looked over at Croft, who now wasn't even trying to hide his own fear. He was looking at his wife the way one might look at a specter, a ghost with a particularly awful and personal message.

Then the moment passed. Matthew Croft's face fell back to 'normal', with only a pall to the skin evidence of what lay beneath. Gamache offered Mrs Croft his seat but Matthew had grabbed a stool and sat while his wife took his chair. No one spoke. Gamache was willing Beauvoir not to speak. To let the silence stretch to breaking. This woman was holding on to something horrible and her grip was slipping.

'Would you like a glass of water?' Nichol asked Suzanne Croft.

'No, thank you, but let me make some tea.' And with that Mrs Croft leapt from her chair and the moment was broken. Gamache looked at Nichol, perplexed. If she had wanted to sabotage the case and her career she couldn't have done a better job.

'Here, let me help,' said Nichol, bouncing off her seat and grabbing the kettle.

Beauvoir had allowed his face to show a flash of fury when Nichol spoke, then it too was replaced by his familiar, reasonable, mask.

Stupid, stupid woman, he cursed to himself, even as his face took on a benevolent half-smile. He stole a glance at Gamache, and saw with satisfaction the boss was also staring at Nichol, but not angrily. To Beauvoir's disgust, he saw a look he took to be tolerance on the chief's face. Will he never learn? What in God's name drives him to want to help such fools?

'What do you do for a living, Mrs Croft? Do you work?' Now that the silence was fractured, Beauvoir figured he might as well grab back control. Even as he asked the question he could hear the insult. The easy assumption motherhood wasn't work. But he didn't care.

'I help out three times a week at the photocopy store in St Remy. Helps make ends meet.'

Beauvoir felt badly for the question now it was asked. He wondered whether he'd balled up his anger at Nichol and pitched it into Mrs Croft's face. He looked around the room and realised all the homey touches were made by hand, even the plastic covers of the chairs were inexpertly stapled on, a few coming loose. These people made a little go a long way.

'You have two children, I believe,' Beauvoir shook off his momentary shame.

'That's right,' Matthew jumped in.

'And what are their names?'

'Philippe and Diane.'

'Nice names,' he said into the gathering stillness. 'And how old are they?'

'He's fourteen, she's eight.'

'And where are they?'

The question hovered in the air, as the earth stopped turning. He had been marching inexorably toward this question, as the Crofts must have known. He hadn't wanted to surprise them with it, not out of delicacy for their parental feelings, but because he wanted them to see it coming toward them from a great distance, and to have to wait, and wait. Until their nerves were taut to breaking. Until they both longed for and dreaded this instant.

'They're not here,' said Suzanne, strangling a teacup.

Beauvoir waited, looking steadily at her. 'When are you having your Thanksgiving dinner?'

The swift shift left Suzanne Croft gaping, as though he'd suddenly switched to Pig Latin. Xnay on the erdinnaye.

'I'm sorry?'

'One of the great things I've noticed in my home is that the smell of the turkey hangs around for a couple of days. Then of course, my wife and I make soup the next day, and that's hard to miss too.' He took a deep breath, and then slowly, slowly scanned the clean counters of the kitchen.

'We were going to have Thanksgiving yesterday, Sunday,' said Matthew, 'but with the news of Miss Neal and all we've decided to put it off.'

'For ever?' Beauvoir asked, incredulous. Gamache wondered if it wasn't a little overdone, but the Crofts were beyond critiquing his performance.

'Where's Diane, Mrs Croft?'

'She's at a friend's home. Nina Levesque's.'

'And Philippe?'

'He's not here, I told you. He's out. I don't know when he'll be back.'

OK, thought Beauvoir, joke's over.

'Mrs Croft, we're going to go out with your husband in a minute and look at the bows and arrows. While we're out there I'd like you to think about something. We need to speak with Philippe. We know he was involved in the manure incident in Three Pines, and that Miss Neal identified him.'

'And others,' she said defiantly.

'Two days later she's dead. We need to speak to him.'

'He had nothing to do with it.'

'I'm willing to accept that you believe that. And you might be right. But did you think he was capable of attacking two men in Three Pines? Do you really know your son, Mrs Croft?'

He'd hit a nerve, but then he'd expected to. Not because Beauvoir had any particular insight into the Croft family, but because he knew every parent of a teenage boy fears they're housing a stranger.

'If we can't speak with your son by the time we're ready to leave then we'll get a warrant and have him brought to the police station in St Remy to be questioned. Before today is over, we will speak with him. Here or there.'

Chief Inspector Gamache watched all this and knew they had to somehow get into that basement. These people were hiding something, or someone. And whatever it was was in the basement. Yet it was odd, thought Gamache. He could have sworn Matthew Croft had been relaxed and natural in the public meeting. It was Suzanne Croft who had been so upset. Now they both were. What had happened?

'Mr Croft, may we see those bows and arrows now?' Beauvoir asked.

'How dare you-' Croft was vibrating with rage.

'It's not a question of "dare".' Beauvoir looked him hard in the face. 'At the meeting this morning Chief Inspector Gamache made it clear that unpleasant things would be asked of each and every one of you. That's the price you'll pay for finding out who killed Miss Neal. I understand your anger. You don't want your children traumatised by this. But, frankly, I think they already are. I'm giving you a choice. We can speak with your son here, or we can speak with him at the St Remy station.'

Beauvoir paused. And paused. And in his mind dared Nichol to offer cookies. Finally he continued. 'The rules of normal life are suspended when there's a violent death. You two and your family are among the first casualties. I have no illusions about what we do, and we do it as painlessly as possible -' Matthew Croft sputtered in disgust'-which is why I've offered you the choice. Now, the bows and arrows please.'

Matthew Croft took a deep breath, 'This way.'

He led them out of the kitchen on to the screen porch.

'Mrs Croft,' Gamache said, and poked his head back into the kitchen just as Suzanne Croft was stepping toward the basement door, 'would you join us, please?'

Suzanne Croft's shoulders sagged.

'There.' It was all Matthew Croft could do to be civil. 'That's a recurve and that's a compound, and there're the arrows.'

'Are these two the only bows you have?' Beauvoir asked, picking up the arrows and noting they were the target-shooting kind.

'Yes, they are,' said Croft without hesitation.

They looked exactly as they had been described, only larger. Beauvoir and Gamache lifted each bow in turn. They were heavy, even the simple recurve.

'Could you put the string on the recurve, please?' Beauvoir asked.

Matthew grabbed the recurve, took a long string with loops on either end, put the 'stick' between his legs and bent the bow down until the string could reach the little notch at the top. Gamache could see it took some strength. Suddenly, there stood a 'Robin Hood' bow.

'May I?'

Croft handed Gamache the bow and as he took it he noticed dust. But no dirt. Gamache then turned his attention to the compound. It looked more like a traditional bow than he'd expected. He picked it up, noticing the wisps of cobwebs between some of the strings. This bow too hadn't been used in some time. And it was far heavier than he'd expected. He turned to Mrs Croft.

'Do you bow hunt or target shoot?'

'I sometimes target shoot.'

'Which bow do you use?'

After a breath of hesitation Suzanne Croft pointed to the recurve.

'Would you mind taking off the string?'

'Why?' Matthew Croft stepped forward.

'I'd like to see your wife do it.' Gamache turned to Suzanne, 'Please.'

Suzanne Croft picked up the recurve, and swiftly putting it around her leg she leaned on the bow and popped the string off. She'd clearly done this many times before. Then Gamache had an idea.

'Could you restring the bow, please?'

Suzanne shrugged and replaced the now straight bow around her leg and leaned on the upper part. Not much happened. Then she gave a huge thrust down and slipped the string over the top, recreating the recurve. She handed it to Gamache without a word.

'Thank you,' he said, puzzled. He'd had a hunch, but it didn't seem to be right.

'Would you mind if we shot a few arrows?' Beauvoir asked.

'Not at all.'

After putting their outside rain gear on again all five trooped into the light drizzle. Fortunately the heavy rain had let up. Matthew had put up a round archery target made of hay encased in canvas with target circles painted in red. He picked up the recurve, put a new wooden target arrow in the slot and pulled the string back. Croft spent a moment aiming then he released the arrow. It hit the second ring. Croft then handed the bow to Gamache who handed it with a slight smile to Beauvoir. Beauvoir took it with relish. He'd been raring to try it, and even daring to imagine himself getting bull's-eye after bull's-eye until the Canadian Archery team invited him to compete in the Olympics. This so-called sport looked like a no-brainer, especially since he was a crack shot with a gun.

The first sign of trouble came almost immediately. He almost didn't get the string all the way back. It was far harder than he imagined. Then the arrow, held tentatively in place between two of his fingers, started jumping all over the bow, refusing to stay snug on the little peg at the front. Finally he was ready to shoot. He released the string and the arrow shot out of the bow and missed the target by a country mile. What didn't miss was the string itself. A millisecond after being released, it hit Beauvoir's elbow with such force he thought his arm had been severed. He yelped and dropped the bow, hardly daring to look at his arm. The pain was searing.

'What happened, Mr Croft?' Gamache snapped, going to Beauvoir. Croft wasn't exactly laughing, but Gamache could see the pleasure this was giving him.

'Not to worry, Chief Inspector. He's just got a bruised arm. Happens to all amateurs. The string caught his elbow. As you said, we must all be prepared for unpleasantness.' Croft gave him a hard look, and Gamache remembered he'd offered the bow to him first. This injury had been meant for him.

'Are you all right?' Beauvoir was cradling his arm and straining to see the arrow. Unless he'd split Croft's arrow, his own had missed the target. That hurt almost as much as the bruise.

'I'm fine, sir. It was more the surprise than the pain.'

'Sure?'

'Yes.'

Gamache turned to Croft. 'Can you show me how to shoot the arrow without hitting my arm?'

'Probably. You willing to risk it?'

Gamache just looked expectantly at Croft, refusing to play.

'Right. Take the bow like this.' Croft stood beside Gamache and held his arm up as Gamache gripped the bow. 'Now twist your elbow so it's perpendicular to the ground. There, that's right,' said Croft. 'Now the string will shoot right by your elbow instead of hitting it. It makes a much smaller target. Probably.'

Gamache grinned. If the string hit, it hit. At least, unlike Beauvoir, he'd be prepared.

'What else should I be doing?'

'Now, with your right hand, put the arrow in so its tip is resting on that little wooden notch on the bow, and fit the back of the arrow on to the string. Good. Now you're ready to pull back. What you don't want to do is to have to hold the string back for too long before firing. You'll see why in a moment. Get yourself lined up, your body like this.' He turned Gamache so his body was sideways to the target. His left arm was getting tired holding the heavy bow in place.

'Here's the sight.'

Croft, incredibly, was pointing to a tiny pin like Gamache took out of his shirts after they'd been dry cleaned. 'You line the knob of the pin up with the bull's-eye. Then you draw the string back in one fluid motion, realign the sight, and let go.'

Croft stood back. Gamache lowered the bow to give his arm a break, took a breath, reviewed the steps in his mind then did it. Smoothly he brought his left arm up, and before placing the arrow he twisted his elbow out of the way of the string. He then placed the arrow on the knob, put the arrow butt in the string, lined the head of the pin up with the bull's-eye, and pulled back on the string in one fluid motion. Except it wasn't exactly fluid. It felt as though the Montreal Canadiens were playing tug of war with him, yanking the string in the other direction. With his right arm trembling slightly he managed to get the string all the way back until it was almost to his nose, then he released. By then he didn't much care whether it took his whole elbow off, he just wanted to let the damn thing go. The arrow flew wildly off, missing the target by at least as much as Beauvoir's. But the string also missed. It twanged back into place without even grazing Gamache's arm.

'You're a good teacher, Mr Croft.'

'You must have low standards. Look where your arrow went.'

'I can't see it. Hope it isn't lost.'

'It isn't. They never are. Haven't lost one yet.'

'Mrs Croft,' said Gamache, 'your turn.'

'I'd rather not.'

'Please, Mrs Croft.' Chief Inspector Gamache handed her the bow. He was thankful he'd shot the bow and arrow. It had given him a thought.

'I haven't used it in a while.'

'I understand,' said Gamache. 'Just do your best.' Suzanne Croft lined up her shot, put the arrow in, grabbed the string and pulled. And pulled. And pulled until she started crying and collapsed on to the muddy ground, overwhelmed by an emotion that had nothing to do with failing to shoot the arrow. Instantly Matthew Croft was kneeling beside her, holding her. Swiftly Gamache took Beauvoir's arm and led him a step or two away. He spoke in an urgent whisper.

'We need to get into that basement. I'd like you to offer them a deal. We won't take Philippe to the police station, if they take us to the basement right now.'

'But we have to speak with Philippe.'

'I agree, but we can't do both and the only way we'll get to the basement is if we give them something they really want. They want to protect their son. We can't have both and I think this is the best we can do.'

Beauvoir thought about it while watching Croft console his wife. The Chief Inspector was right. Philippe would probably wait. What was in the basement probably wouldn't. After that demonstration it was clear Mrs Croft knew her way around a bow and arrow, but she'd never shot that particular bow. There must be another one somewhere, one that she was used to using. And one that Philippe might have used. Probably in the basement. His nose caught the woodsmoke wafting out of the chimney. He hoped it wasn't too late.

Peter and Clara were walking Lucy along the footpath through the woods across the Bella Bella from their home. Once over the small bridge they released her. She trudged along, showing no interest in the wealth of new scents. The rain had stopped but the thick grass and ground were sodden.

'Weather network says it's supposed to clear,' said Peter, kicking a stone along with his feet.

'But getting colder,' agreed Clara. 'Hard frost's on the way. Have to get into the garden.' She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the chill. 'I have a question for you. It's advice, really. You know when I went over to Yolande?'

'At lunch? Yes. Why did you do that?'

'Well, because she was Jane's niece.'

'No, really. Why?'

Damn Peter, thought Clara. He actually knows me.

'I wanted to be kind

'But you knew what would happen. Why would you choose to walk right into a situation where you know the person is going to be hurtful? It kills me to see you do that, and you do it all the time. It's like a form of insanity.'

'You call it insanity, I call it optimism.'

'Is it optimism to expect people to do something they've never done before? Every time you approach Yolande she's horrible to you. Every time. And yet you keep doing it. Why?'

'What's all this about?'

'Have you ever thought how it makes me feel to watch you do this time after time, and to not be able to do anything except pick up the pieces? Stop expecting people to be something they're not. Yolande is a horrible, hateful, petty little person. Accept that and stay away from her. And if you choose to walk into her space, be prepared for the consequences.'

'That's unfair. You seem to think I'm this moron who had no idea what was about to happen. I knew perfectly well she'd do that. And I did it anyway. Because I had to know something.'

'Know what?'

'I had to hear Andre's laugh.'

'His laugh? Why?'

'That's what I wanted to talk about. Remember Jane described that horrible laugh when the boys threw manure at Olivier and Gabri?' Peter nodded. 'I heard a laugh like that this morning, at the public meeting. It was Andre. That's why I had to go up to their table, to get him to laugh again. And he did. One thing I'll say for Yolande and Andre, is that they're predictable.'

'But Clara, Andre's a grown man, he wasn't one of those masked boys.'

Clara waited. Peter wasn't normally this obtuse, so it was fun to watch. His furrowed brow eventually cleared.

'It was Andre's son Bernard.'

'Atta boy.'

'Jane got it wrong, it wasn't Philippe, Gus and Claude. One of them wasn't there, but Bernard was.'

'Should I tell Chief Inspector Gamache? Could he see it as me just bad-mouthing Yolande?' asked Clara.

'Who cares? Gamache needs to know.'

'Good. I'll go over to the Bistro this afternoon, during his, "at home".' Clara picked up a stick and threw it, hoping Lucy would follow. She didn't.

The Crofts accepted the deal. They really had little choice and now Gamache, Beauvoir, Nichol and the Crofts were making their way down the narrow steps. The entire basement was well organised, not the kind of labyrinth of confusion he'd seen, and sifted through, so often. When he commented on it Croft answered, 'It's one of Philippe's chores, cleaning the basement. We did it together for a few years, but on his fourteenth birthday I told him it was now all his.' Then Croft had added, perhaps realising how it sounded, 'It wasn't his only birthday present.'

For twenty minutes the two men methodically searched. Then, amid the skis, tennis rackets and hockey gear, hanging on the wall half hidden by goalie pads, they found a quiver. Carefully lifting it off its hook using one of the tennis rackets, Beauvoir looked inside. Five old wooden hunting arrows. What wasn't in the quiver was a single cobweb. This quiver had been out recently.

'Whose is this, Mr Croft?'

'That belonged to my father.'

'There are only five arrows. Is that usual?'

'That's how it came to me. Dad must have lost one.'

'And yet you said it was rare. I believe you said that hunters almost never lose an arrow.'

'That's true, but "almost never" and "never" are two different things.'

'May I?' Beauvoir handed him the tennis racket with the quiver hanging from it. Gamache held the racket as high as he could and strained to look at the round leather bottom of the old quiver.

'Have you got a flashlight?'

Matthew took a bright yellow Eveready from a hook and handed it over. Gamache switched it on and saw six shadowy points on the belly of the quiver. He showed them to Beauvoir.

'There were six arrows until recently,' said Beauvoir.

'Recently? How do you figure that, Inspector?' Listening to Matthew Croft's attempt at calm Gamache felt for the man. He was clamping down for control, tighter and tighter. So tight his hands were trembling slightly now and his voice was rising.

'I know leather, Mr Croft,' Beauvoir lied. 'This is thin calves' leather, used because it's supple, yet durable. These arrows, which I assume are hunting arrows-' Croft shrugged '- these arrows can sit in this leather-bottomed quiver, tip down and neither dull the tip nor break through the bottom. And, now this is important, Mr Croft, the leather will not keep the form of whatever it holds. It's so supple it will slowly go back to its original shape. These six blemishes have been made by six arrow tips. Yet only five arrows remain. How is that possible?'

Now Croft was silent, his jaw clamped shut.

Beauvoir handed the tennis racket and quiver to Nichol with instructions to hold it while he and Gamache continued the search. Now Croft had joined his wife, and side by side they awaited whatever was coming their way. The two men spent the next half-hour searching the basement inch by inch. They'd just about given up when Beauvoir wandered over to the furnace. Once there he actually stepped on it. Sitting practically in plain sight was a recurve bow, and beside it an axe.

A search warrant was sought and issued and the Croft farm was scoured from the attic to the barn to the chicken coop. Philippe was found in his bedroom plugged in to his Sony 'Discman'. Beauvoir checked the ash bin under the wood-burning furnace and found a metal arrowhead, charred by the fire, but still intact. At this discovery Matthew Croft's legs gave way and he sank to the cold concrete floor, to a place no rhyming verse existed. He had finally been hurt beyond poetry.

Beauvoir arranged for all the things they'd collected to go to the Surete labs in Montreal. Now the team sat around the fire hall once again.

'What do we do about the Crofts?' Lacoste wanted to know, sipping a Tim Horton's double double.

'Nothing for now,' replied Gamache, biting into a chocolate donut. 'We wait for the report to come back from the labs.'

'They'll have results for us tomorrow,' said Beauvoir.

'About Matthew Croft. Shouldn't we take him into custody?' Lacoste spoke up, smoothing back her shiny auburn hair with her wrist, trying not to get chocolate glaze into it.

'Inspector Beauvoir, what do you think?'

'You know me, I always want to be on the safe side.' Gamache was reminded of a cartoon he'd cut from the Montreal Gazette years ago. It showed a judge and the accused. The punch line read, 'The jury has found you "not guilty" but I'm giving you five years just to be on the safe side.' Everyday he looked at it, chuckled, and knew deep down the truth of it. Part of him yearned for 'the safe side', even at the cost of other people's freedom.

'What risk are we running by leaving Matthew Croft free?' Gamache looked around the table.

'Well,' ventured Lacoste, 'there might be more evidence in that house, evidence he could destroy between now and tomorrow.'

'True, but couldn't Mrs Croft destroy it just as easily? After all, she was the one who threw the arrow in the furnace and was about to chop up the bow. She's admitted as much. In fact, if there's anyone we should bring in it's her, for destroying evidence. I'll tell you my thinking.' He took a paper napkin and wiped his hands, then, leaning forward, he put his elbows on the table. Everyone else, except Nichol, did the same, giving it the appearance of a highly secretive gathering.

'Let's say the bow and arrow tip are the ones that killed Jane Neal. Right?'

Everyone nodded. As far as they were concerned they were home free.

'But which of them did it? Was it Matthew Croft? Inspector Beauvoir, what do you think?' Beauvoir with all his might wanted Matthew Croft to be the guilty one. Yet, damn it, it didn't fit.

'No. He was far too relaxed in the public meeting. His panic didn't kick in until later. No. If it'd been him he'd have been more evasive earlier. He has very little skill at hiding how he's feeling.'

Gamache agreed. 'Scratch Mr Croft. How about Suzanne Croft?'

'Well, she could have done it. She clearly knew about the bow and arrow during the public meeting, and she destroyed the arrow and would have chucked the bow in the furnace if she'd had time. But, again, it doesn't fit.'

'If she killed Jane Neal she'd have destroyed the arrow and the bow long before now,' said Nichol, leaning into the group. 'She'd have gone right home and burned the whole lot. Why wait until they know the police are about to arrive?'

'You're right,' said Gamache, surprised and pleased. 'Go on.'

'OK. Suppose it's Philippe. He's fourteen, right? This is an old bow, not as powerful as the newer ones. Doesn't take as much strength. So he takes the old wooden bow and the old wooden arrows and he heads off to hunt. But he shoots Miss Neal by mistake. He picks up his arrow and runs back home. But Maman figures it out-'

'How?' Gamache asked.

'How?' This stopped Nichol. She had to think. 'He might have had blood on his clothing, or his hands. She'd have gotten it out of him eventually, maybe just before the public meeting. She had to go to hear what the police had, but she'd have kept Philippe back at home. That explains her increasing agitation in the meeting.'

'Any holes in this theory?' Beauvoir asked the gathering, trying not to sound hopeful. While he hoped Nichol would prove not a total liability, this was a disastrously good showing. He tried not to look at her, but couldn't help it. Sure enough she was staring straight at him with a tiny smile. She leaned back in her chair, slowly, luxuriously.

'Well done, Nichol.' Gamache rose and nodded to her.

Wait, just wait, she thought, till Dad hears about this.

'So the Croft family stays put for today, until we get the results of the lab tests,' said Gamache.

The meeting broke up, each one looking forward to wrapping up the investigation the next day. Still, Armand Gamache knew better than to count on one theory. He wanted to keep the investigation active. Just to be on the safe side.

It was almost five and time to head to the Bistro. But there was something he wanted to do first.