Still Life (Page 107)
Clara could barely see for the rain, but the wind was the worst. Kyla had turned the autumn leaves, so beautiful on the trees, into small missiles. They whipped around her, plastering against her face. She put an arm up to protect her eyes and leaned into the wind, stumbling over the uneven terrain. The leaves and twigs smacked her raincoat, trying to find her skin. Where the leaves failed the frigid water succeeded. It poured up her sleeves and down her back, into her nose and pelted her eyeballs when she squinted them open. But she was almost there.
‘I was getting worried. I expected you earlier,’ he said, coming over to hug her. Clara stepped back, out of his embrace. He looked at her surprised and hurt. Then he looked down at her boots, puddling water and mud on the floor. She followed his gaze and automatically removed her boots, almost smiling at the normalcy of the action. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she could just take off her boots, sit down, and not say anything. Too late. Her mouth was already working.
‘I’ve been thinking.’ She paused, not sure what to say, or how to say it.
‘I know. I could see it in your face. When did you figure it out?’
So, she thought, he’s not going to deny it. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified.
‘At the party, but I couldn’t get it all. I needed time to think, to work it out.’
‘Was that why you said “she”, when describing the forger?’
‘Yes. I wanted to buy some time, maybe even throw the police off.’
‘It threw me off. I was hoping you meant it. But then at the B. & B. I could see your mind working. I know you too well. What’re we going to do?’
‘I needed to see if you’d really done it. I felt I owed you this, because I love you.’ Clara felt numb, as though she was having an out of body experience.
‘And I love you,’ he said in a voice that struck her as suddenly mincing. Was it always like this? ‘And I need you. You don’t have to tell the police, there’s no evidence. Even the tests tomorrow won’t show anything. I was careful. Once I put my mind to something I’m very good, but you know that.’
She did. And she suspected he was right. The police would have a hard time convicting him.
‘Why?’ she asked, ‘why did you kill Jane? And why did you kill your mother?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Ben smiled, and advanced.
Gamache had woken Beauvoir and now the two were banging on the Morrows’ door.
‘That’s what we wanted to ask you. We need to speak with her, now.’
‘I left her at Jane’s, but that was’, Peter consulted his watch, ‘an hour ago.’
‘That’s a long time to search for a purse,’ said Beauvoir.
‘She didn’t have a purse, it was just a ruse to leave the B. & B. and go into Jane’s home,’ explained Peter. ‘I knew it, but I figured she wanted time alone, to think.’
‘But she’s not back yet?’ Gamache asked. ‘Weren’t you worried?’
‘I’m always worried about Clara. The instant she leaves the house I’m worried.’
Gamache turned and hurried through the woods to Jane’s home.
Clara awoke with a throbbing head. At least, she assumed she was awake. Everything was black. Blinding black. Her face was on a floor and she was breathing in dirt. It was sticking to her skin, wet from the rain. Her clothes under her raincoat clung to her body where the rain had driven in. She felt cold and sick. She couldn’t stop shivering. Where was she? And where was Ben? She realised her arms were tied behind her. She’d been at Ben’s home, so this must be Ben’s basement. She had a memory of being carried, drifting in and out of consciousness. And of Peter. Of hearing Peter. No. Of smelling Peter. Peter had been close by. Peter had been carrying her.
‘I see you’re awake,’ Ben stood above her holding a flashlight.
‘Peter?’ Clara called in a reedy voice. Ben seemed to find this funny.
‘Good. That’s what I was hoping, but bad news, Clara. Peter isn’t here. In fact, this is pretty much a night of bad news for you. Guess where we are.’
When Clara didn’t speak Ben slowly moved the flashlight around so it played on the walls, the ceiling, the floors. It didn’t have to go far before Clara knew. She probably knew earlier but her brain wouldn’t accept it.
‘Can you hear them, Clara?’ Ben was silent again, and sure enough Clara heard it. A slithering. A sliding. And she could smell them. A musky, swampy smell.