Still Life (Page 68)

‘Basketball and hockey, though he didn’t try out for basketball this term.’

‘Do they have an archery team?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s never been on it.’

‘Good,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Nichol, what about the will?’

Yvette Nichol consulted her notebook. Or pretended to. She’d totally forgotten. Well, not totally. She’d remembered at the end of yesterday afternoon, but by then she’d solved the case and it would be just a waste of time. Besides, she had no idea how to find out whether another will existed, and she had absolutely no intention of parading her ignorance in front of so-called colleagues who had so far proven unhelpful.

‘The Stickley will is the latest,’ said Nichol, looking Beauvoir in the eyes. Beauvoir hesitated before dropping his eyes.

And so the reports progressed. The tension rose in the room as the one phone they all willed to ring sat silent in Gamache’s large hand.

Jane Neal, according to reports, had been a dedicated and respected teacher. She had cared about her students, enough to occasionally fail them. Her personal finances were healthy. She was a church warden at St Thomas’s and active in the Anglican Church Women, organising thrift sales and socials. She played bridge and gardened with a passion.

Her neighbors saw and heard nothing on Sunday morning.

All Quiet on the Western front, thought Gamache, listening to this gentle life. His magical thinking allowed him to be surprised that when such a good soul dies it isn’t remarked. The bells of the church didn’t set themselves off. The mice and deer didn’t cry out. The earth didn’t shudder. It should have. If he were God, it would have. Instead, the line in the official report would read, ‘Her neighbors noticed nothing.’

The reports finished, the team went back to their phones and their paperwork. Armand Gamache began pacing. Clara Morrow called to tell Gamache that Matthew Croft’s father had built the blind, a fact of some interest, given their suspicions.

At ten fifteen his palm rang. It was the lab.

NINE

Matthew Croft was to remember for the rest of his life where he was when the police cars drew up. It was three minutes past eleven on the kitchen clock. He’d expected them much earlier. Had been waiting since seven that morning.

Every fall, at canning season, Suzanne’s mother Marthe would come over with her shopping bag of old family recipes. The two women would ‘put up’ the preserves over a couple of days and invariably Marthe would ask, ‘When does a cucumber become a pickle?’

At first he’d tried to answer that question as though she genuinely wanted to know. But over the years he realised there was no answer. At what point does change happen? Sometimes it’s sudden. The ‘ah ha’ moments in our lives, when we suddenly see. But often it’s a gradual change, an evolution.

For four hours, waiting, Matthew wondered what had happened. When did things start to go wrong? This, too, he couldn’t answer.

‘Good morning, Mr Croft.’ Chief Inspector Gamache looked calm, solid. Jean Guy Beauvoir was standing beside Gamache, next to him was that woman officer, and slightly behind was a man Matthew hadn’t met yet. Middle-aged, in a suit and tie, hair streaked with gray and conservatively cut. Gamache followed Croft’s look.

’This is Claude Guimette. He’s one of the provincial guardians. We’ve had the results of the tests from the bow and arrows. May we come in?’

Croft stepped back, and they entered his home. Instinctively he took them into the kitchen.

‘It would be valuable to have you and your wife together right now.’

Croft nodded and went upstairs. Suzanne was sitting on the side of the bed. It had taken her all morning to dress, one piece of clothing at a time then flopping back on the bed, exhausted. Finally, about an hour ago, the last piece was in place. Her body looked fine but her face was a monstrosity, and there was no hiding that.

She’d tried praying, but had forgotten the words. Instead she kept repeating the only thing she could remember:

Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn, the sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.

She’d recited it over and over to Philippe when he was little but now she couldn’t remember the rest. It seemed to matter, even though it wasn’t itself a prayer. It was more than that. It was proof she’d been a good mother. Proof she’d loved her children. Proof, whispered the little girl’s voice inside her head, that it isn’t your fault. But she couldn‘t remember the rest of the nursery rhyme. So maybe it was her fault.

‘They’re here,’ said Matthew, standing at the doorway. ‘They want you downstairs.’