And there she was, CC de Poitiers, unconscious on the snow. All her muscles taut as though straining against some force.
They’d tried to revive her, had called an ambulance, and had finally concluded it was fastest to take her to the hospital themselves. So they’d piled her into the open back of Billy Williams’s pickup and bumped and jostled along at breakneck speed on the snow-covered back roads, making for Cowansville. He and Olivier and Ruth in the open truck while Billy Williams drove like a maniac. Beside Billy in the cab sat CC’s lump of a husband and their daughter. Staring straight ahead. Silent and unmoving, like snowmen. Peter knew he was being uncharitable, but he couldn’t help being annoyed at the man who did nothing to save his wife while perfect strangers did everything.
Olivier was leaning rhythmically on and off CC’s chest, massaging her heart. Ruth was counting the beats. And Peter drew the short straw. He’d had to breathe into her dead lungs. And they were dead. They all knew it, but still they kept it up as Billy hit every pothole and ice patch between Williamsburg and Cowansville. Kneeling on the frozen metal floor Peter could feel himself lift with each bump and crash down on his knees, bruising them more and more each time. But still he persevered. Not for CC. But because beside him Olivier was suffering the same fate. And holding CC’s head tenderly and firmly was Ruth, also kneeling, her bad hip and old knees slamming into the floor, her voice never wavering as she counted the beats. He’d continued CPR, pressing his warm lips to CC’s increasingly cold and rigid ones, until finally it felt as it had when he was a child and had kissed his ski poles. Just to see. They were so cold it burned, and his lips had refused to come away. He’d finally peeled them off, leaving a thin layer of himself on the poles. His lips bleeding, he’d quickly looked around to make sure no one had seen.
Giving CPR to CC had felt like that. He’d had the impression that if he kept it up eventually his moist lips would solder to hers and he’d be stuck there until he finally ripped them away, leaving part of him for ever on her, a bloody kiss of life.
It was the most repulsive thing he’d ever had to do, all the more so since he’d found her pretty repulsive in life. Death hadn’t improved her.
‘It was murder. Madame de Poitiers was deliberately electrocuted,’ said Gamache.
Clara turned to her husband. ‘You knew the doctors suspected murder.’
‘I heard Dr Lambert talking to a police officer. Wait a minute. Was that you?’ Peter asked Lemieux.
‘Oui, monsieur. I recognize you as well. In fact, I believe we’ve met at a few community events.’
‘It’s certainly possible. Electrocution,’ said Peter thoughtfully. ‘Well, there was a smell. Barbecue.’
‘Do you know, now that you mention it, I remember that as well,’ said Clara with disgust. ‘There was such a commotion it’s hard to remember back.’
‘That’s what I’m going to ask you to do,’ said Gamache, motioning to Lemieux to take notes. Peter led them into the cozy living room and threw a birch log on the fire, the flames grabbing and crackling and leaping as the bark burst into flames. Gamache noticed again the honey pine wide-plank flooring, the mullioned windows looking out onto the village green, the piano and the bookcase, crammed with books and covering one wall. A sofa faced the open hearth and two easy chairs bracketed it. The hassocks in front of the seats were covered with old newspapers and magazines and books, splayed open. The only thing different about the familiar room for Gamache was the huge and exuberantly decorated Christmas tree, giving off a sweet aroma. Clara followed with a tray of tea and biscuits and all four sat round the warm hearth. Outside the sun was setting, and clouds were gathering on the dim horizon.
‘Where would you like to start?’
‘This morning, please. I understand there was a community breakfast?’
‘In the Royal Canadian Legion, on rue Larry in Williamsburg. Peter and I got there early to help set up. It’s a fundraiser for the hospital.’
‘We got there at about seven this morning,’ Peter picked up the story, ‘and were joined by a few other volunteers. Myrna Landers, Émilie Longpré, Bea Mayer and Kaye Thompson. We have it down pat by now. Put out the tables and chairs, Clara and I do that, while the others get the coffee going and organize the food.’
‘The truth is, by Boxing Day morning most people aren’t actually all that hungry. They pay ten dollars and get an all-you-can-eat breakfast,’ said Clara. ‘Peter and I do the cooking while Em and Kaye serve up. Kaye’s about two hundred years old and still manages to help but now she finds something she can do sitting down.’
‘Like bossing everyone around,’ said Peter.
‘She never bosses you. That’s my job,’ said Clara. ‘It’s voluntary.’
‘Very civic minded.’ Peter smiled with a long-suffering look.
‘What did the others do?’ Gamache asked. Lemieux was surprised by the question. He’d run out of notebook soon if they kept going into such detail over something that was hours away from the murder. He tried to write smaller.
‘Who’s left?’ Peter turned to Clara. ‘Myrna Landers and Bea Mayer.’
‘Bee?’ Lemieux asked.
‘Her name’s Beatrice, but everyone calls her Bea.’ Peter spelled Beatrice for Lemieux.
‘Actually, everyone calls her Mother,’ said Clara.
‘Why?’ asked Gamache.
‘See if you can figure it out,’ said Clara. Lemieux looked at the chief to see if he was annoyed by her flippant and familiar tone, but he was smiling.
‘What did Myrna and Bea do at the breakfast?’ Gamache asked.
‘They cleaned up between sittings and served coffee and tea,’ said Peter.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Clara, ‘Mother’s tea. It’s some herbal brew. Disgusting. I don’t mind tea,’ Clara raised her mug to them, ‘even tisane, but I hate to think what goes into the one Mother offers each year. She’s kind of amazing. No one ever takes it and yet she keeps on trying.’
There’s a fine line between noble perseverance and insanity, reflected Gamache. ‘Were Madame de Poitiers and her family there?’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Clara after a moment’s thought. ‘We were cooking the whole time so we didn’t get a chance to look out.’
‘Did anything unusual happen at the breakfast?’ Gamache asked.
Peter and Clara thought about it then shook their heads.
‘Peter was curling on Em’s team this year, for the first time, so he left early.’
‘By the time I got outside Em and Mother were already at the lake. It’s just down the road then off to the right. It’s about a five-minute walk from the Legion.’
‘And your team didn’t wait for you?’
‘Well, Georges did. He was the other man on our team. This was his first year curling as well.’
‘Georges who?’
‘Simenon,’ said Peter and smiled at Gamache’s raised brow. ‘I know. His mother was cursed with the pleasure of reading.’
‘And cursed her son,’ said Gamache.
‘Georges and I walked over to Lac Brume and found Em and Mother there. Billy Williams had already cleared the ice surface so we could curl and he’d put up the bleachers a few days before Christmas.’
‘The ice was frozen enough?’
‘Oh, long ago. Besides, it’s close to shore and I think Billy uses his auger to check the ice thickness. He’s a very prudent man is our Billy.’
‘What else did you notice at the lake?’
Peter cast his mind back. He remembered standing at the side of the road looking over the small incline down to the snow-covered lake. Mother and Bea were over by their chairs.
‘Chairs,’ said Peter. ‘Mother, Em and Kaye always bring chairs to sit close to the heat lamp.’