Gamache felt his chest tighten as she spoke. There was something there. Something he’d been approaching and missing throughout this case.
‘So what now, patron?’ she asked.
‘You’ve taken us a huge step forward with the niacin. Thank you. Now we just follow the headlights.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I always think a case is like driving from here to the Gaspé. A great long distance and I can’t see the end. But I don’t have to. All I have to do is keep throwing light in front of me, and follow the headlights. Eventually I’ll get there.’
‘Like Diogenes with his lamp?’
‘In reverse. He was looking for one honest man. I’m looking for a murderer.’
‘Be careful. The murderer can see the man with the lamp coming.’
‘One more question, doctor. How would someone give her niacin?’
‘It’s water soluble, but quite bitter. Coffee would probably mask it. Orange juice I guess.’
‘Tea?’
‘Less likely. It’s not strong enough.’
She gathered her things and taking her key from her pocket she pointed it out the window and pressed a small button. Outside a car came to life, headlights on and presumably the heater struggling to warm the inside. Of all the inventions in the last twenty years Gamache knew the two best were car seat warmers and automatic ignition. Too bad for Richard Lyon he’d invented magnetized soldiers instead.
Gamache walked her to the door, but just as she was about to leave something else occurred to him. ‘What do you know about Eleanor de Poitiers?’
Dr Harris paused for a moment.
‘Nothing. Who is she?’
‘How about King Henry the Second?’
‘King Henry the Second? You’re not seriously asking me about some long dead British royal? My favorite was Ethelred the Unready. Will he do?’
‘What a repertoire you have. Ethelred and Captain Crunch.’
‘A catholic education. Sorry I couldn’t help.’
‘Niacin.’ He pointed to the dossier still on their table. ‘You saved the day.’
She felt absurdly pleased.
‘Actually,’ he said as he helped her into her coat, ‘there is one more thing. Eleanor of Aquitaine.’
‘Oh, that’s easy. The Lion in Winter.’
‘Honey, could you get the door? I’m in my studio,’ Clara called. There was no answer. ‘Never mind,’ she called after the second knock. ‘I’ll get it. Don’t bother yourself. No really. I don’t mind.’ She yelled the last at the closed door to his studio. She was pretty certain he was in there playing free cell.
It was unusual to hear a knock. Most of the people they knew walked right in. Most helped themselves to whatever was in the fridge. Peter and Clara sometimes came home to find Ruth asleep on their sofa, a glass of Scotch and the Times Literary Review on the hassock in front of her. Once they found Gabri in the bath. Apparently the hot water in the B. & B. had run out, and so had Gabri.
Clara yanked open the door, prepared for the blast of cold air and not totally surprised to see Chief Inspector Gamache, though a tiny part of her still hoped it might be the chief curator of the MOMA, come to see her works.
‘Come on in.’ She stepped aside and quickly closed the door after him.
‘I won’t keep you long.’ He gave a tiny bow and she bowed back, thinking maybe she should have given a subtle curtsy. ‘Do you have a video player?’
Now there was a question she wasn’t expecting.
He unzipped his parka and brought out a video, kept warm against his body.
‘The Lion in Winter?’ She looked at the box.
‘Précisément. I’d very much like to watch it, as soon as possible.’ He was perfectly contained and relaxed, but Clara knew him well enough to know this wasn’t a casual request or a nice way to spend a quiet winter evening in the country.
‘We do. Ruth and Myrna are coming over for dinner, though.’
‘I don’t want to be in the way.’
‘Never.’ She took his arm and led him into the warm and inviting kitchen. ‘Always room for more, but I want to make sure you don’t mind the company. Peter’s made a family specialty from the leftover turkey and vegetable. It looks horrible but tastes like heaven.’
Before long Peter had emerged from his studio and the others had arrived, Myrna enveloping everyone in her generous arms and Ruth making for the bar.
‘Thank God,’ was Ruth’s reaction when told Gamache wanted to watch a video. ‘I thought I’d have to make conversation yet another night.’
Clara prepared a basket with dinners for Richard and Crie and Myrna volunteered to deliver it.
‘May I drive you up?’ Gamache offered.
‘It’s a short walk. Besides, if I walk that’ll give me permission to have seconds.’ Myrna smiled as she wrapped a huge colorful scarf round her neck until she looked like an African tribesman in a cold spell.
‘Could you check on Crie when you’re there?’ Gamache lowered his voice. ‘I’m worried about her.’
‘What’re you thinking?’ Myrna asked, her normally jovial face searching and serious. ‘It’s natural for a child who just saw her mother murdered to be abnormal for a while.’
‘True, but this seems like more. Could you just see?’
She agreed and was off.
Agent Yvette Nichol edged up to the car in front of her in the fast lane of the autoroute, heading from Montreal back to the Townships. Her bumper was just inches from the car in front. Any minute now the driver would notice.
That was the moment. That exquisite moment. Would he hit the brake? Even a slight tap would send their cars careering together at 140 kilometers an hour and they would be a fireball within seconds. Nichol gripped her steering wheel tighter, her eyes keen with concentration and rage. How dare he slow her up? How dare he use her lane? How dare he not pull over? Slow, stupid man. She’d show him, as she showed anyone who stood in her way. Rage made her invincible. But there was something else too.
Glee.
She was going to scare the shit out of the driver.
‘I read your book,’ said Gamache to Ruth as the two of them sat in front of the cheery fire while Peter puttered in the kitchen and Clara browsed her bookshelves for something to read.
Ruth looked as though she’d rather be sitting in scalding oil than next to a compliment. She decided to ignore him and took a long gulp of her Scotch.
‘But my wife has a question.’
‘You have a wife? Someone agreed to marry you?’
‘She did and she was only a little drunk. She wants to know what FINE means in your title.’
‘I’m not surprised your wife has no idea what fine means. Probably doesn’t know what happy or sane means either.’
‘She’s a librarian and she was saying in her experience when people use capital letters it’s because the letters stand for something. Your title is I’m FINE with the FINE in capitals.’
‘She has brains, your wife. She’s the first to notice that, or at least to ask. FINE stands for Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Egotistical. I’m FINE.’
‘You certainly are,’ agreed Gamache.
Agent Robert Lemieux eased over into the slow lane, allowing the maniac tailgating him on the autoroute at 140 kilometers an hour to pass. If he’d been in the mood he’d have put his flasher on the roof and chased the psycho, but he had other things on his mind.
He was sure he’d done well in Montreal. He’d convinced the police artist to do the drawing. He’d visited the bus station and the Old Brewery Mission. He’d advanced the Elle case, which Gamache seemed to want to keep private.
He’d made a note of that in his book.