Agent Lemieux had achieved what he wanted and needed. He was pretty sure Chief Inspector Gamache trusted him. And that was the key. A lot was riding on gaining Gamache’s trust.
‘The only person I remember moving around at the curling match was that photographer person,’ said Myrna a few minutes later. As soon as she’d returned Peter and Clara had put the dinner out for people to help themselves. Gamache had taken her aside briefly and Myrna had agreed there was something very wrong with Crie. They arranged to get together the next day to talk.
Now their dinner was on tray tables in the living room. Clara had been right. It looked like something found in the bottom of the sink on Christmas Day once the dish water had been drained. But it tasted wonderful. Mashed potatoes, roast turkey, gravy and peas, all mushed together in a steaming casserole. Fresh bread and a green salad sat in bowls on the coffee table, with Lucy drifting around like a hungry shark.
‘The photographer popped up everywhere,’ agreed Clara, taking a hunk of bread and spreading it with butter. ‘But he only took pictures of CC.’
‘He was hired to do that. Where were all of you?’ asked Gamache. He took a sip of red wine and listened as the others talked.
‘In the stands, next to Olivier,’ said Ruth.
‘I was sitting between Myrna and Gabri,’ said Clara, ‘and Peter was curling.’
‘Richard Lyon was beside me,’ said Myrna.
‘Was he there the whole time?’ Gamache asked.
‘Definitely. I’d have noticed if he left. Body heat. But what about Kaye Thompson?’ Myrna looked at the others. ‘She was sitting right next to CC. She must have seen something.’
Everyone nodded and looked at Gamache expectantly. He shook his head. ‘I spoke to her today. She says she saw nothing. Only knew something was wrong when CC started screaming.’
‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Ruth.
‘Nobody did,’ said Gamache. ‘It was masked by the noise of Mother clearing the house.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Peter. ‘Everyone was cheering.’
‘How about Crie?’ Gamache asked. ‘Did anyone notice her?’
Blank stares.
Gamache was again struck by how sad it must be to be Crie. She’d swallowed all her feelings, all her pain. She carried such an enormous weight, and yet she was invisible. No one ever saw her. It was the worst of all possible states, he knew, to never be noticed.
‘Do you have a Bible?’ Gamache asked Clara. ‘Old Testament, if you have one. In English, please.’
They wandered over to the bookcase and Clara finally found it.
‘May I return it tomorrow?’
‘You can return it next year if you like. Can’t remember the last time I read the Old Testament,’ said Clara.
‘The last time?’ Peter asked.
‘Or the first time,’ admitted Clara with a laugh.
‘Would you like to watch the movie now?’ Peter asked.
‘Very much,’ said Gamache.
Peter reached out to pick up the cassette from the living room table, but Gamache stayed his hand.
‘I’ll do it, if you don’t mind.’ Gamache took out a handkerchief and slipped the movie out of its sleeve. Everyone noticed, but no one asked, and Gamache didn’t volunteer the information that this particular tape had been found in the garbage of the dead woman.
‘What’s it about?’ asked Myrna.
‘Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband King Henry,’ said Ruth. Gamache turned to her, surprised. ‘What? It’s a great film. Katharine Hepburn and Peter O’Toole. All the action takes place at Christmas, if I remember well. Strange, isn’t it. Here we are at Christmas too.’
There were many strange things about this case, thought Gamache.
The opening credits started, the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion roared, the powerful Gothic music filled their quaint little living room and grotesque images of gargoyles leered on the screen. Already the film reeked of power and decay.
And dread.
The Lion in Winter began.
Agent Nichol’s car skidded round the snowy corner, barely making the turn off the main road onto the tiny secondary road that led to Three Pines. Gamache hadn’t invited her to stay at the B. & B. with them, but she would anyway, even if she had to pay her own way. While in Montreal, after interviewing the headmistress of Crie’s snooty private school, Agent Nichol had driven home to pick up a suitcase, stopping briefly to have a bite with her relatives gathered in the tiny, fastidious house.
Her father always seemed nervous on these occasions and had instructed his daughters never to mention the family history in Czechoslovakia. Growing up in the immaculate little home in east end Montreal Nichol had seen a parade of distant relatives and friends of friends come to live with them, though it was less a parade than a cortege. They trudged through the door, all in black with stone stern faces, speaking words she couldn’t understand and sucking all the attention the world had to offer. They demanded and yelled and wailed and complained. They came from Poland and Lithuania and Hungary and young Yvette listened to them and came to believe each person must have their own language. Hovering near the doorway in the tiny, crowded, chaotic living room, a room that had once been so pleasant and calm, young Yvette struggled to understand what was being said. At first the newcomers would speak kindly to her, then when she didn’t react they’d speak more loudly, until finally they screamed at her in the universal language that said she was lazy and stupid and disrespectful. Her mother, once so gentle and kindly, had become impatient too, and yelled at her. In a language she did understand. Little Yvette Nikolev had become the foreigner. All her life she’d stand just on the outside. Longing to belong, but knowing she didn’t, when even her mother sided with others.
It was then she began to worry. If her home was this baffling and overwhelming, what was waiting outside? Suppose she couldn’t make herself understood? Suppose something happened, but she couldn’t follow the instructions? Suppose she needed something? Who would give it to her? And so Yvette Nichol had learned to take.
‘So, you’re back with Gamache,’ her father had said.
‘Yes sir.’ She smiled at him. He was the only one who had ever stood up for her as a child. The only one who’d protected her again those invaders. He’d catch her eye and wave her over and give her a butterscotch candy wrapped in noisy cellophane. He’d instruct her to hide someplace to open it. Away from prying and greedy eyes. Their secret. Her father had taught her the value and necessity of secrets.
‘You must never tell him about Czechoslovakia. Promise me now. He wouldn’t understand. They only want pure Quebecers in the Sûreté. If he found out you’re Czech you’d be kicked out. Like Uncle Saul.’
The very idea of being compared to stupid Uncle Saul made her nauseous. Stupid Uncle Saul Nikolev who’d washed out of the Czech police and couldn’t protect the family. And so they’d all perished. Except her father, Ari Nikolev, and her mother and the discontented and bitter relatives who’d used their home like a latrine, dropping their shit all over the young family.
In the small, neat back bedroom Ari Nikolev watched as his daughter packed her suitcase with the dreariest, drabbest clothes in her closet. At his suggestion.
‘I know men,’ he’d said, when she’d protested.
‘But men won’t find me attractive in these.’ She’d jabbed her finger at the pile of clothes. ‘I thought you said you wanted Gamache to like me.’
‘Not to date. Believe me, he’ll like you in those.’
As she turned to find her toiletry bag he slipped a couple of butterscotch candies into the suitcase, where she’d find them that night. And think of him. And with any luck never realize he had his own little secret.