He wasn’t looking at his companion. He found people opened up more if given the conceit of their own space. Instead, Chief Inspector Gamache stared straight ahead at the honeysuckle and roses growing up an arbor and warming in the early afternoon sun.
“Some manage to flush it all out in one go,” said Suzanne. “But most need time. It’s not that they’re intentionally hiding anything. Sometimes they’ve buried it so deep they don’t even know it’s there anymore.”
“Until?”
“Until it claws its way back up. By then something tiny has turned into something almost unrecognizable. Something big and stinky.”
“What happens then?” asked the Chief Inspector.
“Then we have a choice,” said Suzanne. “We can look the truth square in the face. Or we can bury it again. Or, at least try.”
To a casual observer they would appear to be two old friends discussing literature or the latest concert at the village hall. But someone more astute might notice their expressions. Not grave, but perhaps a little somber on this lovely, sunny day.
“What happens if people try to bury it again?” Gamache asked.
“I don’t know about normal human beings, but for alcoholics it’s lethal. A secret that rotten will drive you to drink. And the drink will drive you to your grave. But not before it steals everything from you. Your loved ones, your job, your home. Your dignity. And finally, your life.”
“All because of a secret?”
“Because of a secret, and the decision to hide from the truth. The choice to chicken out.” She looked at him closely. “Sobriety isn’t for cowards, Chief Inspector. Whatever you might think of an alcoholic, to get sober, really sober demands great honesty, and that demands great courage. Stopping drinking’s the easy part. Then we have to face ourselves. Our demons. How many people are willing to do that?”
“Not many,” Gamache admitted. “But what happens if the demons win?”
Clara Morrow walked slowly across the bridge, pausing to glance into the Rivière Bella Bella below. It burbled past, catching the sun in silver and gold highlights. She could see the rocks, rubbed smooth at the bottom of the stream, and every now and then a rainbow trout glided past.
Should she go into Montréal? The truth was, she’d already looked up the Dysons’ address, she’d just wanted to confirm it with Beauvoir. It sat in her pocket, and now she glanced over at their car, sitting. Waiting.
Should she go into Montréal?
What was she waiting for? What was she afraid of?
That they would hate her. Blame her. Tell her to go away. That Mr. and Mrs. Dyson, who had once been second parents to Clara, would disown her.
But she knew she had to do it. Despite what Myrna said. Despite what Beauvoir said. She hadn’t asked Peter. Didn’t yet trust him enough with something this important. But she suspected he’d say the same thing.
Don’t go.
Don’t risk it.
Clara turned away from the river and walked off the bridge.
“It’s true,” said Suzanne, “sometimes the demon wins. Sometimes we can’t face the truth. It’s just too painful.”
“What happens then?”
Suzanne was swishing the grass with her feet, no longer looking at the pretty garden.
“Have you ever heard of ‘Humpty Dumpty,’ Chief Inspector?”
“The nursery rhyme? I used to read it to my children.”
Daniel, as he remembered, had loved it. Wanted it read over and over again. Never tired of the illustrations of the silly old egg and the noble King’s horses and men, rushing to the rescue.
But Annie? She’d howled. The tears had gone on and on, staining his shirt where he’d held her to him. Rocking her. Trying to comfort her. It had taken Gamache a while to calm her down and work out what the problem was. And then it was clear. Little Annie, all of four, couldn’t stand the thought of Humpty Dumpty so shattered. Never able to heal. Hurt too badly.
“It’s an allegory, of course,” said Suzanne.
“You mean Mr. Dumpty never existed?” asked Gamache.
“I mean exactly that, Chief Inspector.” Suzanne’s smile faded and she walked in silence for a few paces. “Like Humpty Dumpty, some people are just too damaged to heal.”
“Was Lillian?”
“She was healing. I think she might have done all right. She was sure working hard at it.”
“But?” said Gamache.
Suzanne took a few more steps. “Lillian was damaged, very messed up. But she was putting her life back together again, slowly. That wasn’t the problem.”
The Chief Inspector considered what this woman, so loud and yet so loyal, was trying to tell him. And then he thought he had it.
“She wasn’t Humpty Dumpty,” he said. “She hadn’t fallen off the wall. She pushed others. Others had had great falls, thanks to Lillian.”
Beside him Suzanne Coates’s head bobbed up and down very subtly with each footstep.
“Sorry it took so long,” said Clara, coming around the old lilac bush at the corner of her home. “I got these from Myrna.”
She held up the ribbon and the cigar and was treated to both the Chief Inspector and Suzanne looking disconcerted.
“What sort of a ritual is this exactly?” asked Gamache, with an uncertain smile.
“It’s a ritual of cleansing. Would you like to join us?”
Gamache hesitated, then nodded. He was familiar with this sort of ritual. Some of the villagers had done it at the scenes of earlier murders. But he’d never been asked to join before. Though, God knew, he’d had enough incense wafted over him in his Catholic youth, this couldn’t be any worse.
For the second time in two days Clara lit the sage and sweetgrass. She gently pushed the fragrant smoke toward the intense artist, smoothing it over the woman’s head and down her body. Releasing, Clara explained, any negative thoughts, any bad energy.
Then it was Gamache’s turn. She looked at him. His expression was slightly bemused, but mostly relaxed, attentive. She moved the smoke over him, until it hung like a sweet cloud around him and then dissipated in the breeze.
“All the negative energy taken away,” said Clara, doing it to herself. “Gone.”
If only, they all quietly thought, it was that easy.
Then Clara gave them each a ribbon and invited them to say a silent prayer for Lillian, then tie it to the stick.
“What about the tape?” asked Suzanne.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Clara. “More of a suggestion than a command. Besides, I know the fellow who put it up.”
“Incompetent,” said Gamache, holding the tape down for Suzanne, then stepping through himself. “But well meaning.”
Agent Isabelle Lacoste slowed her car almost to a stop. She was heading out of Three Pines and into Montréal to help search the archives of La Presse for Lillian Dyson’s reviews. To try to find out who that one particularly vicious critique was written about.
As she drove past the Morrow house she saw something she never thought she’d see. A senior Sûreté du Québec officer apparently praying to a stick.
She smiled, wishing she could join him. She’d often said silent prayers at a crime scene. When everyone else had left, Isabelle Lacoste returned. To let the dead know they were not forgotten.
This time, though, it seemed the Chief’s turn. She wondered what he was praying for. She remembered holding that bloody hand, and thought maybe she could guess.
Chief Inspector Gamache placed his right hand on the stick and cleared his mind. After a moment he tied his ribbon to it and stepped back.