'Compound,' about twenty people said at once, including at least three of the officers in the room.
'As accurate ... yes. As powerful, no.'
'You hesitated over accuracy.'
'With a recurved you have to release the string with your fingers. A rough release would affect the accuracy. A compound bow has a trigger so it's smoother. It also has a very accurate device for sighting.'
'There are hunters today who choose to use the wooden recurve bows and wooden arrows. Is that right?'
'Not many,' said Helene Charron. 'It's very rare.' Gamache turned back to Matthew, 'If you were going to kill someone, which would you use? Recurve or compound?'
Matthew Croft hesitated. He clearly didn't like the question. Andre Malenfant laughed. It was a humorless, snarky sound.
'No question. A compound. I can't imagine why anyone would be hunting in this day and age with an old wooden recurved bow, and with arrows with real feathers. It's like someone stepped out of the past. Target practice, sure. But hunting? Give me modern equipment. And frankly, if you were going to kill someone deliberately? Murder? Why take chances with a recurve? No, a compound is far more likely to do the job. Actually, I'd use a gun.'
And that's the puzzle, thought Gamache. Why? Why an arrow and not a bullet? Why an old-fashioned wooden bow and not the state-of-the-art hunting bow? At the end of the investigation there was always an answer. And one that made sense, at least on some level. To someone. But for now it seemed nonsense. An old-fashioned wooden arrow with real feathers used to kill an elderly retired country schoolteacher. Why?
'Mr Croft, do you still have your hunting equipment?'
'Yes, sir, I do.'
'Perhaps you could give me a demonstration this afternoon.'
'With pleasure.' Croft didn't hesitate, but Gamache thought he saw Mrs Croft tense. He looked at his watch: 12.30.
'Does anyone have any other questions?'
'I have one.' Ruth Zardo struggled to her feet. 'Actually, it's more a statement than a question.' Gamache looked at her with interest. Inside he steeled himself.
'You can use the old train station if you think it would be suitable as a headquarters. I heard you were looking. The volunteer fire department can help you set things up.'
Gamache considered for a moment. It wasn't perfect, but it seemed like the best option now that the schoolhouse was cordoned off.
'Thank you, we will use your fire hall. I'm most grateful.'
'I want to say something.' Yolande rose. 'The police will no doubt tell me when I can have the funeral for Aunt Jane. I'll let you all know when and where it will be.'
Gamache suddenly felt deeply sorry for her. She was dressed head to toe in black and seemed to be waging an internal battle between being weak with grief, and the need to claim ownership of this tragedy. He'd seen it many times, people jockeying for position as chief mourner. It was always human and never pleasant and often misleading. Aid workers, when handing out food to starving people, quickly learn that the people fighting for it at the front are the people who need it least. It's the people sitting quietly at the back, too weak to fight, who need it the most. And so too with tragedy. The people who don't insist on their sorrow can often be the ones who feel it most strongly. But he also knew there was no hard and fast rule.
Gamache wrapped the meeting up. Just about everyone sprinted through the gusty rain to the Bistro for lunch, some to cook, some to serve, most to eat. Gamache was anxious to hear the results of the search of the archery clubhouse.
FIVE
With trembling hands, Agent Isabelle Lacoste reached into the plastic bag and carefully withdrew a lethal weapon. In her fingers, wet and numb with cold, she held an arrowhead. The other Surete officers around the room sat in silence, many squinting, trying to get a clear look at the tiny tip, designed to kill.
'We found it and others in the clubhouse,' she said, passing it around. She'd arrived early that morning, leaving her husband to look after the kids and driving through the rain and dark from Montreal. She liked her quiet time at the office, and today the office was a cold and silent former schoolhouse. Inspector Beauvoir had given her the key and as she let herself past the yellow police tape she pulled out her thermos of coffee, dropped her police bag with 'scene of crime' paraphernalia on the floor, switched on the light and looked around. The tongue-in-groove walls were covered with quivers hanging from what must once have been hooks for little coats. At the front of the room the blackboard still dominated, no doubt permanently attached to the wall. On it someone had drawn a target, an 'X' and an arc between the two with numbers written below. Agent Lacoste had done her homework on the Internet the night before and recognised this as a pretty basic archery lesson on wind, distance and trajectory. Still, she took out her camera and photographed it. Pouring herself a coffee, she sat down and drew the diagram in her notebook. She was a careful woman.
Then, before any of the other officers assigned to the search arrived, she did something only she knew about: she went back outside and in the strained light of the rainy morning she walked to the spot where Jane Neal had died. And she told Miss Neal that Chief Inspector Gamache would find out who had done this to her.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste believed in 'do unto others' and knew she'd want someone to do this for her.
She then returned to the unheated archery clubhouse. The other officers had arrived and together they searched the single room, fingerprinting, measuring, photographing, bagging. And then Lacoste, reaching into the back of a drawer in the only desk remaining in the room, had found them.
Gamache held it in the palm of his hand, as though holding a grenade. The arrowhead clearly meant for hunting. Four razors tapered to a fine tip. Now, finally, he could appreciate what had been said in the public meeting. This arrowhead seemed to yearn to cut through his palm. Hurtled from a bow with all the force thousands of years of need could produce, it would without a doubt pass straight through a person. It's a wonder guns were ever invented when you already had such a lethal and silent weapon.
Agent Lacoste wiped a soft towel through her dripping dark hair. She stood with her back to the lively fire perking in the stone fireplace, feeling warm for the first time in hours, and she smelt the homemade soup and bread and watched the deadly weapon progress around the room.
Clara and Myrna stood in line at the buffet table, balancing mugs of steaming French Canadian pea soup and plates with warm rolls from the boulangerie. Just ahead Nellie was piling food on to her plate.
'I'm getting enough for Wayne too,' Nellie explained unnecessarily. 'He's over there, poor guy.'
'I heard his cough,' said Myrna. 'A cold?'
'Don't know. It's gone to his chest. This is the first time I've been out of the house in days, I've been that worried. But Wayne cut Miss Neal's lawn and looked after odd jobs and he wanted to go to the meeting.' The two women watched as Nellie took her huge plate over to Wayne, who sat slouched and exhausted in a chair. She wiped his brow and then got him to his feet. The two of them left the Bistro, Nellie concerned and in charge, and Wayne docile and happy to be led. Clara hoped he'd be all right.
'What did you think of the meeting?' Clara asked Myrna as they edged along.
'I like him, Inspector Gamache.'
'Me too. But it's strange, Jane being killed by a hunting arrow.'
'Though if you think about it, it makes sense. It's hunting season, but I agree the old wooden arrow gave me the shivers. Very weird. Turkey?'
'Please. Brie?' asked Clara.
'Just a sliver. Perhaps a bigger sliver than that.'
'When does a sliver become a hunk?'
'If you're a hunk, size doesn't matter,' Myrna explained.
'I'll remember that next time I go to bed with a hunk of Stilton.'