'In the few hours you've been standing here, has anything about the scene or about Miss Neal seemed out of place?'
Gamache was impressed that Ben chose not to say the obvious. Instead he thought for a minute.
'Yes. Lucy, her dog. I can't remember Jane ever going for a walk without Lucy, especially a morning walk.'
'Did you call anyone else on your cell?'
Ben looked as though he'd been presented with a totally new, and brilliant, idea.
'Oh. Such an idiot! I can't believe it. It never occurred to me to call Peter, or Clara or anyone. Here I was all alone, not wanting to leave Jane, but having to wave down the police. And it never occurred to me to call for help, except 911. Oh my God, the shock, I suppose.'
Or maybe, thought Nichol, you really are an idiot. So far it would be difficult to find a human being less effective than Ben Hadley.
'Who are Peter and Clara?' Beauvoir asked.
'Peter and Clara Morrow. My best friends. They live next door to Jane. Jane and Clara were like mother and daughter. Oh, poor Clara. Do you think they know?'
'Well, let's find out,' said Gamache suddenly, walking with surprising speed back down the path toward the body. Once at the scene he turned to Beauvoir.
'Inspector, take over here. You know what you're looking for. Agent, stay with the Inspector and help him. What time is it?'
'Eleven-thirty, sir,' said Nichol.
'Right. Mr Hadley, is there a restaurant or cafe in the village?'
'Yes, there's Olivier's Bistro.'
Gamache turned to Beauvoir. 'Assemble the team at Olivier's at one-thirty. We'll miss the lunch rush and should have the place almost to ourselves. Is that correct, Mr Hadley?'
'Hard to say, really. It's possible as word gets out the village will congregate there. Olivier's is the Central Station of Three Pines. But he has a back room he opens only for dinner. It overlooks the river. He'd probably open it for you and your team.'
Gamache looked at Ben with interest. 'That's a good idea. Inspector Beauvoir, I'll stop by and speak with Monsieur Olivier-'
'It's Olivier Brule,' Ben interrupted. 'He and his partner Gabriel Dubeau run it and the only B. & B. in the village.'
'I'll speak with them and arrange a private room for lunch. May I walk with you, Mr Hadley, to the village? I haven't been there yet.'
'Yes, of course.' Ben almost said, 'It would be a pleasure', but stopped himself. Somehow this police officer emitted and invited courtesy and a certain formality. Though they must have been about the same age, Ben felt it was very like being with his grandfather.
'There's Peter Morrow.' Ben pointed into the crowd which had turned as though choreographed in their direction as the two men made their way out of the woods. Ben was pointing to the tall worried-looking man who'd spoken to Gamache earlier.
'I'm going to tell you all I can right now,' Gamache spoke to the crowd of about thirty villagers. He noticed Ben walk over to stand next to Peter Morrow.
'The dead woman's name is Jane Neal,' Gamache knew it was a false kindness to cushion a blow like this. A few of the people started to cry, some brought their hands up to their mouths as though covering a wound. Most dropped their heads as though the information was too heavy. Peter Morrow stared at Gamache. Then at Ben.
Gamache took all this in. Mr Morrow showed no surprise. And no sorrow. Anxiety, yes. Concern, without doubt. But sadness?
'How?' someone asked.
'We don't know yet. But it wasn't natural.'
A moan escaped the crowd, involuntary and heartfelt. Except Peter Morrow.
'Where's Clara?' Ben looked around. It was unusual to see one without the other.
Peter tilted his head toward the village. 'St Thomas's.'
The three men found Clara alone in the chapel, eyes closed, head bowed. Peter stood at the open door looking at her hunched back, braced against the blow that was to fall. He quietly walked up the short path between the pews, feeling as though he was floating above his body, watching his movements.
It was the minister who had brought the news earlier that morning that the police were active in the woods behind the old school house. Then, as the service of Thanksgiving progressed, their unease grew. Soon the tiny church was sick with rumors of a hunting accident. A woman. Injured? No, killed. Don't know who. Terrible. Terrible. And deep down in her stomach Clara knew just how terrible it was. With each opening of the door, each shaft of sunlight, she begged Jane to appear, late and flustered and apologetic. 'I've just slept in. Silly of me. Lucy, poor dear, woke me with a little cry to go out. So sorry.' The minister, either oblivious to the drama or out of his depth, just kept droning on.
Sun poured in through the stained-glass boys in uniforms from the Great War, scattering blues and deep reds and yellows across the pine floor and oak pews. The chapel smelled like every small church Clara had ever known. Pledge and pine and dusty old books. As the choir stood to sing the next hymn Clara turned to Peter.
'Can you go see?'
Peter took Clara's hand and was surprised to feel it freezing cold. He rubbed it between his own hands for a moment.
'I'll go. It'll be all right. Look at me,' he said, trying to get her frantic mind to stop its twirling.
'Praise, my soul, the King of heaven,' sang the choir.
Clara blinked, 'It will be all right?'
'Yes.'
'Alleluia, Alleluia. Praise the everlasting King.'
That had been an hour ago and now everyone had left, including the minister, late for Thanksgiving service in Cleghorn Halt. Clara heard the door open, saw the square of sunlight grow down the aisle, and saw the shadow appear, the outline familiar even in its distortion.
Peter hesitated then slowly made his way to her pew.
She knew then.
THREE
Clara sat in her kitchen drained and stunned with the overwhelming need to call Jane and tell her what had happened. What had happened was inconceivable. A world suddenly, violently, without Jane. Without that touch, that comfort, that kindness. Clara felt that someone had scooped not just her heart but her brain right out of her body. How is it possible, Clara wondered, looking down at her hands folded neatly in her lap, that my heart can still beat? I must call Jane.
After leaving the church they had, with Gamache's permission, gone to get Jane's golden retriever Lucy, who was now curled at Clara's feet as though hugging her own inconceivable loss.
Peter was willing the water to boil so he could make tea and then all this would go away. Maybe, said his brain and his upbringing, if you make enough tea and small talk, time reverses and all bad things are undone. But he'd lived too long with Clara to be able to hide in denial. Jane was dead. Killed. And he needed to comfort Clara and somehow make it all right. And he didn't know how. Rummaging through the cupboard like a wartime surgeon frantically searching for the right bandage, Peter swept aside Yogi Tea and Harmony Herbal Blend, though he hesitated for a second over chamomile. But no. Stay focused, he admonished himself. He knew it was there, that opiate of the Anglos. And his hand clutched the box just as the kettle whistled. Violent death demanded Earl Grey. Glancing out the window as he splashed boiling water into the pot and felt the painful pricks of scalding water bouncing on to his hand, he saw Chief Inspector Gamache sitting alone on the bench on the village green. The inspector appeared to be feeding the birds, but that couldn't be right. His attention returned to the important task of making tea.
Armand Gamache sat on the bench, watching the birds but mostly watching the village. Before his eyes the village of Three Pines seemed to slow right down. The insistence of life, the bustle and energy became muffled. The voices dropped, gaits slowed. Gamache sat back and did what he did best. He watched. He took in the people, their faces, their actions, and where possible he took in what they said, though people stayed far enough away from his wooden bench on the grass that he couldn't hear much. He noticed who touched and who didn't. Who hugged and who shook hands. He noticed who had red eyes and who gave the appearance of business as usual.