Gamache turned to look at Nichol. 'Keep your eyes open and take detailed notes of what's being said. And just listen, got it?'
Nichol glared back.
'I asked you a question, Agent.'
'Got it.' Then after a significant pause, she added, 'Sir.'
'Good. Inspector Beauvoir, will you take the lead?'
'Right,' replied Beauvoir, getting out of the car.
Matthew Croft was waiting at the screen door. After taking their sodden coats he led them straight into the kitchen. Bright reds and yellows. Cheery tableware and dishes in the hutch. Clean white curtains with flowers embroidered on the border. Gamache looked across the table at Croft who was straightening the rooster salt and pepper shakers. His clever eyes couldn't seem to rest and he held himself as though waiting. Listening. It was all very subtle, hidden below the friendly exterior. But it was there, Gamache was sure of it.
'I've got the archery set in the screen porch. It's wet out, but if you'd still like a demonstration I could show you how they're fired.' Croft had said this to Gamache but Beauvoir answered, dragging Croft's eyes away from his chief.
'That would be very useful, but I have a few questions first, just some background I'd like to get straight.'
'Sure, anything.'
'Tell me about Jane Neal, your relationship with her.'
'We weren't that close. I'd sometimes go over to her place to visit. It was quiet. Peaceful. She was my teacher, long ago now, up at the old schoolhouse.'
'What was she like as a teacher?'
'Remarkable. She had this really amazing ability to look at you and make you feel you were the only person on earth. You know?'
Beauvoir knew. Armand Gamache had the same ability. Most people when talking are also watching the rest of the room, and nodding to others, waving. Never Gamache. When he looked at you, you were the universe. Though Beauvoir knew the boss was also taking in every detail of what was happening. He just didn't show it.
'What do you do for a living?'
'I work for the township of St Remy in the road department.'
'Doing what?'
'I'm the head of road maintenance. I assign crews, assess problem areas. Sometimes I just drive, looking for problems. Don't want to find a problem at the same time as I find an overturned car.'
It happened far too often. Normally death came at night, taking a person in their sleep, stopping their heart or tickling them awake, leading them to the bathroom with a splitting headache before pouncing and flooding their brain with blood. It waits in alleys and metro stops. After the sun goes down plugs are pulled by white-clad guardians and death is invited into an antiseptic room.
But in the country death comes, uninvited, during the day. It takes fishermen in their longboats. It grabs children by the ankles as they swim. In winter it calls them down a slope too steep for their budding skills, and crosses their skies at the tips. It waits along the shore where snow met ice not long ago but now, unseen by sparkling eyes, a little water touches the shore, and the skater makes a circle slightly larger than intended. Death stands in the woods with a bow and arrow at dawn and dusk. And it tugs cars off the road in broad daylight, the tires spinning furiously on ice or snow, or bright autumn leaves.
Matthew Croft was always called to road accidents. Sometimes he was the first there. As he worked to free the body Matthew Croft's bruised heart and brain would go home to poetry. He would recite poems learned by heart from books borrowed from Miss Neal. And Ruth Zardo's poetry was his favorite.
On quiet days off he would often visit Miss Neal and sit in her garden in an Adirondack chair looking across the phlox to the stream beyond, and memorise poems, to be used to ward off the nightmares. As he memorised, Miss Neal would make pink lemonade and deadhead her perennial borders. She was aware of the irony of deadheading while he banished death from his head. For some reason Matthew was loath to tell the police about this, to let them that far in.
Before he could say more he tensed, slightly. A moment later Gamache heard it too. Suzanne opened the door from the basement which led into the kitchen and came in.
Suzanne Croft didn't look well at all. She'd looked strained at the public meeting, but nothing compared to this. Her skin was almost translucent, except for the blotches. And a thin layer of sweat lent it a sheen, not unlike a reptile. Her hand, when shaken by Gamache, was ice-cold. She was terrified, he realised. Scared sick. Gamache looked over at Croft, who now wasn't even trying to hide his own fear. He was looking at his wife the way one might look at a specter, a ghost with a particularly awful and personal message.
Then the moment passed. Matthew Croft's face fell back to 'normal', with only a pall to the skin evidence of what lay beneath. Gamache offered Mrs Croft his seat but Matthew had grabbed a stool and sat while his wife took his chair. No one spoke. Gamache was willing Beauvoir not to speak. To let the silence stretch to breaking. This woman was holding on to something horrible and her grip was slipping.
'Would you like a glass of water?' Nichol asked Suzanne Croft.
'No, thank you, but let me make some tea.' And with that Mrs Croft leapt from her chair and the moment was broken. Gamache looked at Nichol, perplexed. If she had wanted to sabotage the case and her career she couldn't have done a better job.
'Here, let me help,' said Nichol, bouncing off her seat and grabbing the kettle.
Beauvoir had allowed his face to show a flash of fury when Nichol spoke, then it too was replaced by his familiar, reasonable, mask.
Stupid, stupid woman, he cursed to himself, even as his face took on a benevolent half-smile. He stole a glance at Gamache, and saw with satisfaction the boss was also staring at Nichol, but not angrily. To Beauvoir's disgust, he saw a look he took to be tolerance on the chief's face. Will he never learn? What in God's name drives him to want to help such fools?
'What do you do for a living, Mrs Croft? Do you work?' Now that the silence was fractured, Beauvoir figured he might as well grab back control. Even as he asked the question he could hear the insult. The easy assumption motherhood wasn't work. But he didn't care.
'I help out three times a week at the photocopy store in St Remy. Helps make ends meet.'
Beauvoir felt badly for the question now it was asked. He wondered whether he'd balled up his anger at Nichol and pitched it into Mrs Croft's face. He looked around the room and realised all the homey touches were made by hand, even the plastic covers of the chairs were inexpertly stapled on, a few coming loose. These people made a little go a long way.
'You have two children, I believe,' Beauvoir shook off his momentary shame.
'That's right,' Matthew jumped in.
'And what are their names?'
'Philippe and Diane.'
'Nice names,' he said into the gathering stillness. 'And how old are they?'
'He's fourteen, she's eight.'
'And where are they?'
The question hovered in the air, as the earth stopped turning. He had been marching inexorably toward this question, as the Crofts must have known. He hadn't wanted to surprise them with it, not out of delicacy for their parental feelings, but because he wanted them to see it coming toward them from a great distance, and to have to wait, and wait. Until their nerves were taut to breaking. Until they both longed for and dreaded this instant.
'They're not here,' said Suzanne, strangling a teacup.
Beauvoir waited, looking steadily at her. 'When are you having your Thanksgiving dinner?'
The swift shift left Suzanne Croft gaping, as though he'd suddenly switched to Pig Latin. Xnay on the erdinnaye.
'I'm sorry?'
'One of the great things I've noticed in my home is that the smell of the turkey hangs around for a couple of days. Then of course, my wife and I make soup the next day, and that's hard to miss too.' He took a deep breath, and then slowly, slowly scanned the clean counters of the kitchen.