Still Life

Gamache grinned. If the string hit, it hit. At least, unlike Beauvoir, he'd be prepared.

'What else should I be doing?'

'Now, with your right hand, put the arrow in so its tip is resting on that little wooden notch on the bow, and fit the back of the arrow on to the string. Good. Now you're ready to pull back. What you don't want to do is to have to hold the string back for too long before firing. You'll see why in a moment. Get yourself lined up, your body like this.' He turned Gamache so his body was sideways to the target. His left arm was getting tired holding the heavy bow in place.

'Here's the sight.'

Croft, incredibly, was pointing to a tiny pin like Gamache took out of his shirts after they'd been dry cleaned. 'You line the knob of the pin up with the bull's-eye. Then you draw the string back in one fluid motion, realign the sight, and let go.'

Croft stood back. Gamache lowered the bow to give his arm a break, took a breath, reviewed the steps in his mind then did it. Smoothly he brought his left arm up, and before placing the arrow he twisted his elbow out of the way of the string. He then placed the arrow on the knob, put the arrow butt in the string, lined the head of the pin up with the bull's-eye, and pulled back on the string in one fluid motion. Except it wasn't exactly fluid. It felt as though the Montreal Canadiens were playing tug of war with him, yanking the string in the other direction. With his right arm trembling slightly he managed to get the string all the way back until it was almost to his nose, then he released. By then he didn't much care whether it took his whole elbow off, he just wanted to let the damn thing go. The arrow flew wildly off, missing the target by at least as much as Beauvoir's. But the string also missed. It twanged back into place without even grazing Gamache's arm.

'You're a good teacher, Mr Croft.'

'You must have low standards. Look where your arrow went.'

'I can't see it. Hope it isn't lost.'

'It isn't. They never are. Haven't lost one yet.'

'Mrs Croft,' said Gamache, 'your turn.'

'I'd rather not.'

'Please, Mrs Croft.' Chief Inspector Gamache handed her the bow. He was thankful he'd shot the bow and arrow. It had given him a thought.

'I haven't used it in a while.'

'I understand,' said Gamache. 'Just do your best.' Suzanne Croft lined up her shot, put the arrow in, grabbed the string and pulled. And pulled. And pulled until she started crying and collapsed on to the muddy ground, overwhelmed by an emotion that had nothing to do with failing to shoot the arrow. Instantly Matthew Croft was kneeling beside her, holding her. Swiftly Gamache took Beauvoir's arm and led him a step or two away. He spoke in an urgent whisper.

'We need to get into that basement. I'd like you to offer them a deal. We won't take Philippe to the police station, if they take us to the basement right now.'

'But we have to speak with Philippe.'

'I agree, but we can't do both and the only way we'll get to the basement is if we give them something they really want. They want to protect their son. We can't have both and I think this is the best we can do.'

Beauvoir thought about it while watching Croft console his wife. The Chief Inspector was right. Philippe would probably wait. What was in the basement probably wouldn't. After that demonstration it was clear Mrs Croft knew her way around a bow and arrow, but she'd never shot that particular bow. There must be another one somewhere, one that she was used to using. And one that Philippe might have used. Probably in the basement. His nose caught the woodsmoke wafting out of the chimney. He hoped it wasn't too late.

***

Peter and Clara were walking Lucy along the footpath through the woods across the Bella Bella from their home. Once over the small bridge they released her. She trudged along, showing no interest in the wealth of new scents. The rain had stopped but the thick grass and ground were sodden.

'Weather network says it's supposed to clear,' said Peter, kicking a stone along with his feet.

'But getting colder,' agreed Clara. 'Hard frost's on the way. Have to get into the garden.' She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the chill. 'I have a question for you. It's advice, really. You know when I went over to Yolande?'

'At lunch? Yes. Why did you do that?'

'Well, because she was Jane's niece.'

'No, really. Why?'

Damn Peter, thought Clara. He actually knows me.

'I wanted to be kind

'But you knew what would happen. Why would you choose to walk right into a situation where you know the person is going to be hurtful? It kills me to see you do that, and you do it all the time. It's like a form of insanity.'

'You call it insanity, I call it optimism.'

'Is it optimism to expect people to do something they've never done before? Every time you approach Yolande she's horrible to you. Every time. And yet you keep doing it. Why?'

'What's all this about?'

'Have you ever thought how it makes me feel to watch you do this time after time, and to not be able to do anything except pick up the pieces? Stop expecting people to be something they're not. Yolande is a horrible, hateful, petty little person. Accept that and stay away from her. And if you choose to walk into her space, be prepared for the consequences.'

'That's unfair. You seem to think I'm this moron who had no idea what was about to happen. I knew perfectly well she'd do that. And I did it anyway. Because I had to know something.'

'Know what?'

'I had to hear Andre's laugh.'

'His laugh? Why?'

'That's what I wanted to talk about. Remember Jane described that horrible laugh when the boys threw manure at Olivier and Gabri?' Peter nodded. 'I heard a laugh like that this morning, at the public meeting. It was Andre. That's why I had to go up to their table, to get him to laugh again. And he did. One thing I'll say for Yolande and Andre, is that they're predictable.'

'But Clara, Andre's a grown man, he wasn't one of those masked boys.'

Clara waited. Peter wasn't normally this obtuse, so it was fun to watch. His furrowed brow eventually cleared.

'It was Andre's son Bernard.'

'Atta boy.'

'Jane got it wrong, it wasn't Philippe, Gus and Claude. One of them wasn't there, but Bernard was.'

'Should I tell Chief Inspector Gamache? Could he see it as me just bad-mouthing Yolande?' asked Clara.

'Who cares? Gamache needs to know.'

'Good. I'll go over to the Bistro this afternoon, during his, "at home".' Clara picked up a stick and threw it, hoping Lucy would follow. She didn't.

The Crofts accepted the deal. They really had little choice and now Gamache, Beauvoir, Nichol and the Crofts were making their way down the narrow steps. The entire basement was well organised, not the kind of labyrinth of confusion he'd seen, and sifted through, so often. When he commented on it Croft answered, 'It's one of Philippe's chores, cleaning the basement. We did it together for a few years, but on his fourteenth birthday I told him it was now all his.' Then Croft had added, perhaps realising how it sounded, 'It wasn't his only birthday present.'

For twenty minutes the two men methodically searched. Then, amid the skis, tennis rackets and hockey gear, hanging on the wall half hidden by goalie pads, they found a quiver. Carefully lifting it off its hook using one of the tennis rackets, Beauvoir looked inside. Five old wooden hunting arrows. What wasn't in the quiver was a single cobweb. This quiver had been out recently.

'Whose is this, Mr Croft?'

'That belonged to my father.'

'There are only five arrows. Is that usual?'

'That's how it came to me. Dad must have lost one.'

'And yet you said it was rare. I believe you said that hunters almost never lose an arrow.'

'That's true, but "almost never" and "never" are two different things.'