Still Life

'How did he and Ben meet?'

'At Abbot's, the private boys' school near Lennoxville. Ben was sent there when he was seven. Peter was also seven. The two youngest kids there.'

'What did Timmer do that was so bad?' Gamache's brow knitted, imagining the two frightened boys.

'For one, she sent a scared little boy away from home to boarding school. Poor Ben was totally unprepared for what awaited him. Have you ever been to boarding school, Inspector?'

'No. Never.'

'You're lucky. It's Darwinism at its most refined. You adapt or die. You learn that the skills that allow you to survive are cunning, cheating, bullying, lying. Either that or just plain hiding. But even that didn't last for long.'

Peter had painted for Clara a pretty clear picture of life at Abbot's. Now she saw the doorknob turning slowly, slowly. And the door to the boys' unlockable dorm room opening slowly, slowly. And the tiptoes of upper classmen sneaking in to do more damage. Peter had learned the monster wasn't under the bed after all. It broke Clara's heart every time she thought of those little boys. She looked over at their table and saw two grown men, graying, craggy heads leaning so close they almost touched. And she wanted to rush over there and keep all bad things away from them.

'Matthew ten, thirty-six.'

Clara brought herself back to Gamache, who was looking at her with such tenderness she felt both exposed and protected at the same time. The dorm door closed.

'Pardon?'

'A biblical quote. My first chief, Inspector Comeau, used to quote it. Matthew Chapter Ten, verse Thirty-six.'

'I could never forgive Timmer Hadley for doing that to Ben,' said Clara quietly.

'But Peter was there too,' Gamache said, also quietly. 'His parents sent him.'

'True. His mother's also a piece of work, but he was better equipped. And still it was a nightmare. Then there were the snakes. One holiday Ben and Peter were playing cowboys in the basement when they came across a nest of snakes. Ben said they were everywhere in the basement. And mice too. But everyone has mice around here. Not everyone has snakes.'

'Are the snakes still there?'

'I don't know.' Every time Clara had gone into Timmer's home she'd see snakes, curled in dark corners, slithering under chairs, hanging from the beams. It might have been just her imagination. Or not. Eventually Clara had refused to go into the house at all until Timmer's last weeks when volunteers were needed. Even then, she only went with Peter, and never to the bathroom. She knew the snakes were curled behind the sweating tank. And never, ever into the basement. Never close to that door off the kitchen where she could hear the sliding and slithering and smell the swamp.

Clara upgraded to a Scotch and the two of them stared out the window at the Victorian turrets just visible above the trees on the hill.

'Yet Timmer and Jane were best of friends,' said Gamache.

'True. But then, Jane got along with everyone.'

'Except her niece Yolande.'

'That's hardly revealing. Even Yolande doesn't get along with Yolande.'

'Do you have any idea why Jane didn't let anyone beyond the kitchen?'

'Not a clue,' said Clara, 'but she invited us to cocktails in her living room for the night of the Arts Williamsburg vernissage, to celebrate Fair Day.'

'When did she do that?' Gamache asked, leaning forward.

'Friday, at dinner, after she'd heard she'd been accepted for the show.'

'Wait a minute,' said Gamache, leaning his elbows on the table, as though preparing to crawl across it and into her head. 'Are you telling me on the Friday before she died she invited everyone to a party inside her home? For the first time in her life?'

'Yes. We'd been to dinner and to parties in her home thousands of times, but always in the kitchen. This time she specified the living room. Is that important?'

'I don't know. When's the show opening?'

'In two weeks.' They sat in silence, thinking about the show. Then Clara noticed the time. 'I need to go. People coming for dinner.' He stood up with her and she smiled at him. 'Thank you for finding the blind.' He gave her a small bow and watched her wind her way through the tables, nodding and waving to people, until she'd reached Peter and Ben. She kissed Peter on the top of his head and the two men stood as one, and all three left the Bistro, like a family.

Gamache picked up The Boys' Big Book of Hunting from the table and opened the front cover. Scrawled inside in a big, round, immature hand was 'B. Malenfant'.

When Gamache arrived back at the B. & B., he found Olivier and Gabri getting ready to head over to the Morrows for a pot luck dinner.

'There's a shepherd's pie in the oven for you, if you want,' Gabri called as they left.

Upstairs, Gamache tapped on Agent Nichol's door and suggested they meet downstairs in twenty minutes to continue their talk from that morning. Nichol agreed. He also told her they'd be eating in that night, so she could dress casually. She nodded, thanked him, and shut the door, going back to what she'd been doing for the last half-hour, desperately trying to decide what to wear. Which of the outfits she'd borrowed from her sister Angelina was perfect? Which said smart, powerful, don't mess with me, future chief inspector? Which one said 'Like me'? Which one was right?

Gamache climbed the next flight to his room, opened the door and felt drawn toward the brass bed piled high with a pure white duvet and white down pillows. All he wanted to do was to sink into it, close his eyes, and fall fast and deeply asleep. The room was simply furnished, with soothing white walls and a deep cherry wood chest of drawers. An old oil portrait dominated one wall. A faded and well-loved oriental throw rug sat on the wood floor. It was a soothing and inviting room and almost more than Gamache could stand. He wavered in the middle of the room then walked determinedly to the ensuite bathroom. His shower revived him, and after getting into casual clothing he called Reine-Marie, gathered his notes, and was back in the living room in twenty minutes.

Yvette Nichol came down half an hour later. She'd decided to wear the 'power' outfit. Gamache didn't look up from his reading when she walked in.

'We have a problem.' Gamache lowered his notebook and looked at her, cross-legged and cross-armed across from him. She was a station of the cross. 'Actually, you have a problem. But it becomes my problem when it affects this investigation.'

'Really, sir? And what would that be?'

'You have a good brain, Agent.'

'And that's a problem?'

'No. That's the problem. You're smug and you're arrogant.' The soft-spoken words hit her like an assault. No one had dared speak to her like this before. 'I started off by saying you have a good brain. You showed fine deductive reasoning in the meeting this afternoon.'

Nichol sat up straighter, mollified, but alert.

'But a good brain isn't enough,' continued Gamache. 'You have to use it. And you don't. You look, but you don't see. You hear, but you don't listen.'

Nichol was pretty sure she'd seen that written on a coffee cup in the traffic division. Poor Gamache lived by philosophies small enough to fit a mug.

'I look and listen well enough to solve the case.'

'Perhaps. We'll see. As I said before, that was good work, and you have a good brain. But there's something missing. Surely you can feel it. Do you ever feel lost, as though people are speaking a foreign language, as though there's something going on which everyone else gets, but you don't?'