Still Life

Nichol hoped her faced didn't reflect her shock. How did he know?

'The only thing I don't get, sir, is how you can dress me down for solving a case.'

'You lack discipline,' he persevered, trying to get her to see. 'For instance, before we went into the Croft home, what did I say?'

'I can't remember.' Deep down a realisation began to dawn. She might actually be in trouble here.

'I told you to listen and not to speak. And yet you spoke to Mrs Croft when she arrived in the kitchen.'

'Well somebody had to be nice to her. You'd accused me of being unkind and that isn't true.' Dear lord, don't let me cry, she thought, as the tears welled up. She put her fists into balls in her lap. 'I am nice.'

'And that's what that was about? This is a murder investigation. You do as you're told. There isn't one set of rules for you and another set for everyone else. Understand? If you're told to be quiet and take notes that is what you do.' The last few words were said slowly, distinctly, coldly. He wondered whether she even knew how manipulative she was. He doubted it. 'This morning I gave you three of the four sentences that can guide us to wisdom.'

'You gave me all four this morning.' Nichol seriously questioned his sanity now. He was looking at her sternly, without anger, but certainly without warmth.

'Repeat them for me, please.'

'I'm sorry, I don't know, I need help and I forget.'

'I forget? Where did you get that?'

'From you this morning. You said, "I forget".'

'Are you seriously telling me you thought "I forget" could be a life lesson? I clearly meant that I had forgotten the last sentence. Yes, I'm sure I said, "I forget". But think of the context. This is a perfect example of what's wrong with that good brain of yours. You don't use it. You don't think. It's not enough to hear the words.'

Here it comes, thought Nichol. Blah, blah, blah. You've got to listen.

'You've got to listen. The words don't just fall into some sterile bin to be regurgitated later. When Mrs Croft said there was nothing in the basement, did you notice how she spoke, the inflection, what went before, the body language, the hands and eyes? Do you remember previous investigations when suspects said the same thing?'

'This is my first investigation,' said Nichol, with triumph.

'And why do you think I told you to just listen and take notes? Because you have no experience. Can you guess what the last sentence is?'

Nichol was now literally wrapped up in herself.

'I was wrong.' Gamache suspected he was talking to himself, though he had to try. All these things he was passing on to Nichol he'd heard as a 25-year-old rookie in homicide. Inspector Comeau had sat him down and told him all these things in one session, then never spoken of it again. It was a huge mountain of a gift, and one that Gamache continued to unwrap each day. He also understood, even as Comeau was speaking, that this was a gift designed to be given away. And so when he'd become an Inspector he'd started passing it on to the next generation. Gamache knew he was only responsible for trying. What they did with it was their business. There was one more thing he had to pass on.

'I asked you this morning to think about the ways you learn. What did you come up with?'

'I don't know.'

Lines from Ruth Zardo's famous poem came back to him:'I'll just go further away, where you will never find me, or hurt me, or make me speak.'

'What?' said Nichol. This was so unfair. Here she was doing her best. Following him around, even willing to stay in the country for the sake of the investigation. And she'd solved the damn thing. And did she get any credit? No. Maybe Gamache was losing it and her solving the case had made him see how pathetic he'd become. That's it, she thought, as her weary, wary eye spotted the island. He's jealous. It's not my fault. She grabbed hold of the shifting sand and scrambled out of the frigid sea just in the nick of time. She'd felt the hands brushing against her ankles, hoping to pull her under. But she made it on to her island, safe and perfect.

'We learn from our mistakes, Agent Nichol.' Whatever.

EIGHT

'Oh great,' said Ruth, looking out of Peter and Clara's mudroom door. 'The village people.'

'Bonjour, mes amours,' cried Gabri, waltzing into the home, 'and Ruth.'

'We have bought out the health food store.' Olivier struggled into the kitchen and deposited two shepherd's pies and a couple of paper bags on the counter.

'I was wrong,' said Ruth, 'it's just a couple of old bags.'

'Bitch,' said Gabri.

'Slut,' snarled Ruth. 'What's in them?'

'For you, my little Brillo pad…' Gabri grabbed the bags and, like a maniacal magician, turned them upside down with a flourish. Out spilled bags of potato chips, cans of salted cashew nuts, handmade chocolates from Maison du Chocolat Marielle, in St Remy. There were licorice Allsorts, St Andre's cheese, jelly beans and Joe Louis cakes. Lune Moons tumbled to the ground, and bounced.

'Gold!' cried Clara, kneeling down and scooping up the ridiculous, fabulous yellow cream-filled cakes. 'Mine, all mine.'

'I thought you were a chocoholic,' said Myrna, grabbing up the perfect, delectable cream-filled sweets lovingly made by Madame Marielle.

'Any port in a storm.' Clara ripped open the cellophane around the Lune Moons and gobbled one down, miraculously getting at least half of it in her mouth. The rest nestled on her face and in her hair. 'Haven't had one of these in years. Decades.'

'And yet they're so becoming,' said Gabri, surveying Clara who looked as though the POM bakery had exploded in her face.

'I brought my own paper bags,' said Ruth, pointing to the counter. Peter was there, his back turned to his guests and rigid, even for him. His mother would have finally been proud, of both his physical and emotional posture.

'Who wants what?' He spoke the clipped words to the shelving. Unseen behind him his guests exchanged glances. Gabri brushed the cake from Clara's hair and cocked his head in Peter's direction. Clara shrugged and immediately knew her betrayal of Peter. In one easy movement she'd distanced herself from his bad behavior, even though she herself was responsible for it. Just before everyone had arrived she'd told Peter about her adventure with Gamache. Animated and excited she'd gabbled on about her box and the woods and the exhilarating climb up the ladder to the blind. But her wall of words hid from her a growing quietude. She failed to notice his silence, his distance, until it was too late and he'd retreated all the way to his icy island. She hated that place. From it he stood and stared, judged and lobbed shards of sarcasm.

'You and your hero solve Jane's death?'

'I thought you'd be pleased,' she half lied. She actually hadn't thought at all, and if she had, she probably could have predicted his reaction. But since he was comfortably on his Inuk island, she'd retreat to hers, equipped with righteous indignation and warmed by moral certitude. She threw great logs of 'I'm right, you're an unfeeling bastard' on to the fire and felt secure and comforted.

'Why didn't you tell me?' he asked. 'Why didn't you ask me along?'

And there it was. The simple question. Peter always did have the ability to cut through the crap. Unfortunately, today, it was her crap. He'd asked the one question she was even afraid to ask herself. Why hadn't she? Suddenly her refuge, her island, whose terrain was unremitting higher ground, was sinking.

On that note the guests had arrived. And now Ruth had made the astonishing announcement that she too had brought something to share. Jane's death must have shaken her to the marrow, thought Clara. On the counter stood her grief. Tanqueray gin, Martini & Rossi vermouth and Glenfiddich Scotch. It was a fortune in booze, and Ruth did not run to fortunes. Great poetry doesn't pay the bills. In fact, Clara couldn't remember the last time Ruth had bought her own drink. And today the elderly woman had gone all the way to the Societe des Alcools in Williamsburg and bought these bottles, then lugged them across the green to their home.