‘I’d like to see your wife do it.’ Gamache turned to Suzanne, ‘Please.’
Suzanne Croft picked up the recurve, and swiftly putting it around her leg she leaned on the bow and popped the string off. She’d clearly done this many times before. Then Gamache had an idea.
‘Could you restring the bow, please?’
Suzanne shrugged and replaced the now straight bow around her leg and leaned on the upper part. Not much happened. Then she gave a huge thrust down and slipped the string over the top, recreating the recurve. She handed it to Gamache without a word.
‘Thank you,’ he said, puzzled. He’d had a hunch, but it didn’t seem to be right.
‘Would you mind if we shot a few arrows?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘Not at all.’
After putting their outside rain gear on again all five trooped into the light drizzle. Fortunately the heavy rain had let up. Matthew had put up a round archery target made of hay encased in canvas with target circles painted in red. He picked up the recurve, put a new wooden target arrow in the slot and pulled the string back. Croft spent a moment aiming then he released the arrow. It hit the second ring. Croft then handed the bow to Gamache who handed it with a slight smile to Beauvoir. Beauvoir took it with relish. He’d been raring to try it, and even daring to imagine himself getting bull‘s-eye after bull’s-eye until the Canadian Archery team invited him to compete in the Olympics. This so-called sport looked like a no-brainer, especially since he was a crack shot with a gun.
The first sign of trouble came almost immediately. He almost didn’t get the string all the way back. It was far harder than he imagined. Then the arrow, held tentatively in place between two of his fingers, started jumping all over the bow, refusing to stay snug on the little peg at the front. Finally he was ready to shoot. He released the string and the arrow shot out of the bow and missed the target by a country mile. What didn’t miss was the string itself. A millisecond after being released, it hit Beauvoir’s elbow with such force he thought his arm had been severed. He yelped and dropped the bow, hardly daring to look at his arm. The pain was searing.
‘What happened, Mr Croft?’ Gamache snapped, going to Beauvoir. Croft wasn’t exactly laughing, but Gamache could see the pleasure this was giving him.
‘Not to worry, Chief Inspector. He’s just got a bruised arm. Happens to all amateurs. The string caught his elbow. As you said, we must all be prepared for unpleasantness.’ Croft gave him a hard look, and Gamache remembered he’d offered the bow to him first. This injury had been meant for him.
‘Are you all right?’ Beauvoir was cradling his arm and straining to see the arrow. Unless he’d split Croft’s arrow, his own had missed the target. That hurt almost as much as the bruise.
‘I’m fine, sir. It was more the surprise than the pain.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’
Gamache turned to Croft. ‘Can you show me how to shoot the arrow without hitting my arm?’
‘Probably. You willing to risk it?’
Gamache just looked expectantly at Croft, refusing to play.
‘Right. Take the bow like this.’ Croft stood beside Gamache and held his arm up as Gamache gripped the bow. ‘Now twist your elbow so it’s perpendicular to the ground. There, that’s right,’ said Croft. ‘Now the string will shoot right by your elbow instead of hitting it. It makes a much smaller target. Probably.’
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.