Gamache wasn’t sure he agreed with that analogy, until the moment he’d had to place his gun into Jean Guy’s palm. Then that insecure young man lived again, and whispered, You’re nothing without it. What will people think? Realising how inappropriate the reaction was didn’t banish the fearful young man from Gamache’s long house, it just meant he wasn’t in charge.
‘Where to now? Jane Neal’s home?’ Now they could officially treat the case as a murder investigation, Beauvoir was dying to get in, as was Gamache .
‘Soon, We have a stop to make first.’
‘Oui, allô?’ a cheery voice answered the phone followed by a baby’s shriek.
‘Solange?’ asked Clara.
‘Allô? Allô?’
‘Solange’ called Clara.
‘Bonjour? Hello?’ a wail filled Solange’s home and Clara’s head.
‘Solange,’ Clara shrieked.
‘C’est moi-même,’ cried Solange.
‘It’s Clara Morrow,’ yelled Clara.
‘No, I can’t tomorrow,’
‘Clara Morrow.’
‘Wednesday?’
Oh, dear, God, thought Clara, thank you for sparing me children.
‘Clara!’ she wailed.
‘Clara? Clara who?’ asked Solange, in a perfectly normal voice, the spawn from Hell having been silenced, probably bv a breast.
‘Clara Morrow, Solange. We met in exercise class. Congratulations on the child,’ she tried to sound sincere.
‘Yes, I remember. How are you?’
‘Just fine. But I called with a question. I’m sorry to disturb you on your leave, but this has something to do with your notary practice.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. The office calls every day. What can I help you with?’
‘Did you know that Jane Neal had died?’
‘No, no, I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry.’
‘It was an accident. In the woods.’
‘Oh, I did hear about that when I got back. I was visiting my parents in Montreal for Thanksgiving, so I missed it. You mean, that was Jane Neal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Weren’t the police involved?’
‘Yes. They seem to think Norman Stickley, in Williamsburg, was her notary. But I thought she’d come to you.’
‘Could you come to my office tomorrow morning?’
‘What time’s good for you?’
‘Say eleven? Clara, could you invite the police? I think they’ll be interested.’
It took Philippe Croft a few minutes to trust it wasn’t a trap before he admitted everything. His long pale fingers picked at a pill of fluff on his sweatpants as he told his story. He’d wanted to punish his father, so he’d taken the old bow and arrows and gone hunting. He’d fired just once. But that was enough. Instead of the stag he knew he’d killed, he found Jane Neal, spread-eagled. Dead. He could still see those eyes. They followed him.
‘You can let them go now,’ said Gamache, quietly. ‘They’re someone else’s nightmare.’
Philippe had simply nodded and Gamache was reminded of Myrna, and the pain we choose to carry around. He wanted to take Philippe in his arms and tell him he wouldn’t be fourteen for ever. Just to hold on.
But Gamache didn’t. He knew that while the intention was kind, the act would be seen as an assault. An insult. Instead he stuck out his large, steady hand to the boy. After a moment Philippe slipped his own pale hand in, as though he’d never shook hands with a man before, and squeezed.
Gamache and Beauvoir arrived back in the village to find Agent Lacoste fending off Yolande. She’d been sent to Jane Neal’s cottage, warrant in hand. She’d managed to get Yolande out and to lock the door, and was now practicing her impression of a Palace Guard, immutable in the face of provocation.
‘I’ll sue your ass. I’ll get you fired, you ugly little tramp.’ Spying Beauvoir, Yolande turned on him. ‘How dare you kick me out of my own home?’
‘Did you show Ms Fontaine the warrant, Agent?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Then you know’, Beauvoir turned to Yolande, ‘that this is now a homicide investigation. I take it you want to find out who killed your aunt?’
It was a low blow, but almost always effective. Who could say no?
‘No. I don’t care. Will it bring her back? Tell me it’ll bring her back and I’ll let you into my home.’
‘We’re already in, and this isn’t a negotiation. Now, I need to speak with you and your husband. Is he home?’