‘We think the death of Jane Neal was an accident, but so far no one has come forward.’ Gamache paused and Clara noticed how still and focused he could become. His intelligent eyes quietly swept the room before he continued. ‘If this was an accident, and the person who killed her is here, I want you to know a few things.’ Clara didn’t think the room could get any quieter, but it did. Even the coughing stopped, miraculously cured by curiosity.
‘It must have been horrible when you realised what you’d done. But you need to come forward and admit it. The longer you wait the harder it will be. For us, for the community and for yourself.’ Chief Inspector Gamache paused and slowly looked around the room, each and every person feeling that he was looking inside them. The room waited. There was a frisson, an idea each person held that maybe the one responsible would get up.
Clara caught the eye of Yolande Fontaine, who smiled weakly. Clara disliked her intensely, but smiled back. André, Yolande’s scrawny husband, was there picking his cuticles and occasionally nibbling them. Their remarkably unattractive son Bernard sat slack-jawed and sullen, slumped in his pew. He looked bored and was making faces at his friends across the way between mouthfuls of candy.
Nobody moved.
‘We will find you. That’s what we do.’ Gamache took a deep breath, as though changing the subject. ‘We’re investigating this as though it was a murder, though we doubt that. I have the coroner’s preliminary report here.’ He flipped open his palm pilot. ‘It confirms that Jane Neal died between six-thirty and seven yesterday morning. The weapon appears to have been an arrow.’
This produced more than a few murmurs.
‘I say “appears” because no weapon was found. And that’s a problem. It argues against this being just an accident. That, combined with the fact that nobody has taken responsibility, is why we need to treat this as suspicious.’
Gamache paused and looked at the gathering. A sea of well-meaning faces looked back, with a few rocks of petulance thrown in here and there. They have no idea what’s about to happen to them, thought Gamache.
‘This is how it starts. You’ll see us everywhere. We’ll be asking questions, checking backgrounds, talking—not just to you, but your neighbors and your employers and your family and your friends.’
Another murmur, this one with an edge of hostility. Gamache was pretty sure he heard ‘fascist’ from his lower left side. He stole a look and saw Ruth Zardo sitting there.