A Fatal Grace

A tall man had his arm across the shoulder of a lanky young man, a boy really. He looked to be a teenager, with long shaggy hair and a coat with wide lapels. His tie was also wide, as was the car behind them.

‘This was just before Christmas 1976. David was a violinist. Well, actually, he only played one piece.’ She laughed. ‘Extraordinary, really. He heard it when he was a child, little more than a baby. Gus and I had it on the hi-fi and David suddenly stopped what he was doing and went right over to the console. He made us play it over and over. As soon as he had the words he asked for a violin. We thought he was kidding, of course. But he wasn’t. One day I heard him practicing in the basement. It was shaky, and squeaky, but sure enough, it was the same piece.’

Gamache could feel the blood run from his hands and feet and into his heart, which gave a squeeze.

‘David had taught himself the piece. He was six. His teacher eventually quit since David refused to practice or play anything else. Just the one piece. Willful child. Gus’s side of the family.’ She smiled.

‘What was it?’

‘Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D Major.’

Gamache couldn’t bring it to mind.

‘David was a normal teenager. He played goalie on his hockey team, dated one of the Chartrand girls for most of high school, wanted to go to the Université de Montréal to study forestry. He was a lovely boy, but not an extraordinary one, except in that one feature.’

She closed her eyes and after a moment one hand turned upward, exposing her slim wrist, blue with veins. The hand moved fluidly back and forth. The ghost notes filled the space between them and surrounded the table and eventually the entire bistro seemed filled with music Gamache couldn’t hear but could imagine. And knew Em heard perfectly clearly.

‘Lucky boy, to have found such a passion,’ he said quietly.

‘That’s exactly it. If I hadn’t ever met the divine I’d have known it in his face as he played. He was blessed, and so were we. Still, I don’t think he planned to take it any further, but then something happened. He came home just before his Christmas exams with a notice. Every year the Lycée held a competition. All the musicians had to play the same piece, chosen by the committee. That year,’ she nodded to the photo, ‘it was Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D Major. David was beside himself. It was to be held the fifteenth of December in Gaspé. Gus decided to drive him there. They could have taken the train or flown, but Gus wanted some time alone with David. You know what it’s like, perhaps, with teenagers? David was seventeen and a typical boy. Not very talkative about his feelings. Gus wanted to let him know, in his own way, that his father loved him and would do anything in the world for him. This picture was taken just before they left.’

Em gazed down and her finger crept along the wooden table toward it, but stopped just short.

‘David came in second in the competition. He called, so excited.’ She could hear him still, breathless, as though unable to contain his happiness. ‘They were thinking of staying to hear some other contestants but I’d been watching the weather and there was a storm coming in, so I convinced them to leave right away. You can guess the rest. It was a beautiful day, like today. Clear and cold. But it proved to be too cold, too bright. Black ice, they said. And the sun right in Gus’s face. Too much light.’

TWENTY-FOUR

‘So who’s CC’s mother?’ Beauvoir asked. They’d been in the morning meeting in the Incident Room for half an hour and he was feeling like his old self again.

With one significant difference.

His old self had despised Agent Yvette Nichol, but this morning he found himself quite liking her and not quite remembering what had been the problem. They’d had breakfast together at the B. & B. and ended up laughing hysterically at her description of trying to warm up his hot water bottle. In the microwave.

‘Sure you find it funny,’ said Gabri, plopping two Eggs Benedicts in front of them. ‘You didn’t come home to find what looked like the cat exploded in the micro. Never liked the cat. Loved the hot water bottle.’

Now they all sat round the conference table listening to reports. The Li Bien ball had been produced and dusted for prints. They found three sets which had been transmitted to the lab in Montreal.

Nichol had reported her findings. She’d gone into Montreal to interview the school about Crie.

‘I wanted to get more than just a report card. Seems she’s considered a smart girl, but not very bright, if you follow. Plodding, methodical. I get the impression Crie was a bit of a blight for Miss Edward’s School for Girls. The vice principal called her Brie once then corrected herself. Crie’s best subject is science, though she was beginning to show some interest in the theatre. She’d hidden away for the past few years doing the technical stuff, but this year she was actually in the play. Bit of a disaster apparently. Stage fright. Had to be led off the stage. The other kids weren’t very kind. Neither were the parents, apparently.’