‘In the few hours you’ve been standing here, has anything about the scene or about Miss Neal seemed out of place?’
Gamache was impressed that Ben chose not to say the obvious. Instead he thought for a minute.
‘Yes. Lucy, her dog. I can’t remember Jane ever going for a walk without Lucy, especially a morning walk.’
‘Did you call anyone else on your cell?’
Ben looked as though he’d been presented with a totally new, and brilliant, idea.
‘Oh. Such an idiot! I can’t believe it. It never occurred to me to call Peter, or Clara or anyone. Here I was all alone, not wanting to leave Jane, but having to wave down the police. And it never occurred to me to call for help, except 911. Oh my God, the shock, I suppose.’
Or maybe, thought Nichol, you really are an idiot. So far it would be difficult to find a human being less effective than Ben Hadley.
‘Who are Peter and Clara?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘Peter and Clara Morrow. My best friends. They live next door to Jane. Jane and Clara were like mother and daughter. Oh, poor Clara. Do you think they know?’
‘Well, let’s find out,’ said Gamache suddenly, walking with surprising speed back down the path toward the body. Once at the scene he turned to Beauvoir.
‘Inspector, take over here. You know what you’re looking for. Agent, stay with the Inspector and help him. What time is it?’
‘Eleven-thirty, sir,’ said Nichol.
‘Right. Mr Hadley, is there a restaurant or café in the village?’
‘Yes, there’s Olivier’s Bistro.’
Gamache turned to Beauvoir. ‘Assemble the team at Olivier’s at one-thirty. We’ll miss the lunch rush and should have the place almost to ourselves. Is that correct, Mr Hadley?’
‘Hard to say, really. It’s possible as word gets out the village will congregate there. Olivier’s is the Central Station of Three Pines. But he has a back room he opens only for dinner. It overlooks the river. He’d probably open it for you and your team.’
Gamache looked at Ben with interest. ‘That’s a good idea. Inspector Beauvoir, I’ll stop by and speak with Monsieur Olivier—’
‘It’s Olivier Brulé,’ Ben interrupted. ‘He and his partner Gabriel Dubeau run it and the only B. & B. in the village.’
‘I’ll speak with them and arrange a private room for lunch. May I walk with you, Mr Hadley, to the village? I haven’t been there yet.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Ben almost said, ‘It would be a pleasure’, but stopped himself. Somehow this police officer emitted and invited courtesy and a certain formality. Though they must have been about the same age, Ben felt it was very like being with his grandfather.
‘There’s Peter Morrow.’ Ben pointed into the crowd which had turned as though choreographed in their direction as the two men made their way out of the woods. Ben was pointing to the tall worried-looking man who’d spoken to Gamache earlier.
‘I’m going to tell you all I can right now,’ Gamache spoke to the crowd of about thirty villagers. He noticed Ben walk over to stand next to Peter Morrow.
‘The dead woman’s name is Jane Neal,’ Gamache knew it was a false kindness to cushion a blow like this. A few of the people started to cry, some brought their hands up to their mouths as though covering a wound. Most dropped their heads as though the information was too heavy. Peter Morrow stared at Gamache. Then at Ben.
Gamache took all this in. Mr Morrow showed no surprise. And no sorrow. Anxiety, yes. Concern, without doubt. But sadness?
‘How?’ someone asked.
‘We don’t know yet. But it wasn’t natural.’
A moan escaped the crowd, involuntary and heartfelt. Except Peter Morrow.
‘Where’s Clara?’ Ben looked around. It was unusual to see one without the other.
Peter tilted his head toward the village. ‘St Thomas’s.’
The three men found Clara alone in the chapel, eyes closed, head bowed. Peter stood at the open door looking at her hunched back, braced against the blow that was to fall. He quietly walked up the short path between the pews, feeling as though he was floating above his body, watching his movements.
It was the minister who had brought the news earlier that morning that the police were active in the woods behind the old school house. Then, as the service of Thanksgiving progressed, their unease grew. Soon the tiny church was sick with rumors of a hunting accident. A woman. Injured? No, killed. Don’t know who. Terrible. Terrible. And deep down in her stomach Clara knew just how terrible it was. With each opening of the door, each shaft of sunlight, she begged Jane to appear, late and flustered and apologetic. ‘I’ve just slept in. Silly of me. Lucy, poor dear, woke me with a little cry to go out. So sorry.’ The minister, either oblivious to the drama or out of his depth, just kept droning on.