Still Life

‘About Matthew Croft. Shouldn’t we take him into custody?’ Lacoste spoke up, smoothing back her shiny auburn hair with her wrist, trying not to get chocolate glaze into it.

‘Inspector Beauvoir, what do you think?’

‘You know me, I always want to be on the safe side.’ Gamache was reminded of a cartoon he’d cut from the Montreal Gazette years ago. It showed a judge and the accused. The punch line read, ‘The jury has found you “not guilty” but I’m giving you five years just to be on the safe side.’ Everyday he looked at it, chuckled, and knew deep down the truth of it. Part of him yearned for ‘the safe side’, even at the cost of other people’s freedom.

‘What risk are we running by leaving Matthew Croft free?’ Gamache looked around the table.

‘Well,’ ventured Lacoste, ‘there might be more evidence in that house, evidence he could destroy between now and tomorrow.’

‘True, but couldn’t Mrs Croft destroy it just as easily? After all, she was the one who threw the arrow in the furnace and was about to chop up the bow. She’s admitted as much. In fact, if there’s anyone we should bring in it’s her, for destroying evidence. I’ll tell you my thinking.’ He took a paper napkin and wiped his hands, then, leaning forward, he put his elbows on the table. Everyone else, except Nichol, did the same, giving it the appearance of a highly secretive gathering.

‘Let’s say the bow and arrow tip are the ones that killed Jane Neal. Right?’

Everyone nodded. As far as they were concerned they were home free.

‘But which of them did it? Was it Matthew Croft? Inspector Beauvoir, what do you think?’ Beauvoir with all his might wanted Matthew Croft to be the guilty one. Yet, damn it, it didn’t fit.

‘No. He was far too relaxed in the public meeting. His panic didn’t kick in until later. No. If it’d been him he’d have been more evasive earlier. He has very little skill at hiding how he’s feeling.’

Gamache agreed. ‘Scratch Mr Croft. How about Suzanne Croft?’

‘Well, she could have done it. She clearly knew about the bow and arrow during the public meeting, and she destroyed the arrow and would have chucked the bow in the furnace if she’d had time. But, again, it doesn’t fit.’

‘If she killed Jane Neal she’d have destroyed the arrow and the bow long before now,’ said Nichol, leaning into the group. ‘She’d have gone right home and burned the whole lot. Why wait until they know the police are about to arrive?’

‘You’re right,’ said Gamache, surprised and pleased. ‘Go on.’

‘OK. Suppose it’s Philippe. He’s fourteen, right? This is an old bow, not as powerful as the newer ones. Doesn’t take as much strength. So he takes the old wooden bow and the old wooden arrows and he heads off to hunt. But he shoots Miss Neal by mistake. He picks up his arrow and runs back home. But Maman figures it out—’

‘How?’ Gamache asked.

‘How?’ This stopped Nichol. She had to think. ‘He might have had blood on his clothing, or his hands. She’d have gotten it out of him eventually, maybe just before the public meeting. She had to go to hear what the police had, but she’d have kept Philippe back at home. That explains her increasing agitation in the meeting.’

‘Any holes in this theory?’ Beauvoir asked the gathering, trying not to sound hopeful. While he hoped Nichol would prove not a total liability, this was a disastrously good showing. He tried not to look at her, but couldn’t help it. Sure enough she was staring straight at him with a tiny smile. She leaned back in her chair, slowly, luxuriously.

‘Well done, Nichol.’ Gamache rose and nodded to her.

Wait, just wait, she thought, till Dad hears about this.

‘So the Croft family stays put for today, until we get the results of the lab tests,’ said Gamache.

The meeting broke up, each one looking forward to wrapping up the investigation the next day. Still, Armand Gamache knew better than to count on one theory. He wanted to keep the investigation active. Just to be on the safe side.

It was almost five and time to head to the Bistro. But there was something he wanted to do first.

SEVEN

Gamache walked through the bistro, nodding to Gabri who was setting tables. Each business connected to the next in the row of shops and at the back of the bistro he found the door into the next store. Myrna’s Livres, Neufs et Usages.

And there he found himself, holding a worn copy of Being. He’d read Being when it first came out a few years before. The title always reminded him of the day his daughter Annie had come home from first grade with her English homework which was to name three types of beans. She’d written, ‘green beans, yellow beans and human beans’.