Still Life

‘Is it true?’

Gamache nodded.

‘Is this my fault? Did I do this by arguing against you? What a fool. Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut?’ Beauvoir was pacing the small office like a leopard trapped.

‘This isn’t about you. You did the right thing. The only thing you could do. As did I. As did Superintendent Brébeuf, for that matter.’

‘I thought he was a friend of yours.’

‘He is. Look, don’t feel badly about this. I knew when I called the Super he’d have to do this. I called Reine-Marie before, to run it by her.’

Beauvoir felt pricked, a tiny little point of pain that the Chief Inspector had consulted his wife but not him. He knew it was unreasonable, but feelings so often were. It was why he tried to avoid them.

‘When she said “do it” I called him with a clear conscience. I can’t arrest Matthew Croft.’

‘Well, if you can’t, I can’t. I won’t do Brébeuf’s dirty work for him.’

‘It’s Superintendent Brébeuf, and it’s your job. What was that this afternoon I heard? Just some Devil’s Advocate bullshit ? You know how I hate that. Say what you really think, don’t play pretentious little mind games. Is that all that was? Taking the other position like some empty adolescent intellectual game?’

‘No, it wasn’t. I believe Matthew Croft did it.’

‘So arrest him.’

‘There’s more.’ Now Beauvoir looked really miserable. ‘Superintendent Brébeuf ordered me to take your badge and gun.’

This shook Gamache. Had he thought this all the way through he wouldn’t have been surprised, but he hadn’t seen it coming. He felt his stomach lurch. The force of his reaction stunned him. He’d have to think about why and fortunately he had a long drive home in which to consider.

Gamache pulled himself together, reached into his breast pocket and handed over both his badge and his warrant card. Then he slipped the holster off his belt.

‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Beauvoir. Gamache had been quick to recover, but not quick enough to hide his feelings from Beauvoir. As he took the items Beauvoir remembered one of the many things he’d learned from Gamache. Matthew 10:36.

The funeral for Jane Neal, spinster of the village of Three Pines in the county of St Rémy, Province of Quebec, was held two days later. The bells of the Église Ste Marie rang and echoed along the valleys, heard miles away, and felt deep in the earth, where creatures lived who might not otherwise, had Jane Neal herself not lived and been the sort of person she’d been.

And now people gathered to say a formal goodbye. Armand Gamache was there, having driven in from Montreal. It made a nice break from his forced inaction. He sailed through the crowd, through the front of the small church, and found himself in the gloom inside. It always struck Gamache as paradoxical that churches were gloomy. Coming in from the sunshine it took a minute or so to adjust. And even then, to Gamache, it never came close to feeling like home. Churches were either great cavernous tributes not so much to God as the wealth and privilege of the community, or they were austere, cold tributes to the ecstasy of refusal.

Gamache enjoyed going to churches for their music and the beauty of the language and the stillness. But he felt closer to God in his Volvo. He spotted Beauvoir in the crowd, waved, then made his way over.

‘I hoped you’d be here,’ said Beauvoir. ‘You’ll be interested to hear we’ve arrested the entire Croft family and their farm animals.’

‘You’ve found the safe side.’

‘Damn straight, pardner.’ Gamache hadn’t seen Beauvoir since he’d left that Tuesday afternoon, but they’d talked on the phone several times. Beauvoir wanted to keep Gamache in the loop, and Gamache wanted to make sure Beauvoir knew there were no hard feelings.

Yolande wobbled behind the casket as it was led into the church. André, slim and greasy, was beside her and Bernard slouched behind, his furtive, active eyes darting everywhere as though in search of his next victim.

Gamache felt deeply sorry for Yolande. Not for the pain she felt, but for the pain she didn’t feel. He prayed, in the silence, that one day she wouldn’t have to pretend to emotions, other than resentment, but could actually feel them. Others in the church were sad but Yolande cut the saddest figure. Certainly the most pathetic.

The service was short and anonymous. The priest clearly had never met Jane Neal. No member of the family got up to speak, except André, who read one of the beautiful scriptures with less enlightenment than he might read the TV Guide listings. The service was entirely in French, though Jane herself had been English. The service was entirely Catholic, though Jane herself had been Anglican. Afterwards Yolande, André and Bernard accompanied the casket to a ‘family only’ burial, though Jane’s friends had actually been her family.