‘Pretty big mouse,’ said Beauvoir with a grin. Gamache bent down and removed the trap. It had been smeared with peanut butter to attract mice. He wiped a bit off his shoe and looked around. More traps became apparent, all lined up against the wall.
‘She got a couple,’ said Beauvoir, pointing to some upturned traps, little tails and balled up fists poking out from underneath.
‘I don’t think she set those. I think these are hers.’ Gamache bent down and picked up a small gray box. Opening it he found a small field mouse curled up inside. Dead. ‘It’s a humane trap. She caught them alive then released them. This, poor one, must have been caught after she was murdered. It starved to death.’
‘So who set those other mousetraps? Wait, don’t tell me. Yolande and André, of course. They were here alone for a week or so. Still, you’d think they could have at least checked the humane trap,’ said Beauvoir with disgust. Gamache shook his head. Violent, intentional, death still surprised him, whether of a man or mouse.
‘Come with me, little one,’ he said to the curled-up mouse, as he took it upstairs. Beauvoir tossed the other traps into a plastic bag and followed the chief. The two men locked up and walked down Jane’s garden path and across the Commons. A few headlights could be seen now that the sun had set. Rush hour. And a few villagers were out doing errands or walking dogs. In the silence Gamache could hear unintelligible snippets of conversations from other strollers. Off toward du Moulin he heard, ‘Pee, please pee.’ He hoped it was directed at a dog. The two men crossed the village green toward the brightly lit and welcoming B. & B. Halfway across Gamache stopped and laid the mouse on the grass, beside him Beauvoir opened the plastic bag and released the other little bodies from the traps.
‘They’ll be eaten,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Exactly. Something will benefit at least. Abby Hoffman said we should all eat what we kill. That would put an end to war.’
Not for the first time Beauvoir was at a loss for words with Gamache. Was he serious? Was he, perhaps, a little touched? And who was Abbe Offman? A local cleric? Sounds like exactly the sort of things some Christian mystic would say.
The next morning the team had reassembled in the incident room, been briefed on the latest developments, and given their assignments. At Gamache’s desk he found a little paper bag and inside it an éclair. A note, in large childish letters, said, ‘From Agent Nichol.’
Nichol watched him open the bag.
‘Agent Nichol, a word please.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The éclair had obviously worked. He couldn’t possibly continue his unreasonable behavior.