Still Life

Ben couldn’t be moving more slowly if he tried. Still, Clara had to remind herself that it didn’t really matter. It would all be revealed, eventually.

‘Oh, my God, it’s a disaster,’ Ruth’s voice rang loud and clear. Clara came up from the basement with her bucket. Ruth and Gamache were standing in the center of the living room and Clara was a little disheartened to see Ben also there, lounging by the desk.

‘Did you do this?’ Ruth wanted to know.

‘I helped uncover it. Jane did the drawings.’

‘I never thought I’d say it, but I’m on Yolande’s side.

Cover them up.’

‘I want to show you something.’ Clara took Ruth’s elbow and guided her to the far wall. ‘Look at that.’ Unmistakable, there was a picture of Ruth as a child, holding her mother’s hand in the schoolhouse. Little Ruth, tall and gawky, school books for feet. Encyclopedia feet. Piglets dancing in her hair. Which could mean one of two things.

‘I had pigtails as a child,’ said Ruth, apparently reading her thoughts. But Clara thought Jane’s message was that even then Ruth was pig-headed. The other children were laughing but one child was coming over to hug her. Ruth stood, transfixed, in front of Jane’s wall:

‘Jenny kissed me when we met, jumping from the chair she sat in; time, you thief, who love to get sweets into your list, put that in: say I’m weary, say I’m sad, say that health and wealth have missed me; say I’m growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me.’

Ruth recited the poem in a whisper, and the still room heard. ‘Leigh Hunt. “Rondeau”. That’s the only poem I wish I’d written. I didn’t think Jane remembered, I didn’t think it’d meant anything to her. This is my first day here, when my father came to work in the mill. I was eight years old, the new kid, tall and ugly, as you can see, and not very nice even then. But when I walked into that schoolhouse, terrified, Jane walked all the way down the aisle and she kissed me. She didn’t even know me but it didn’t matter to her. Jane kissed me when we met.’

Ruth, her brittle-blue eyes glistening, took a breath and then took a long look around the room. Then slowly shook her head and whispered, ‘It’s extraordinary. Oh, Jane, I’m so sorry.’

‘Sorry for what?’ Gamache asked.

‘Sorry she didn’t know we loved her enough to be trusted with this. Sorry she felt she had to hide it from us.’ Ruth gave a hurrumph of unamused laughter. ‘I thought I was the only one with a wound. What a fool.’

‘I think the key to Jane’s murder is here,’ said Gamache, watching the elderly woman limp around the room. ‘I think she was killed because she was about to let everyone see it. I don’t know why but there you have it. You knew her all her life, I want you to tell me what you see here. What strikes you, what patterns you see, what you don’t see

‘Most of the upstairs, for starters,’ said Clara, and watched Ben flinch.

‘Well, spend as much time as you can here.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m supposed to address the United Nations and Clara, aren’t you accepting the Nobel prize?’

‘That’s right, for art.’

‘I canceled both engagements,’ said Gamache, thinking little Ruthie Zardo was a bad influence on Clara. They smiled and nodded. Ben and Clara went back upstairs while Ruth inched along the walls, examining the images, occasionally hooting when one struck her as particularly apt. Gamache sat in the big leather chair by the fire and let the room come to him.

Suzanne picked Matthew up late in the day at his sister’s in Cowansville where he’d stayed until the Provincial Guardians Office had finished its investigation. Even though Philippe had recanted his accusation of abuse, the Office was obligated to investigate. It found nothing. In his heart Matthew was disappointed. Not, of course, at being exonerated. But so much damage had been done he wished they’d made a public statement that he was, in reality, a wonderful father. A kind, compassionate, firm parent. A loving father.

He’d long since forgiven Philippe, he didn’t even need to know why Philippe had done it. But standing now in the kitchen that had held so many birthday parties, and excited Christmas mornings, and had been the scene of so many batches of ‘s’mores’ and ‘yes yes’ cookies, standing here, he knew life would never be the same. Too much had been said and done. He also knew, with work, it could actually be better. The question was, was Philippe willing to put the work in? A week and a half ago, in anger, he’d waited for his son to come to him. That had been a mistake. Now he was going to his son.