Still Life (16 page)

Then the moment passed. Matthew Croft’s face fell back to ‘normal’, with only a pall to the skin evidence of what lay beneath. Gamache offered Mrs Croft his seat but Matthew had grabbed a stool and sat while his wife took his chair. No one spoke. Gamache was willing Beauvoir not to speak. To let the silence stretch to breaking. This woman was holding on to something horrible and her grip was slipping.

‘Would you like a glass of water?’ Nichol asked Suzanne Croft.

‘No, thank you, but let me make some tea.’ And with that Mrs Croft leapt from her chair and the moment was broken. Gamache looked at Nichol, perplexed. If she had wanted to sabotage the case and her career she couldn’t have done a better job.

‘Here, let me help,’ said Nichol, bouncing off her seat and grabbing the kettle.

Beauvoir had allowed his face to show a flash of fury when Nichol spoke, then it too was replaced by his familiar, reasonable, mask.

Stupid, stupid woman, he cursed to himself, even as his face took on a benevolent half-smile. He stole a glance at Gamache, and saw with satisfaction the boss was also staring at Nichol, but not angrily. To Beauvoir’s disgust, he saw a look he took to be tolerance on the chief’s face. Will he never learn? What in God’s name drives him to want to help such fools?

‘What do you do for a living, Mrs Croft? Do you work?’ Now that the silence was fractured, Beauvoir figured he might as well grab back control. Even as he asked the question he could hear the insult. The easy assumption motherhood wasn’t work. But he didn’t care.

‘I help out three times a week at the photocopy store in St Rémy. Helps make ends meet.’

Beauvoir felt badly for the question now it was asked. He wondered whether he’d balled up his anger at Nichol and pitched it into Mrs Croft’s face. He looked around the room and realised all the homey touches were made by hand, even the plastic covers of the chairs were inexpertly stapled on, a few coming loose. These people made a little go a long way.

‘You have two children, I believe,’ Beauvoir shook off his momentary shame.

‘That’s right,’ Matthew jumped in.

‘And what are their names?’

‘Philippe and Diane.’

‘Nice names,’ he said into the gathering stillness. ‘And how old are they?’

‘He’s fourteen, she’s eight.’

‘And where are they?’

The question hovered in the air, as the earth stopped turning. He had been marching inexorably toward this question, as the Crofts must have known. He hadn’t wanted to surprise them with it, not out of delicacy for their parental feelings, but because he wanted them to see it coming toward them from a great distance, and to have to wait, and wait. Until their nerves were taut to breaking. Until they both longed for and dreaded this instant.

‘They’re not here,’ said Suzanne, strangling a teacup.

Beauvoir waited, looking steadily at her. ‘When are you having your Thanksgiving dinner?’

The swift shift left Suzanne Croft gaping, as though he’d suddenly switched to Pig Latin. Xnay on the erdinnaye.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘One of the great things I’ve noticed in my home is that the smell of the turkey hangs around for a couple of days. Then of course, my wife and I make soup the next day, and
that’s hard to miss too.’ He took a deep breath, and then slowly, slowly scanned the clean counters of the kitchen.

‘We were going to have Thanksgiving yesterday, Sunday,’ said Matthew, ‘but with the news of Miss Neal and all we’ve decided to put it off.’

‘For ever?’ Beauvoir asked, incredulous. Gamache wondered if it wasn’t a little overdone, but the Crofts were beyond critiquing his performance.

‘Where’s Diane, Mrs Croft?’

‘She’s at a friend’s home. Nina Levesque’s.’

‘And Philippe?’

‘He’s not here, I told you. He’s out. I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

OK, thought Beauvoir, joke’s over.

‘Mrs Croft, we’re going to go out with your husband in a minute and look at the bows and arrows. While we’re out there I’d like you to think about something. We need to speak with Philippe. We know he was involved in the manure incident in Three Pines, and that Miss Neal identified him.’

‘And others,’ she said defiantly.

‘Two days later she’s dead. We need to speak to him.’

‘He had nothing to do with it.’

‘I’m willing to accept that you believe that. And you might be right. But did you think he was capable of attacking two men in Three Pines? Do you really know your son, Mrs Croft?’

He’d hit a nerve, but then he’d expected to. Not because Beauvoir had any particular insight into the Croft family, but because he knew every parent of a teenage boy fears they’re housing a stranger.

‘If we can’t speak with your son by the time we’re ready to leave then we’ll get a warrant and have him brought to the police station in St Rémy to be questioned. Before today is over, we will speak with him. Here or there.’

Chief Inspector Gamache watched all this and knew they had to somehow get into that basement. These people were hiding something, or someone. And whatever it was was in the basement. Yet it was odd, thought Gamache. He could have sworn Matthew Croft had been relaxed and natural in the public meeting. It was Suzanne Croft who had been so upset. Now they both were. What had happened?

‘Mr Croft, may we see those bows and arrows now?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘How dare you –’ Croft was vibrating with rage.

‘It’s not a question of “dare”.’ Beauvoir looked him hard in the face. ‘At the meeting this morning Chief Inspector Gamache made it clear that unpleasant things would be asked of each and every one of you. That’s the price you’ll pay for finding out who killed Miss Neal. I understand your anger. You don’t want your children traumatised by this. But, frankly, I think they already are. I’m giving you a choice. We can speak with your son here, or we can speak with him at the St Rémy station.’

Beauvoir paused. And paused. And in his mind dared Nichol to offer cookies. Finally he continued. ‘The rules of normal life are suspended when there’s a violent death. You two and your family are among the first casualties. I have no illusions about what we do, and we do it as painlessly as possible – ’ Matthew Croft sputtered in disgust’ – which is why I’ve offered you the choice. Now, the bows and arrows please.’

Matthew Croft took a deep breath, ‘This way.’

He led them out of the kitchen on to the screen porch.

‘Mrs Croft,’ Gamache said, and poked his head back into the kitchen just as Suzanne Croft was stepping toward the basement door, ‘would you join us, please?’

Suzanne Croft’s shoulders sagged.

‘There.’ It was all Matthew Croft could do to be civil.
‘That’s a recurve and that’s a compound, and there’re the arrows.’

‘Are these two the only bows you have?’ Beauvoir asked, picking up the arrows and noting they were the target-shooting kind.

‘Yes, they are,’ said Croft without hesitation.

They looked exactly as they had been described, only larger. Beauvoir and Gamache lifted each bow in turn. They were heavy, even the simple recurve.

‘Could you put the string on the recurve, please?’ Beauvoir asked.

Matthew grabbed the recurve, took a long string with loops on either end, put the ‘stick’ between his legs and bent the bow down until the string could reach the little notch at the top. Gamache could see it took some strength. Suddenly, there stood a ‘Robin Hood’ bow.

‘May I?’

Croft handed Gamache the bow and as he took it he noticed dust. But no dirt. Gamache then turned his attention to the compound. It looked more like a traditional bow than he’d expected. He picked it up, noticing the wisps of cobwebs between some of the strings. This bow too hadn’t been used in some time. And it was far heavier than he’d expected. He turned to Mrs Croft.

‘Do you bow hunt or target shoot?’

‘I sometimes target shoot.’

‘Which bow do you use?’

After a breath of hesitation Suzanne Croft pointed to the recurve.

‘Would you mind taking off the string?’

‘Why?’ Matthew Croft stepped forward.

‘I’d like to see your wife do it.’ Gamache turned to Suzanne, ‘Please.’

Suzanne Croft picked up the recurve, and swiftly putting it around her leg she leaned on the bow and popped the
string off. She’d clearly done this many times before. Then Gamache had an idea.

‘Could you restring the bow, please?’

Suzanne shrugged and replaced the now straight bow around her leg and leaned on the upper part. Not much happened. Then she gave a huge thrust down and slipped the string over the top, recreating the recurve. She handed it to Gamache without a word.

‘Thank you,’ he said, puzzled. He’d had a hunch, but it didn’t seem to be right.

‘Would you mind if we shot a few arrows?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘Not at all.’

After putting their outside rain gear on again all five trooped into the light drizzle. Fortunately the heavy rain had let up. Matthew had put up a round archery target made of hay encased in canvas with target circles painted in red. He picked up the recurve, put a new wooden target arrow in the slot and pulled the string back. Croft spent a moment aiming then he released the arrow. It hit the second ring. Croft then handed the bow to Gamache who handed it with a slight smile to Beauvoir. Beauvoir took it with relish. He’d been raring to try it, and even daring to imagine himself getting bull’s-eye after bull’s-eye until the Canadian Archery team invited him to compete in the Olympics. This so-called sport looked like a no-brainer, especially since he was a crack shot with a gun.

The first sign of trouble came almost immediately. He almost didn’t get the string all the way back. It was far harder than he imagined. Then the arrow, held tentatively in place between two of his fingers, started jumping all over the bow, refusing to stay snug on the little peg at the front. Finally he was ready to shoot. He released the string and the arrow shot out of the bow and missed the target by a country mile. What didn’t miss was the string itself. A
millisecond after being released, it hit Beauvoir’s elbow with such force he thought his arm had been severed. He yelped and dropped the bow, hardly daring to look at his arm. The pain was searing.

‘What happened, Mr Croft?’ Gamache snapped, going to Beauvoir. Croft wasn’t exactly laughing, but Gamache could see the pleasure this was giving him.

‘Not to worry, Chief Inspector. He’s just got a bruised arm. Happens to all amateurs. The string caught his elbow. As you said, we must all be prepared for unpleasantness.’ Croft gave him a hard look, and Gamache remembered he’d offered the bow to him first. This injury had been meant for him.

‘Are you all right?’ Beauvoir was cradling his arm and straining to see the arrow. Unless he’d split Croft’s arrow, his own had missed the target. That hurt almost as much as the bruise.

‘I’m fine, sir. It was more the surprise than the pain.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

Gamache turned to Croft. ‘Can you show me how to shoot the arrow without hitting my arm?’

‘Probably. You willing to risk it?’

Gamache just looked expectantly at Croft, refusing to play.

‘Right. Take the bow like this.’ Croft stood beside Gamache and held his arm up as Gamache gripped the bow. ‘Now twist your elbow so it’s perpendicular to the ground. There, that’s right,’ said Croft. ‘Now the string will shoot right by your elbow instead of hitting it. It makes a much smaller target. Probably.’

Gamache grinned. If the string hit, it hit. At least, unlike Beauvoir, he’d be prepared.

‘What else should I be doing?’

‘Now, with your right hand, put the arrow in so its tip
is resting on that little wooden notch on the bow, and fit the back of the arrow on to the string. Good. Now you’re ready to pull back. What you don’t want to do is to have to hold the string back for too long before firing. You’ll see why in a moment. Get yourself lined up, your body like this.’ He turned Gamache so his body was sideways to the target. His left arm was getting tired holding the heavy bow in place.

‘Here’s the sight.’

Croft, incredibly, was pointing to a tiny pin like Gamache took out of his shirts after they’d been dry cleaned. ‘You line the knob of the pin up with the bull’s-eye. Then you draw the string back in one fluid motion, realign the sight, and let go.’

Croft stood back. Gamache lowered the bow to give his arm a break, took a breath, reviewed the steps in his mind then did it. Smoothly he brought his left arm up, and before placing the arrow he twisted his elbow out of the way of the string. He then placed the arrow on the knob, put the arrow butt in the string, lined the head of the pin up with the bull’s-eye, and pulled back on the string in one fluid motion. Except it wasn’t exactly fluid. It felt as though the Montreal Canadiens were playing tug of war with him, yanking the string in the other direction. With his right arm trembling slightly he managed to get the string all the way back until it was almost to his nose, then he released. By then he didn’t much care whether it took his whole elbow off, he just wanted to let the damn thing go. The arrow flew wildly off, missing the target by at least as much as Beauvoir’s. But the string also missed. It twanged back into place without even grazing Gamache’s arm.

‘You’re a good teacher, Mr Croft.’

‘You must have low standards. Look where your arrow went.’

‘I can’t see it. Hope it isn’t lost.’

‘It isn’t. They never are. Haven’t lost one yet.’

‘Mrs Croft,’ said Gamache, ‘your turn.’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Please, Mrs Croft.’ Chief Inspector Gamache handed her the bow. He was thankful he’d shot the bow and arrow. It had given him a thought.

‘I haven’t used it in a while.’

‘I understand,’ said Gamache. ‘Just do your best.’

Suzanne Croft lined up her shot, put the arrow in, grabbed the string and pulled. And pulled. And pulled until she started crying and collapsed on to the muddy ground, overwhelmed by an emotion that had nothing to do with failing to shoot the arrow. Instantly Matthew Croft was kneeling beside her, holding her. Swiftly Gamache took Beauvoir’s arm and led him a step or two away. He spoke in an urgent whisper.