Still Life (7 page)

As he sat quietly and let the village happen around him he was impressed by how beautiful it was, these old homes facing the green, with their mature perennial gardens and trees. By how natural everything looked, undesigned. And the pall of grief that settled on this little community was worn with dignity and sadness and a certain familiarity. This village was old, and you don’t get to be old without knowing grief. And loss.

‘They say it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.’ Gamache looked up and saw Ben holding an ancient and, by the aroma, perhaps decomposing dog on a leash.

‘Is that right?’ Gamache indicated the seat next to him and Ben sat down, Daisy collapsing gratefully at his feet.

‘Starting in the morning. And getting colder.’

The two men sat silently for a moment or two.

‘That’s Jane’s home.’ Ben pointed to a small stone cottage off to the left. ‘And that place beside it belongs to Peter and Clara.’ Gamache shifted his gaze. Their home was slightly larger than Jane’s and while hers was made of fieldstone, theirs was red brick, in the style known as Loyalist. A simple wooden veranda ran along the front of the home and held two wicker rocking chairs. A front door was flanked by windows and upstairs he could see two more windows, with shutters painted a warm and deep blue. The pretty front garden was planted with roses and perennials and fruit trees. Probably crab apple, thought Gamache. A stand of trees, mostly maple, separated Jane Neal and the Morrows. Though more than the trees separated them now.

‘My place is over there.’ Ben nodded at a charming old white clapboard home, with a veranda below and three dormers above. ‘But I guess that place up there is also mine.’
Ben waved vaguely into the sky. Gamache thought it possible Ben was speaking metaphorically, or even meteorologically. Then his eyes dropped from the puffy clouds and landed on the roof of a home on the side of the hill leading out of Three Pines.

‘Been in my family for generations. My mother lived there.’

Gamache didn’t quite know what to say. He’d seen homes like that before. Many times. They were what he’d heard referred to during his time at Christ’s College, Cambridge as Victorian piles. Quite descriptive, he’d always thought. And Quebec, notably Montreal, boasted its share of piles, built by the Scottish robber barons, of railway, booze and banking money. They were held together with hubris, a short-term binder at best since many of them had long ago been torn down or donated to McGill University, which needed another Victorian monstrosity like it needed the Ebola virus. Ben was looking at the home with great affection.

‘Will you move to the big house?’

‘Oh yes. But it needs some work. Parts of it are straight out of a horror movie. Gruesome.’

Ben remembered telling Clara about the time he and Peter had played war in the basement as kids and had come across the snake’s nest. He’d never seen a person turn green, but Clara had.

‘Is the village named after those trees?’ Gamache looked at the cluster on the green.

‘You don’t know the story? Those pines aren’t the originals, of course. They’re only sixty years old. My mother helped plant them when she was a kid. But there have been pines here since the village was founded, more than two hundred years ago. And always in a group of three. Three Pines.’

‘But why?’ Gamache leaned forward, curious.

‘It’s a code. For the United Empire Loyalists. They settled all the land around here, except for the Abenaki, of course.’ In a sentence, Gamache noticed, Ben had dismissed a thousand years of native habitation. ‘But we’re only a couple of kilometers from the border with the States. When the people loyal to the crown during and after the War of Independence were fleeing, they had no way of knowing when they were safe. So a code was designed. Three pines in a cluster meant the loyalists would be welcome.’

‘Mon
Dieu, c’est incroyable.
So elegant. So simple,’ said Gamache, genuinely impressed. ‘But why haven’t I heard of this? I’m a student of Quebec history myself, and yet this is completely unknown to me.’

‘Perhaps the English want to keep it a secret, in case we need it again.’ Ben at least had the grace to blush as he said this. Gamache turned in his seat and looked at the tall man, slumping as was his nature, his long sensitive fingers loosely holding the leash of a dog who couldn’t possibly leave him.

‘Are you serious?’

‘The last sovereignty referendum was perilously close, as you know. And the campaign was ugly at times. It’s not always comfortable being a minority in your own country,’ said Ben.

‘I appreciate that, but even if Quebec separates from Canada, surely you wouldn’t feel threatened? You know your rights would be protected.’

‘Do I? Do I have the right to put up a sign in my own language? Or work only in English? No. The language police would get me. The Office de la Langue Française. I’m discriminated against. Even the Supreme Court agrees. I want to speak English, Chief Inspector.’

‘You are speaking English. And so am I. And so are all my officers. Like it or not, Mr Hadley, the English are respected in Quebec’

‘Not always, and not by everyone.’

‘True. Not everyone respects police officers either. That’s just life.’

‘You’re not respected because of your actions, what Quebec police have done in the past. We’re not respected just by virtue of being English. It’s not the same thing. Do you have any idea how much our lives have changed in the last twenty years? All the rights we’ve lost? How many of our neighbors and friends and family members have left because of the draconian laws here? My mother barely spoke French, but I’m bilingual. We’re trying, Inspector, but still the English are the laughing stock. Blamed for everything. The
tête carrée.
No,’ Ben Hadley nodded toward the three sturdy pine trees swaying slightly in the wind, ‘I’ll put my faith in individuals, not the collective.’

It was, reflected Gamache, one of the fundamental differences between anglophone and francophone Quebecers; the English believed in individual rights and the French felt they had to protect collective rights. Protect their language and culture.

It was a familiar and sometimes bitter debate, but one that rarely infected personal relationships. Gamache remembered reading in the
Montreal Gazette
a few years ago an article by a columnist who observed that Quebec worked in reality, just not on paper.

‘Things change, you know, Monsieur Hadley,’ Gamache said gently, hoping to lift the tension that had settled on their little park bench. The French-English debate in Quebec was a polarising force. Best, in Gamache’s opinion, leave it to politicians and journalists, who had nothing better to do.

‘Do they, Chief Inspector? Are we really growing more civilised? More tolerant? Less violent? If things had changed, you wouldn’t be here.’

‘You’re referring to Miss Neal’s death. You believe it was murder?’ Gamache himself had been wondering just that.

‘No, I don’t. But I know whoever did that to her intended murder of some sort this morning. At the very least the murder of an innocent deer. That is not a civilised act. No, inspector, people don’t change.’ Ben dipped his head and fiddled with the leash in his hands. ‘I’m probably wrong.’ He looked at Gamache and smiled disarmingly.

Gamache shared Ben’s feelings about hunting but couldn’t have disagreed more about people. Still, it had been a revealing exchange, and that was his job. To get people to reveal themselves.

He’d been busy in the two hours since leaving Beauvoir. He’d walked with Peter Morrow and Ben Hadley to the church, where Peter had broken the news to his wife. Gamache had watched, standing back by the door, needing to see how she reacted, and not wanting to interfere. He’d left them then and he and Mr Hadley had continued down the road into the village.

He’d left Ben Hadley at the entrance to the charming village and made straight for the Bistro. It was easy to spot with its blue and white awnings and round wooden tables and chairs on the sidewalk. A few people were sipping coffee, all eyes on him as he made his way along the Commons.

Once his eyes adjusted to the inside of the Bistro he saw not the one largish room he’d expected but two rooms, each with its own open fireplace, now crackling with cheery fires. The chairs and tables were a comfortable mishmash of antiques. A few tables had armchairs in faded heirloom materials. Each piece looked as though it had been born there. He’d done enough antique hunting in his life to know good from bad, and that diamond point in the corner with the display of glass and tableware was a rare find. At the back of this room the cash register stood on a long wooden bar. Jars of licorice pipes and twists, cinnamon sticks and bright gummy bears shared the counter with small individual boxes of cereal.

Beyond these two rooms French doors opened on to a dining room, no doubt, thought Gamache; the room Ben Hadley had recommended.

‘May I help you?’ a large young woman with a bad complexion was asking him in perfect French.

‘Yes. I’d like to speak with the owner please. Olivier Brule, I believe.’

‘If you’d like a seat, I’ll get him. Coffee while you wait?’

The woods had been chilly and the thought of a
cafe au lait
in front of this open fire was too good. And maybe a licorice pipe, or two. Waiting for Mr Brule and the coffee, he tried to figure out what was unusual or unexpected about this lovely bistro. Some small thing was a little off.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ came a throaty voice slightly above him. He looked up and saw an elderly woman with cropped white hair leaning on a gnarled cane. As he shot to his feet he noticed she was taller than he’d expected. Even leaning she was almost as tall as he, and he had the impression she was not as frail as she appeared.

Armand Gamache gave a subtle bow and indicated the other chair at his small table. The woman hesitated, but finally the ramrod bent and sat down.

‘My name is Ruth Zardo,’ she spoke loudly and slowly, as though to a dull child. ‘Is it true? Is Jane dead?’

‘Yes, Madame Zardo. I’m very sorry.’

A great bang, so sudden and violent it made even Gamache jump, filled the Bistro. None of the other patrons, he noticed, even flinched. It took him just an instant to realise that the noise came from Ruth Zardo whacking her cane against the floor, like a caveman might wield a club. He’d never seen anyone do that before. He’d seen people with canes lift them up and rap on the floor in an annoying bid for attention, which generally worked. But Ruth Zardo had picked up her cane in a swift and apparently practiced move, taken hold of the straight end,
and swung the cane over her head until the curved handle whacked the floor.

‘What are you doing here while Jane is lying dead in the woods? What kind of police are you? Who killed Jane?’

The Bistro grew momentarily silent, then slowly the murmur of conversation started up again. Armand Gamache held her imperious stare with his own thoughtful eyes and leaned slowly across the table until he was sure only she could hear. Ruth, believing he might be about to actually whisper the name of the person who had killed her friend, leaned in as well.

‘Ruth Zardo, my job is to find out who killed your friend. And I will do that. I will do it in the manner I see fit. I will not be bullied and I will not be treated with disrespect. This is my investigation. If you have anything you’d like to say, or to ask, please do. But never, ever, swing that cane in my company again. And never speak to me like that again.’

‘How dare I! This officer is obviously hard at work.’ Both Ruth and her voice rose. ‘Mustn’t disturb the best the Sûreté has to offer.’

Gamache wondered whether Ruth Zardo really believed this sarcasm would be fruitful. He also wondered why she would take this attitude at all.

‘Mrs Zardo, what can I get you?’ the young waitress asked as though none of the dramatics had happened. Or perhaps it was simply intermission.

‘A Scotch, please, Marie,’ said Ruth, suddenly deflating and sinking back into the chair. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’

She sounded to Gamache like someone used to apologising.

‘I suppose I could blame Jane’s death for my poor behavior, but as you’ll discover, I’m just like this. I have no talent for choosing my battles. Life seems, strangely, like a battle to me. The whole thing.’

‘So I can expect more where that came from?’

‘Oh, I think so. But you’ll have plenty of company in your foxhole. And I promise not to whack my cane, at least around you.’

Armand Gamache leaned back in his chair, just as the Scotch and his
cafe au lait
and candy arrived. He took them and with all the dignity he could muster, turned to Ruth. ‘Pipe, Madame?’

Ruth took the largest one and immediately bit the red candy end off.

‘How did it happen?’ Ruth asked.

‘It looks like a hunting accident. But can you think of anyone who would want to deliberately kill your friend?’

Ruth told Gamache about the boys throwing manure. When she’d finished, Gamache asked, ‘Why do you think these boys might have killed her? I agree it was a reprehensible thing to do, but she’d already announced their names, so it’s not as though killing her would stop that. What’s gained?’

‘Revenge?’ suggested Ruth. ‘At that age, humiliation could be considered a capital offense. True, they were the ones who were trying to humiliate Olivier and Gabri, but the tables turned. And bullies don’t much like getting some of their own back.’

Gamache nodded. It was possible. But surely, unless you’re psychotic, the revenge would take a different form, something short of cold-blooded murder.

‘How long did you know Mrs Neal?’

‘Miss. She never married,’ said Ruth. ‘Though she almost did, once. What was his name?’ She consulted the yellowing Rolodex in her head. ‘Andy. Andy Selchuk. No. Sel … Sel … Selinsky. Andreas Selinsky. That was years ago. Fifty or more. Doesn’t matter.’

‘Please, tell me,’ said Gamache.

Ruth nodded and absently stirred her Scotch with the butt end of her licorice pipe.

‘Andy Selinsky was a logger. These hills were full of logging operations for a hundred years. Most of them are closed now. Andy worked on Mont Echo at the Thompson operation. The lumberjacks could be violent men. They’d work all week on the mountain, sleeping rough through storms and bear season, and the blackflies must have driven them crazy. They’d smear themselves with bear grease to keep away bugs. They were more afraid of blackflies than black bears. On weekends they’d come out of the woods, like living filth.’