Still Life

‘What did he do?’



‘He says he recognised her immediately. He knelt down and shook her. He thought she’d had a stroke or heart attack. Says he was about to begin CPR when he noticed the wound.’



‘Didn’t he notice she was staring blank-eyed and was cold as marble?’ Nichol was feeling more confident.



‘Would you?’



‘Of course. You couldn’t miss it.’



‘Unless . . .’ Here Gamache was inviting her to argue against herself. She didn’t want to. She wanted to be right. Clearly he thought she wasn’t.



‘Unless. Unless I was in shock, I suppose.’ She had to admit that was a remote possibility.



‘Look at the man. It’s been three hours since he found her and he’s still sick. He just threw up. This woman was important to him,’ said Gamache, looking over at Ben Hadley. ‘Unless he’s faking it.’



‘Sorry, sir?’



‘Well, it’s easy enough to stick a finger down your throat and throw up. Makes quite an impression.’ Gamache turned to Beauvoir. ‘Do any others know about the death of Miss Neal?’



‘There was a group of villagers on the road, sir,’ said Nichol. Gamache and Beauvoir looked at her. She’d done it again, she realised. In an effort to impress and redeem herself she’d in fact done the opposite. She’d answered a question not directed at her, interrupting a senior officer with information obvious to a three-year-old. Inspector Gamache had seen those people as well as she had. Damn! Nichol knew with a creeping chill that in trying to impress them with her brilliance she was having the opposite effect. She was proving herself a fool.



‘Sorry, sir.’



‘Inspector Beauvoir?’



‘I’ve tried to keep this a sterile site.’ He turned to Nichol.



‘No outsiders, and none of our people talking about the crime outside our perimeter.’ Nichol blushed a deep red. She hated that he felt he had to explain it to her, and she hated even more that she needed the explanation.



‘But—’ Beauvoir shrugged.



‘Time to speak with Mr Hadley,’ said Gamache, walking with a measured pace in his direction.



Ben Hadley had been watching them, understanding clearly that the boss had arrived.



‘Mr Hadley, I’m Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Sûreté du Quebec.’



Ben had been expecting a francophone, perhaps even a unilingual French detective, so he’d spent a few minutes practicing his French, and how to describe his movements. Now this immaculate man with the trimmed moustache, the deep-brown eyes looking at him over the rim of his half-moon glasses, the three-piece suit (could that possibly be a Burberry coat?), the tweed cap with graying, groomed hair underneath, was extending his large hand—as though this was a slightly formal business occasion—and speaking English with a British accent. Yet he’d heard snippets of his conversation with his colleagues and that was definitely in fast and fluid French. In Quebec it was far from unusual that people spoke both languages, even fluently. But it was unusual to find a francophone speaking like a hereditary member of the House of Lords.



‘This is Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir and Agent Yvette Nichol.’ They all shook hands, though Nichol was slightly leery, not sure what he’d wiped his face with after throwing up.



‘How can I help?’



‘Let’s walk,’ Gamache pointed down the path through the woods, ‘just a little away from here.’



‘Thank you,’ said Ben, genuinely grateful.



‘I’m sorry about the death of Miss Neal. Was she a close friend?’



‘Very. She actually taught me at the school house here.’



Gamache was watching him attentively, his dark brown eyes on Ben’s face, taking in what was being said, without judgment or accusation. Ben could feel himself relax for the first time in hours. Gamache said nothing, just waited for Ben to continue.



‘She was a wonderful woman. I wish I was good with words, I could begin to describe her for you.’ Ben turned his face away, ashamed of the tears that came up again. He balled his hands into fists and could feel the welcome pain of his fingernails biting into his palms. That was a pain he could understand. The other was beyond his comprehension. Strangely it was so much greater than when his mother had died. He gathered himself again, ‘I don’t understand what’s happened. Jane’s death wasn’t natural, was it?’



‘No, Mr Hadley, it wasn’t.’



‘Someone killed her?’



‘Tell us about this morning, please.’