Still 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 ? 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 politicans 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 Brulé, 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 café au lait in front of this open fire was too good. And maybe a licorice pipe, or two. Waiting for Mr Brulé 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.