Still Life

‘They aren’t Charles de Mills roses, of course. They’re long dead,’ Gabri’s face dissolved into tears and the platter lurched perilously. Only Beauvoir’s quick action, fueled by desire, save the food. ‘Desolé. Excusez-moi. I’m just so sad’ Gabri collapsed on to one of the sofas, arms and legs flopping. Gamache had the feeling that for all the dramatics, the man was sincere. He gave Gabri a moment to compose himself, fully realising it was possible Gabri had never been composed. He then asked Gabri to spread the word about the public meeting the next day, and to open the church. He also booked rooms in the bed and breakfast.



‘Bed and brunch,’ Gabri corrected. ‘But you may have your brunch at breakfast, if you like, since you’re helping bring the brute to justice.’



‘Any idea who might have killed her?’



‘It was a hunter, wasn’t it?’



‘We don’t actually know. But if it wasn’t, who comes to mind?’



Gabri reached for a muffin. Beauvoir took that as permission to take one himself. They were still warm from the oven.



Gabri was silent for two muffins, then said softly, ‘I can’t think of anyone, but,’ he turned intense brown eyes on Gamache, ‘am I likely to? I mean, isn’t that what’s so horrible about murder? We don’t see it coming. I’m not saying this very well.’ He reached for another muffin and ate it, rose and all. ‘The people I’ve been angriest at probably never even realised. Does that make sense?’



He seemed to be pleading with Gamache to understand.



‘It does. It makes perfect sense,’ said Gamache, and he meant it. Few people understood so quickly that most premeditated murders were about rancid emotions, greed, jealousy, fear, all repressed. As Gabri said, people don’t see it coming, because the murderer is a master at image, at the false front, at presenting a reasonable, even placid exterior. But it masked a horror underneath. And that’s why the expression he saw most on the faces of victims wasn’t fear, wasn’t anger. It was surprise.



‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?’ Gabri asked and Gamache wondered if he knew he was quoting an old radio drama. Then Gabri winked.



Gabri disappeared again, and returned, handing Gamache a small bag of muffins.



‘One more question,’ said Gamache at the door, the bag of muffins in one hand and the door handle in the other. ‘You mentioned the Charles de Mills rose.’



‘Jane’s favorite. He’s not just any rose, Chief Inspector.



He’s considered by rosarians to be one of the finest in the world. An old garden rose. Only blooms once a season but with a show that’s spectacular. And then it’s gone. That’s why I made the muffins from rose water, as a homage to Jane. Then I ate them, as you saw. I always eat my pain.’ Gabri smiled slightly. Looking at the size of the man, Gamache marveled at the amount of pain he must have. And fear perhaps. And anger? Who knows, indeed.



Ben Hadley was waiting for them outside the schoolhouse, as Beauvoir had requested in his call.



‘Is everything as it should be from the outside, Mr Hadley?’ Gamache asked.



Ben, a little surprised at the question, looked around. Gamache wondered whether Ben Hadley wasn’t a little surprised all the time.



‘Yes. Do you want to see inside?’ Ben reached for the knob, but Beauvoir quickly brought his own hand down on Ben’s arm and stopped him. Instead, Beauvoir pulled a roll of yellow police tape from his jacket and handed it to Nichol. While Nichol put the yellow ‘Do not cross, crime scene’ tape around the door and windows Beauvoir explained.



‘It looks as though Miss Neal was killed by an arrow. We need to go over your clubhouse carefully in case the weapon came from here.’



‘But that’s ridiculous.’



‘Why?’



Ben simply looked around as though the peaceful setting was reason enough. Into Beauvoir’s outstretched hand he deposited the keys.



As Agent Nichol maneuvered the car on to the Champlain Bridge and back into Montreal she looked past Chief Inspector Gamache, silent and thinking in the seat beside her, and toward the Montreal skyline, the huge cross just beginning to glow on the top of Mont Royal. Her family would have held back Thanksgiving dinner for her. They’d do anything for her, she knew, both comforted and bound by the certainty. And all she had to do was succeed.



Walking into his own home that evening Gamache smelt roasting partridge. It was one of Reine-Marie’s holiday specialties, the small game birds wrapped in bacon and slowly cooked in a sauce of mulled wine and juniper berries. Normally he’d have made the wild rice stuffing, but she’d probably have done that herself. They exchanged news while he stripped and took a shower. She told him about the baptism and the finger food afterward. She was almost certain she was at the right baptism, though she didn’t recognise all that many people. He told her about his day and the case. He told her everything. In this he was unusual, but he couldn’t quite see how he could have a deep partnership with Reine-Marie and keep this part of his life secret. So he told her everything, and she told him everything. So far, after thirty-five years, it seemed to be working.