Still Life

Sûreté officers were crawling all over the home, taking fingerprints and samples and photographs. They made it very strange, and yet Clara knew that Jane was there too, in the spaces between the strangers. Gamache led Clara and Peter through the familiar kitchen and to the swinging door. The one they’d never been through. Part of Clara now wanted to turn around and go home. To never see what Jane had so deliberately kept from them all. To go through the door felt like a betrayal of Jane’s trust, a violation, an admission that Jane was no longer there to stop them.



Oh, well, too bad. Her curiosity won out, as though there was never any doubt, and she strong-armed the swinging door and walked through. Straight into an acid flashback.



Clara’s first reaction was to laugh. She stood stunned for a moment then started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh until she thought she’d piddle. Peter was soon infected and began laughing. And Gamache, who up until this moment had only seen a travesty, smiled, then chuckled, then laughed and within moments was laughing so hard he had to wipe away tears.



‘Holy horrible taste, Batman,’ said Clara to Peter who doubled over, laughing some more.



‘Solid, man, solid,’ he gasped and managed to raise a peace sign before having to put both hands on his knees to support his heaving body. ‘You don’t suppose Jane tuned in, turned on and dropped out?’



‘I’d have to say the medium is the message.’ Clara pointed to the demented Happy Faces and laughed until no sound came out. She held on to Peter, hugging him to stop herself slipping to the floor.



The room was not only sublimely ridiculous, it was also a relief. After a minute or two to compose themselves they all went upstairs. In the bedroom Clara picked up the well-worn book beside Jane’s bed, C. S. Lewis’s, Surprised by Joy. It smelled of Floris.



‘I don’t understand,’ said Peter as they walked back down the stairs and sat in front of the fireplace. Clara couldn’t help herself. Reaching out she touched the brilliant yellow Happy Face wallpaper. It was velvet. An involuntary guffaw burped out and she hoped she wouldn’t erupt into laughter again. It really was too ridiculous.



‘Why wouldn’t Jane let us see this room?’ asked Peter. ‘I mean, it’s not that bad.’ They all stared at him in disbelief. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’



‘I know exactly what you mean,’ agreed Gamache. ‘That’s my question too. If she wasn’t ashamed of it, then she’d let people in. If she was, then why not just get rid of it? No, I think we’re being distracted by all this, perhaps even intentionally.’ He paused. Maybe that was the reason for the horrid wallpaper. It was a ruse, a red herring, put there deliberately to distract them from the one thing Jane didn’t want them to see. Finally, he felt, he might have the answer to why she put up this gruesome paper.



‘There’s something else in this room. A piece of furniture, perhaps, the pottery, a book. It’s here.’



The four of them split up and started searching the room again. Clara made for the Port Neuf, which Olivier had taught her about. The old clay mugs and bowls made in Quebec were one of the first industries back in the 1700s. Primitive images of cows and horses and pigs and flowers were sponged on to the rough earthenware. They were valuable collector’s items and Olivier would certainly shriek. But there was no need to keep them hidden. Gamache had a small desk upside-down and was searching for hidden drawers, while Peter examined a large pine box closely. Clara opened the drawers of the armoir, which were stuffed with lace doilies and picture placemats. She took them out. They were reproductions of old paintings of Quebec village scenes and landscapes from the mid-1800s. She’d seen them before, on Jane’s kitchen table during her dinners, but also elsewhere. They were very common. But maybe they weren’t reproductions after all? Is it possible these were the originals? Or that they’d been altered to include some hidden code?



She found nothing.



‘Over here, I think I have something.’ Peter stood back from the pine box he’d been examining. It stood on sturdy little wooden legs and came to hip height. Wrought iron handles were attached to either side, and two small, square drawers pulled out from the front. From what Peter could see, not a single nail had been used on the honey pine piece, all the joints were dovetail. It was exquisite and very maddening. The main body of the box was accessible by lifting the top, only it wouldn’t lift. Somehow, and for some reason, it had been locked. Peter yanked on the top again, but it wouldn’t lift. Beauvoir shoved him aside and tried it himself, much to Peter’s annoyance, as though there was more than one way to open a lid.