The Brutal Telling

The vet was shaking his head as he finished his examinations.



“The good news is there’s nothing terminally wrong with them. Left to rot in muddy fields and bitter cold barns. Never groomed. Neglected. But this one.” He approached the tall, walleyed dark horse, who shied away. The vet waited and approached again quietly, making soothing sounds until the horse settled. “This one was abused. You can see it.” He pointed to the scars on the horse’s flanks. “He’s afraid. What’s his name?”



Dominique consulted the bill from the abattoir, then looked at Carole.



“What is it?” the older woman asked, walking over to read the bill as well. “Oh,” she said, then looked at the vet. “Can a horse’s name be changed?”



“Normally I’d say yes, but not this one. He needs some continuity. They get used to their names. Why?”



“His name’s Marc.”



“I’ve heard worse,” said the vet, packing up.



The two women exchanged glances. So far Marc, her husband, not the horse, had no idea Dominique had canceled the hunters in favor of these misfits. He almost certainly wouldn’t be happy. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice, and if she gave them mighty, masculine names like Thunder and Trooper he might not care. But he’d certainly notice a half-blind, scarred and scared old wreck named Marc.



“Ride them as soon as you can,” said the vet from his car. “Just walk at first until they get their strength back.” He gave the two women a warm smile. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. These are four lucky horses.”



And he drove off.



“Oui,” said Carole, “until we saddle the wrong end.”



“I think the saddle goes in the middle,” said Dominique.



“Merde,” said Carole.



The Sûreté was out for blood. If the victim hadn’t been murdered in the bistro he was killed somewhere else, and they needed to find the crime scene. Blood, and quite a bit of it, had been spilled. And while the murderer had had two days to clean up, blood stained. Blood stuck. It would be almost impossible to completely erase the evidence of this brutal murder. Every home, every business, every shed, every barn, garage, kennel in and around Three Pines was scoured. Jean Guy Beauvoir coordinated it, sending teams of Sûreté officers throughout the village and into the countryside. He stayed in the Incident Room and received their reports, guiding them, occasionally chastising them, his patience eroding as the negative reports flowed in.



Nothing.



No sign of a murder scene or a murder weapon. Not even at the old Hadley house, whose new floors proved bloodless. The lab tests had come back on Olivier’s pokers, confirming neither was the weapon. It was still out there, somewhere.



They did find Guylaine’s missing boots, and a root cellar under Monsieur Béliveau’s house, long overgrown and abandoned, but still housing pickled beets and cider. There was a squirrel’s nest in Ruth’s attic, not perhaps surprisingly, and suspicious seeds in Myrna’s mudroom that turned out to be hollyhock.



Nothing.



“I’ll widen the search area,” said Beauvoir to the Chief, over the phone.



“Probably a good idea.” But Gamache didn’t sound convinced.



Through the receiver Beauvoir could hear bells and music and laughter.



Armand Gamache was at the fair.



The Brume County Fair was more than a century old, bringing people in from all over the townships. Like most fairs it had started as a meeting place for farmers, to show their livestock, to sell their autumn produce, to make deals and see friends. There was judging in one barn and displays of handicraft in another. Baking was for sale in the long aisles of open sheds and children lined up for licorice and maple syrup candy, popcorn and freshly made doughnuts.



It was the last celebration of summer, the bridge into autumn.



Armand Gamache walked past the rides and hawkers, then consulted his watch. It was time. He made for a field to the side of the barns, where a crowd had gathered. For the Wellington Boot Toss.



Standing on the edge of the field he watched as kids and adults lined up. The young man in charge settled them down, gave them each an old rubber boot, and standing well back he raised his arm. And held it there.



The tension was almost unbearable.



Then like an ax he dropped it.



The line of people raised their arms in unison and shot them forward, and to whoops of encouragement from onlookers a storm of Wellington boots was released.



Gamache knew in that instant why he’d gotten such an unexpectedly good spot at the side of the field. At least three boots shot his way.