eyes.
And so the reports progressed. The tension rose in the room as the one phone they all willed to ring sat silent in Gamache's large hand.
Jane Neal, according to reports, had been a dedicated and respected teacher. She had cared about her students, enough to occasionally fail them. Her personal finances were healthy. She was a church warden at St Thomas's and active in the Anglican Church Women, organising thrift sales and socials. She played bridge and gardened with a passion.
Her neighbors saw and heard nothing on Sunday morning.
All Quiet on the Western front, thought Gamache, listening to this gentle life. His magical thinking allowed him to be surprised that when such a good soul dies it isn't remarked. The bells of the church didn't set themselves off. The mice and deer didn't cry out. The earth didn't shudder. It should have. If he were God, it would have. Instead, the line in the official report would read, 'Her neighbors noticed nothing.'
The reports finished, the team went back to their phones and their paperwork. Armand Gamache began pacing. Clara Morrow called to tell Gamache that Matthew Croft's father had built the blind, a fact of some interest, given their suspicions.
At ten fifteen his palm rang. It was the lab.
NINE
Matthew Croft was to remember for the rest of his life where he was when the police cars drew up. It was three minutes past eleven on the kitchen clock. He'd expected them much earlier. Had been waiting since seven that morning.
Every fall, at canning season, Suzanne's mother Marthe would come over with her shopping bag of old family recipes. The two women would 'put up' the preserves over a couple of days and invariably Marthe would ask, 'When does a cucumber become a pickle?'
At first he'd tried to answer that question as though she genuinely wanted to know. But over the years he realised there was no answer. At what point does change happen? Sometimes it's sudden. The 'ah ha' moments in our lives, when we suddenly see. But often it's a gradual change, an evolution.
For four hours, waiting, Matthew wondered what had happened. When did things start to go wrong? This, too, he couldn't answer.
'Good morning, Mr Croft.' Chief Inspector Gamache looked calm, solid. Jean Guy Beauvoir was standing beside Gamache, next to him was that woman officer, and slightly behind was a man Matthew hadn't met yet. Middle- aged, in a suit and tie, hair streaked with gray and conservatively cut. Gamache followed Croft's look.
'This is Claude Guimette. He's one of the provincial guardians. We've had the results of the tests from the bow and arrows. May we come in?'
Croft stepped back, and they entered his home. Instinctively he took them into the kitchen.
'It would be valuable to have you and your wife together right now.'
Croft nodded and went upstairs. Suzanne was sitting on the side of the bed. It had taken her all morning to dress, one piece of clothing at a time then flopping back on the bed, exhausted. Finally, about an hour ago, the last piece was in place. Her body looked fine but her face was a monstrosity, and there was no hiding that.
She'd tried praying, but had forgotten the words. Instead she kept repeating the only thing she could remember:
She'd recited it over and over to Philippe when he was little but now she couldn't remember the rest. It seemed to matter, even though it wasn't itself a prayer. It was more than that. It was proof she'd been a good mother. Proof she'd loved her children. Proof, whispered the little girl's voice inside her head, that it isn't your fault. But she couldn't remember the rest of the nursery rhyme. So maybe it was her fault.
'They're here,' said Matthew, standing at the doorway. 'They want you downstairs.'
When she appeared, Matthew at her side, Gamache got up and took her hand. She sat at the chair offered, as thougt she'd become a guest in her own home. In her own kitchen.
'We have the results of the lab tests'. Gamache launched right into it. It would be curel to mince words. 'Jane Neal's blood was on the bow we found in your basement. It was also on some pieces of clothing belonging to Philippe. The arrow tip matches the wound. The feathers found in the wound wer of the same type and vintage as the feathers in the old quiver. We believe your son accidentally killed Jane Neal'.
There it was.
'What will happen to him ?' Matthew asked, all fight had fled. 'I'd like to talk to him,' said M. Guimette. My job is to represent him. I came here with the police but I don't work for them. The Quebec Guardians Office is independent of the police. In fact, I work for Philippe'.
'I see,' said Matthew. Would he have to go to jail ?'
'We spoke in the car on our way out here. Chief Inspector Gamache has no intention of charging Philippe with manslaughter.'
'So what might happen to him ?' Matthew asked again.
'He'll be taken to the police station in St Remy and charged with 'mischief'.' Matthew's brows went up. Had he known you could be charged with mischief' his own youth might have been far different. He'd been a mischief-maker like his son. It now seemed literally true.
'But he's just a boy,' said Suzanne, who felt she should be saying something in her son's defense.
'He's fourteen. Old enough to know that when he does something wrong,' however unintentionally, there s a consequence. Was Philippe one of the boys who threw manure at Messieurs Dubeau and Brule?'
The change of subject seemed to revive Matthew.
'Yes. He came home and bragged about it.' Matthew could remember staring at his little boy in the kitchen, wondering who this stranger was.
'But are you sure? I know Miss Neal called out three names, Philippe's being one of them, but she may have
