'Clara Morrow, Solange. We met in exercise class. Congratulations on the child,' she tried to sound sincere.
'Yes, I remember. How are you?'
'Just fine. But I called with a question. I'm sorry to disturb you on your leave, but this has something to do with your notary practice.'
'Oh, that's all right. The office calls every day. What can I help you with?'
'Did you know that Jane Neal had died?'
'No, no, I hadn't heard. I'm sorry.'
'It was an accident. In the woods.'
'Oh, I did hear about that when I got back. I was visiting my parents in Montreal for Thanksgiving, so I missed it. You mean, that was Jane Neal?'
'Yes.'
'Weren't the police involved?'
'Yes. They seem to think Norman Stickley, in Williamsburg, was her notary. But I thought she'd come to you.'
'Could you come to my office tomorrow morning?'
'What time's good for you?'
'Say eleven? Clara, could you invite the police? I think they'll be interested.'
It took Philippe Croft a few minutes to trust it wasn't a trap before he admitted everything. His long pale fingers picked at a pill of fluff on his sweatpants as he told his story. He'd wanted to punish his father, so he'd taken the old bow and arrows and gone hunting. He'd fired just once. But that was enough. Instead of the stag he knew he'd killed, he found Jane Neal, spread-eagled. Dead. He could still see those eyes. They followed him.
'You can let them go now,' said Gamache, quietly. 'They're someone else's nightmare.'
Philippe had simply nodded and Gamache was reminded of Myrna, and the pain we choose to carry around. He wanted to take Philippe in his arms and tell him he wouldn't be fourteen for ever. Just to hold on.
But Gamache didn't. He knew that while the intention was kind, the act would be seen as an assault. An insult. Instead he stuck out his large, steady hand to the boy. After a moment Philippe slipped his own pale hand in, as though he'd never shook hands with a man before, and squeezed.
Gamache and Beauvoir arrived back in the village to find Agent Lacoste fending off Yolande. She'd been sent to Jane Neal's cottage, warrant in hand. She'd managed to get Yolande out and to lock the door, and was now practicing her impression of a Palace Guard, immutable in the face of provocation.
'I'll sue your ass. I'll get you fired, you ugly little tramp.' Spying Beauvoir, Yolande turned on him. 'How dare you kick me out of my own home?'
'Did you show Ms Fontaine the warrant, Agent?'
'I did, sir.'
'Then you know', Beauvoir turned to Yolande, 'that this is now a homicide investigation. I take it you want to find out who killed your aunt?'
It was a low blow, but almost always effective. Who could say no?
'No. I don't care. Will it bring her back? Tell me it'll bring her back and I'll let you into my home.'
'We're already in, and this isn't a negotiation. Now, I need to speak with you and your husband. Is he home?'
'How should I know?'
'Well, why don't we just go and see.'
When they'd pulled up in Gamache's car they'd seen Yolande going after Lacoste, who seemed to have been stuffed.
'Poor woman.' Gamache smiled. 'This will make a story she can bore her rookies with one day. Listen, we're both anxious to get into that house, but I'd like to get a couple of things out of the way first. Go and interview Yolande and try to get Andre as well. I want to speak with Myrna Landers.'
'Why?'
Gamache told him.
'I need to know what Timmer Hadley said that day you were sitting with her.'
Myrna locked the door to her bookshop and poured them each a cup of tea. Then she sat down in the comfortable chair opposite him. 'I think you'll be disappointed. I can't see that it matters to anyone now, alive or dead.'
'You'd be surprised.'
'I dare say.' She sipped her tea and looked out the window into the dusk, her mind going back to that afternoon just a few months ago. Seemed like years. Timmer Hadley a skeleton draped with flesh. Her eyes bright in the head made huge by a shriveled body. They'd sat together, Myrna perched on the side of the bed, Timmer wrapped in blankets and hot-water bottles. The big old brown album between them. The photos falling out, their glue long since turned to grit. One that had slipped out was of a young Jane Neal and her parents and sister.
Timmer told Myrna about Jane's parents, prisoners of their own insecurities and fears. Those fears passed on to the sister Irene, who had also become a social climber and searched for security in objects and the approval of others. But not Jane. And then came the story Gamache had asked about:
