A Trick of the Light

“I asked a bunch of people before I went and they all said the same thing,” said Clara, walking back toward Peter. “Not to go. That the Dysons would be too hurt to see me. But I went anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to say how sorry I was. About Lillian. But also about our falling out. I wanted to give them the chance to talk about old times, about Lillian as a kid. To exchange stories maybe, with someone who knew and loved her.”

“But they didn’t want to?”

“It was horrible. I knocked on the door and Mrs. Dyson answered. She’d obviously been crying for a long time. She looked all collapsed. It took her a moment to recognize me but when she did—”

Peter waited. They all waited. Imagining the elderly woman at the door.

“—I’ve never seen such hate. Never. If she could’ve killed me right there she would’ve. Mr. Dyson joined her. He’s tiny, barely there, barely alive. I remember when he was huge. He used to pick us up and carry us on his shoulders. But now he’s all stooped over and,” she paused, obviously searching for words, “tiny. Just tiny.”

There were no words. Or hardly any more.

“‘You killed our daughter,’ he said. ‘You killed our daughter.’ And then he tried to swing his cane at me but it got all caught in the door and he just ended up crying in frustration.”

Beauvoir and Gamache could see it now. Frail, grieving, gentlemanly Mr. Dyson reduced to a murderous rage.

“You tried, Clara,” said Peter, in a calming, comforting voice. “You tried to help them. You couldn’t have known.”

“But everyone else did. Why didn’t I?” demanded Clara with a sob. And once again Peter was wise enough to stay quiet. “I thought about it all the way back here and you know what I realized?”

Again Peter waited, though Beauvoir, hidden fifteen feet away, almost spoke, almost asked, “What?”

“I convinced myself it was somehow courageous, saintly even, to go and comfort the Dysons. But I really did it for myself. And now look what I’ve done. If they weren’t so old I think Mr. Dyson would’ve killed me.”

Gamache and Beauvoir could hear muffled sobs, as Peter hugged his wife.

The Chief Inspector turned away from the bridge, and started walking toward the Incident Room, on the other side of the Riviere Bella Bella.

*   *   *

At the Incident Room they separated, Beauvoir to follow up the now promising leads and Gamache to head in to Montreal.

“I’ll be back by dinner,” he said, slipping behind the wheel of his Volvo. “I need to speak with Superintendent Brunel about Lillian Dyson’s art. About what it might be worth.”

“Good idea.”

Beauvoir, like Gamache, had seen the art on the victim’s walls. They just looked like weird, distorted images of Montreal streets. Familiar, recognizable, but where the streets and buildings in real life were angular, the ones in the paintings were rounded, flowing.

They made Beauvoir slightly nauseous. He wondered what Superintendent Brunel would make of them.

So did Chief Inspector Gamache.

It was late afternoon by the time he arrived in Montreal and made his way through rush hour traffic to Therese Brunel’s Outremont apartment.

He’d called ahead, making sure the Brunels were home, and as he climbed the stairs Jerome opened the door. He was an almost perfect square, and was certainly a perfect host.

“Armand.” He extended his hand and grasped the Chief Inspector’s. “Therese is in the kitchen, preparing a little tray. Why don’t we sit on the balcony. What can I get you to drink?”

“Just a Perrier, si te plait, Jerome,” said Gamache, following his host through the familiar living room, past the piles of open reference books and Jerome’s puzzles and ciphers. They walked onto the front balcony, which looked across the street and onto a leafy, green park. It was hard to believe that just around the corner was avenue Laurier, filled with bistros and brasseries and boutiques.

He and Reine-Marie lived just a few streets over and had been to this home many times, for dinner or for cocktails. And the Brunels had been to their home many times as well.

While this wasn’t exactly a social call the Brunels managed to make everything feel comfortable. If it was necessary to talk about crime, about murder, why not do it over drinks and cheese and spiced sausage and olives?

Armand Gamache’s feelings exactly.

“Merci, Jerome,” said Therese Brunel, handing the tray of food to her husband and accepting a white wine.

They stood on the balcony in the afternoon sun, looking out over the park.

“Lovely time of year, isn’t it?” said Therese. “So fresh.”

Then she turned her attention to the man beside her. And he to her.

Armand Gamache saw a woman he’d known for more than ten years. Had trained, in fact. Had taught at the academy. She’d stood out from the rest of the cadets, not only for her obvious intelligence but because she was old enough to be their mother. She was, in fact, a full decade older than Gamache himself.