Still Life (Three Pines Mysteries)

by Louise Penny

  ‘No, Mr Hadley, it wasn’t.’

  ‘Someone killed her?’

  ‘Tell us about this morning, please.’

  By now their walking had slowed and petered to a stop.

  ‘I found Jane just lying—’

  Gamache interrupted, ‘From the time you woke up, please.’ Ben raised an eyebrow but did as he was asked.

  ‘I woke up at about seven. I always get up with the sun. The light comes into my bedroom and I never bothered to get curtains. I got up, had a shower and the rest, and fed Daisy.’ He watched their faces closely, looking for some sign that he was giving too much or too little detail. The woman agent looked as puzzled as he felt. The tall good-looking Inspector (Ben had already forgotten their names) was writing everything down. And the boss looked interested and encouraging. ‘Then we went outside for a walk, but she has arthritis and this morning she was very sore. Daisy’s a dog, by the way. Anyway, I let her back in the house and took myself off for a walk. This was a quarter to eight.’ Ben figured, correctly, they’d be interested in the timing. ‘It takes just a few minutes to walk here, up the road and past the school house then into the woods.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’ Beauvoir asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t. It’s possible someone saw me, but I missed them. I tend to walk with my head down, lost in thought. I’ve passed right by people without noticing them. My friends know that about me and don’t take offense. I was walking along the path and something made me look up.’

  ‘Please try to remember, Mr Hadley. If you normally walk with your head down, why would you raise it?’

  ‘Odd, isn’t it? I can’t remember. But unfortunately, as I said, I’m normally lost in thought. Never deep or important thoughts. My mother used to laugh and say some people try to be in two places at once. I, on the other hand, am generally nowhere.’ Ben laughed, but Nichol privately thought that was an awful thing for a mother to say.

  ‘She was right, of course. Look at today. Beautiful sunshine. I’m walking through the gorgeous woods. It’s like a postcard, but I don’t notice anything, don’t appreciate it, except perhaps sometime later when I’m somewhere else and thinking about this walk. It seems my mind is constantly one step behind my body.’

  ‘Looking up, sir,’ Beauvoir prompted.

  ‘I really can’t think what made me look up, but it’s a good thing I did. I might have fallen right over her. Funny but it never occurred to me that she was dead. I was reluctant to disturb her. I kind of tiptoed up and called her name. Then I noticed a stillness and my mind just kind of exploded. I thought she’d had a stroke, or heart attack.’ He shook his head, still in disbelief.

  ‘Did you actually touch the wound?’ Beauvoir asked.

  ‘I think I might have. I just remember leaping up and wiping my hands on my pants. I panicked and like a—I don’t know what - an hysterical child I ran in circles. Idiot! Anyway, I finally got a hold of myself and dialed 911 on my cell phone.’

  ‘I’m curious,’ said Gamache. ‘Why did you bring a cell phone to walk in the woods?’

  ‘These woods belong to my family and every fall hunters trespass. I’m not a brave man, I’m afraid, but I can’t tolerate killing. Killing anything. I have spiders in my home with names. In the mornings when I go for a walk I bring a cell phone. Partly out of fear that I’ll get shot by some drunken hunter and need to call for help and partly to call Natural Resources and get a warden up here if I do spot someone.’

  ‘And what would that number be?’ asked Chief Inspector Gamache pleasantly.

  ‘I don’t know. I have it on my speed dial. I know that my hands shake when I’m nervous, so I just programmed the number in.’ Ben looked concerned for the first time and Inspector Gamache took him by the arm and led him further up the path.

  ‘I’m sorry about these questions. You’re an important witness and, frankly, the person who finds the body is near the top of our list of suspects.’

  Ben stopped in his tracks and looked at the Inspector, incredulous.

  ‘Suspected of what? What are you saying?’ Ben turned around and looked back in the direction they’d come, toward Jane’s body. ‘That’s Jane Neal over there. A retired schoolteacher who tended roses and ran the ACW, the Anglican Church Women. It can’t be anything other than an accident. You don’t understand. Nobody would kill her on purpose.’

  Nichol was watching this exchange and now waited with some satisfaction for Chief Inspector Gamache to set this stupid man straight.

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Mr Hadley. That’s by far the likeliest possibility.’ Yvette Nichol couldn’t believe her ears. Why didn’t he just tell Hadley to get off his soapbox and let them do their jobs? After all, he was the idiot who disturbed the body then ran around messing up and contaminating the whole site. He was hardly in a position to lecture a man as senior and respected as Gamache.

  ‘In the few hours you’ve been standing here, has anything about the scene or about Miss Neal seemed out of place?’

  Gamache was impressed that Ben chose not to say the obvious. Instead he thought for a minute.

  ‘Yes. Lucy, her dog. I can’t remember Jane ever going for a walk without Lucy, especially a morning walk.’

  ‘Did you call anyone else on your cell?’

  Ben looked as though he’d been presented with a totally new, and brilliant, idea.

  ‘Oh. Such an idiot! I can’t believe it. It never occurred to me to call Peter, or Clara or anyone. Here I was all alone, not wanting to leave Jane, but having to wave down the police. And it never occurred to me to call for help, except 911. Oh my God, the shock, I suppose.’

  Or maybe, thought Nichol, you really are an idiot. So far it would be difficult to find a human being less effective than Ben Hadley.

  ‘Who are Peter and Clara?’ Beauvoir asked.

  ‘Peter and Clara Morrow. My best friends. They live next door to Jane. Jane and Clara were like mother and daughter. Oh, poor Clara. Do you think they know?’

  ‘Well, let’s find out,’ said Gamache suddenly, walking with surprising speed back down the path toward the body. Once at the scene he turned to Beauvoir.

  ‘Inspector, take over here. You know what you’re looking for. Agent, stay with the Inspector and help him. What time is it?’

  ‘Eleven-thirty, sir,’ said Nichol.

  ‘Right. Mr Hadley, is there a restaurant or café in the village?’

  ‘Yes, there’s Olivier’s Bistro.’

  Gamache turned to Beauvoir. ‘Assemble the team at Olivier’s at one-thirty. We’ll miss the lunch rush and should have the place almost to ourselves. Is that correct, Mr Hadley?’

  ‘Hard to say, really. It’s possible as word gets out the village will congregate there. Olivier’s is the Central Station of Three Pines. But he has a back room he opens only for dinner. It overlooks the river. He’d probably open it for you and your team.’

  Gamache looked at Ben with interest. ‘That’s a good idea. Inspector Beauvoir, I’ll stop by and speak with Monsieur Olivier—’

  ‘It’s Olivier Brulé,’ Ben interrupted. ‘He and his partner Gabriel Dubeau run it and the only B. & B. in the village.’

  ‘I’ll speak with them and arrange a private room for lunch. May I walk with you, Mr Hadley, to the village? I haven’t been there yet.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Ben almost said, ‘It would be a pleasure’, but stopped himself. Somehow this police officer emitted and invited courtesy and a certain formality. Though they must have been about the same age, Ben felt it was very like being with his grandfather.

  ‘There’s Peter Morrow.’ Ben pointed into the crowd which had turned as though choreographed in their direction as the two men made their way out of the woods. Ben was pointing to the tall worried-looking man who’d spoken to Gamache earlier.

  ‘I’m going to tell you all I can right now,’ Gamache spoke to the crowd of about thirty villagers. He noticed Ben walk over to stand next to Peter Morrow.

  ‘The dead
woman’s name is Jane Neal,’ Gamache knew it was a false kindness to cushion a blow like this. A few of the people started to cry, some brought their hands up to their mouths as though covering a wound. Most dropped their heads as though the information was too heavy. Peter Morrow stared at Gamache. Then at Ben.

  Gamache took all this in. Mr Morrow showed no surprise. And no sorrow. Anxiety, yes. Concern, without doubt. But sadness?

  ‘How?’ someone asked.

  ‘We don’t know yet. But it wasn’t natural.’

  A moan escaped the crowd, involuntary and heartfelt. Except Peter Morrow.

  ‘Where’s Clara?’ Ben looked around. It was unusual to see one without the other.

  Peter tilted his head toward the village. ‘St Thomas’s.’

  The three men found Clara alone in the chapel, eyes closed, head bowed. Peter stood at the open door looking at her hunched back, braced against the blow that was to fall. He quietly walked up the short path between the pews, feeling as though he was floating above his body, watching his movements.

  It was the minister who had brought the news earlier that morning that the police were active in the woods behind the old school house. Then, as the service of Thanksgiving progressed, their unease grew. Soon the tiny church was sick with rumors of a hunting accident. A woman. Injured? No, killed. Don’t know who. Terrible. Terrible. And deep down in her stomach Clara knew just how terrible it was. With each opening of the door, each shaft of sunlight, she begged Jane to appear, late and flustered and apologetic. ‘I’ve just slept in. Silly of me. Lucy, poor dear, woke me with a little cry to go out. So sorry.’ The minister, either oblivious to the drama or out of his depth, just kept droning on.

  Sun poured in through the stained-glass boys in uniforms from the Great War, scattering blues and deep reds and yellows across the pine floor and oak pews. The chapel smelled like every small church Clara had ever known. Pledge and pine and dusty old books. As the choir stood to sing the next hymn Clara turned to Peter.

  ‘Can you go see?’

  Peter took Clara’s hand and was surprised to feel it freezing cold. He rubbed it between his own hands for a moment.

  ‘I’ll go. It’ll be all right. Look at me,’ he said, trying to get her frantic mind to stop its twirling.

  ‘Praise, my soul, the King of heaven,’ sang the choir.

  Clara blinked, ‘It will be all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alleluia, Alleluia. Praise the everlasting King.’

  That had been an hour ago and now everyone had left, including the minister, late for Thanksgiving service in Cleghorn Halt. Clara heard the door open, saw the square of sunlight grow down the aisle, and saw the shadow appear, the outline familiar even in its distortion.

  Peter hesitated then slowly made his way to her pew.

  She knew then.

  THREE

  Clara sat in her kitchen drained and stunned with the overwhelming need to call Jane and tell her what had happened. What had happened was inconceivable. A world suddenly, violently, without Jane. Without that touch, that comfort, that kindness. Clara felt that someone had scooped not just her heart but her brain right out of her body. How is it possible, Clara wondered, looking down at her hands folded neatly in her lap, that my heart can still beat? I must call Jane.

  After leaving the church they had, with Gamache’s permission, gone to get Jane’s golden retriever Lucy, who was now curled at Clara’s feet as though hugging her own inconceivable loss.

  Peter was willing the water to boil so he could make tea and then all this would go away. Maybe, said his brain and his upbringing, if you make enough tea and small talk, time reverses and all bad things are undone. But he’d lived too long with Clara to be able to hide in denial. Jane was dead. Killed. And he needed to comfort Clara and somehow make it all right. And he didn’t know how. Rummaging through the cupboard like a wartime surgeon frantically searching for the right bandage, Peter swept aside Yogi Tea and Harmony Herbal Blend, though he hesitated for a second over chamomile. But no. Stay focused, he admonished himself. He knew it was there, that opiate of the Anglos. And his hand clutched the box just as the kettle whistled. Violent death demanded Earl Grey. Glancing out the window as he splashed boiling water into the pot and felt the painful pricks of scalding water bouncing on to his hand, he saw Chief Inspector Gamache sitting alone on the bench on the village green. The inspector appeared to be feeding the birds, but that couldn’t be right. His attention returned to the important task of making tea.

  Armand Gamache sat on the bench, watching the birds but mostly watching the village. Before his eyes the village of Three Pines seemed to slow right down. The insistence of life, the bustle and energy became muffled. The voices dropped, gaits slowed. Gamache sat back and did what he did best. He watched. He took in the people, their faces, their actions, and where possible he took in what they said, though people stayed far enough away from his wooden bench on the grass that he couldn’t hear much. He noticed who touched and who didn’t. Who hugged and who shook hands. He noticed who had red eyes and who gave the appearance of business as usual.

  Three huge pine trees faced him at the far end of the green. Between him and them was a pond, a bunch of sweater-clad children circling it, hunting for frogs, he supposed. The village green sat, not surprisingly, in the center of the village, a road called The Commons circling it with homes, except behind him, which seemed to be the commercial district. It was a very short commercial. It consisted, as far as Gamache could see, of a depanneur whose Pepsi sign read ‘Beliveau’. Beside that was a boulangerie, the Bistro and a bookstore. Four roads led off The Commons, like the spokes of a wheel, or the directions of a compass.

  As he sat quietly and let the village happen around him he was impressed by how beautiful it was, these old homes facing the green, with their mature perennial gardens and trees. By how natural everything looked, undesigned. And the pall of grief that settled on this little community was worn with dignity and sadness and a certain familiarity. This village was old, and you don’t get to be old without knowing grief. And loss.

  ‘They say it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.’ Gamache looked up and saw Ben holding an ancient and, by the aroma, perhaps decomposing dog on a leash.

  ‘Is that right?’ Gamache indicated the seat next to him and Ben sat down, Daisy collapsing gratefully at his feet.

  ‘Starting in the morning. And getting colder.’

  The two men sat silently for a moment or two.

  ‘That’s Jane’s home.’ Ben pointed to a small stone cottage off to the left. ‘And that place beside it belongs to Peter and Clara.’ Gamache shifted his gaze. Their home was slightly larger than Jane’s and while hers was made of fieldstone, theirs was red brick, in the style known as Loyalist. A simple wooden veranda ran along the front of the home and held two wicker rocking chairs. A front door was flanked by windows and upstairs he could see two more windows, with shutters painted a warm and deep blue. The pretty front garden was planted with roses and perennials and fruit trees. Probably crab apple, thought Gamache. A stand of trees, mostly maple, separated Jane Neal and the Morrows. Though more than the trees separated them now.

  ‘My place is over there.’ Ben nodded at a charming old white clapboard home, with a veranda below and three dormers above. ‘But I guess that place up there is also mine.’ Ben waved vaguely into the sky. Gamache thought it possible Ben was speaking metaphorically, or even meteorologically. Then his eyes dropped from the puffy clouds and landed on the roof of a home on the side of the hill leading out of Three Pines.

  ‘Been in my family for generations. My mother lived there.’

  Gamache didn’t quite know what to say. He’d seen homes like that before. Many times. They were what he’d heard referred to during his time at Christ’s College, Cambridge as Victorian piles. Quite descriptive, he’d always thought. And Quebec, notably Montreal, boasted its share of piles, built by the Scottish robber barons, of railway, booze and banking money
. They were held together with hubris, a short-term binder at best since many of them had long ago been torn down or donated to McGill University, which needed another Victorian monstrosity like it needed the Ebola virus. Ben was looking at the home with great affection.

  ‘Will you move to the big house?’

  ‘Oh yes. But it needs some work. Parts of it are straight out of a horror movie. Gruesome.’

  Ben remembered telling Clara about the time he and Peter had played war in the basement as kids and had come across the snake’s nest. He’d never seen a person turn green, but Clara had.

  ‘Is the village named after those trees?’ Gamache looked at the cluster on the green.

  ‘You don’t know the story? Those pines aren’t the originals, of course. They’re only sixty years old. My mother helped plant them when she was a kid. But there have been pines here since the village was founded, more than two hundred years ago. And always in a group of three. Three Pines.’

  ‘But why?’ Gamache leaned forward, curious.

  ‘It’s a code. For the United Empire Loyalists. They settled all the land around here, except for the Abenaki, of course.’ In a sentence, Gamache noticed, Ben had dismissed a thousand years of native habitation. ‘But we’re only a couple of kilometers from the border with the States. When the people loyal to the crown during and after the War of Independence were fleeing, they had no way of knowing when they were safe. So a code was designed. Three pines in a cluster meant the loyalists would be welcome.’

  ‘Mon Dieu, c’est incroyable. So elegant. So simple,’ said Gamache, genuinely impressed. ‘But why haven’t I heard of this? I’m a student of Quebec history myself, and yet this is completely unknown to me.’

  ‘Perhaps the English want to keep it a secret, in case we need it again.’ Ben at least had the grace to blush as he said this. Gamache turned in his seat and looked at the tall man, slumping as was his nature, his long sensitive fingers loosely holding the leash of a dog who couldn’t possibly leave him.