Still Life (12 page)

‘Yes, Mr Mundin?’

‘I heard as that Lucy weren’t with Jane when she died. Is that right?’

‘Yes. I understand that’s very unusual.’

‘You’re right there, boy. She went everywhere with that dog. She wouldn’t have gone into the woods without Lucy.’

‘For protection?’ Gamache asked.

‘No, just because. Why would you have a dog and not take it on your walk? And first thing in the morning, when a dog yearns to run and do its business. No, sir. Makes no sense.’

Gamache turned to the gathering. ‘Can any of you think why Jane would leave Lucy behind?’

Clara was impressed by the question. Here was the head of the investigation, a senior Sûreté officer, asking for their opinion. There was suddenly a shift, from mourning and a kind of passivity, to involvement. It became ‘their’ investigation.

‘If Lucy was sick or in heat Jane might leave her,’ Sue Williams called out.

‘True,’ called Peter, ‘but Lucy’s fixed and healthy.’

‘Could Jane have seen some hunters and put Lucy back in the house so they didn’t shoot her by mistake?’ Wayne Robertson asked, then a coughing jag caught him and he
sat down. His wife Nellie put her generous arm around him, as though flesh could ward off sickness.

‘But’, asked Gamache, ‘would she go back alone into the woods to confront a hunter?’

‘She might,’ Ben said. ‘She’s done it before. Remember a couple of years ago when she caught –’ he stopped and grew flustered. Some uncomfortable laughter and a hum followed his aborted remarks. Gamache raised his brows and waited.

‘That was me, as you all know.’ A man rose from his seat. ‘My name’s Matthew Croft.’ He was in his mid-thirties, Gamache guessed, medium build, pretty nondescript. Beside him sat a slim, tense woman. The name was familiar.

‘Three years ago I was hunting illegally on the Hadley property. Miss Neal spoke to me, asked me to leave.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why were you there at all?’

‘My family has been here for hundreds of years and we were raised to believe that private property doesn’t exist in hunting season.’

‘That’s not right,’ a voice resonated from the back of the room. Beauvoir busily made notes.

Croft turned to face the interruption. ‘That you, Henri?’

Henri Lariviere, the stone artist, rose majestically to his feet.

‘It’s the way I was raised,’ Croft continued. ‘I was taught it was only right to be able to hunt where you chose, since your very survival depended upon getting enough meat for the season.’

‘Grocery stores, Matthew. Loblaws not good enough?’ Henri said, quietly.

‘IGA, Provigo,’ others yelled.

‘Me,’ said Jacques Beliveau, the owner of the local general store. Everyone laughed. Gamache was letting this go on, watching, listening, seeing where it would go.

‘Yes, times change,’ an exasperated Croft agreed. ‘It’s no longer necessary, but it’s a fine tradition. And a fine philosophy of neighbor helping neighbor. I believe in that.’

‘No one says you don’t, Matt,’ said Peter, stepping forward. ‘And I can’t think you have to justify yourself or your actions, especially from years ago.’

‘He does, Mr Morrow,’ Gamache broke in just as Beauvoir handed him a note. ‘Jane Neal was probably killed by a hunter trespassing on Mr Hadley’s property. Anyone with a history of this needs to explain.’ Gamache glanced at the note. In block letters Beauvoir had printed, ‘Philippe Croft threw manure. Son?’ Gamache folded the note and put it in his pocket.

‘Do you still hunt where you choose, Mr Croft?’

‘No, sir, I don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I respected Miss Neal, and because I finally heard what people have been telling me for years and years. And I agreed. In fact I don’t hunt at all anymore, anywhere.’

‘Do you own a bow-hunting set?’

‘Yes sir, I do.’

Gamache looked around the room, ‘I’d like everyone here who owns a bow hunting set, even if you haven’t used it in years, to give your name and address to Inspector Beauvoir here.’

‘Just hunting?’ Peter asked.

‘Why? What do you have in mind?’

‘The bows and arrows for recreational archery are called recurve and are different to the hunters’ equipment. Those are compound.’

‘But they would bring the same results, if used against a person?’

‘I think so.’ Peter turned to Ben who thought for an instant.

‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘Though the arrows are different. You’d
have to be amazingly lucky, or unlucky, I guess, to kill with a target-shooting arrow.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, a target-shooting arrow has a very small head, not unlike the tip of a bullet. But a hunter’s arrow, well, that’s different. I’ve never shot one, but Matt, you have.’

‘A hunter’s arrow has four, sometimes five razors at the end, tapering into a tip.’

Beauvoir had set up the easel with paper near the altar. Gamache went to it and quickly drew a big black circle, with four lines radiating from it, a duplicate of the one Beauvoir had drawn at lunch the day before.

‘Would it produce a wound like that?’

Matthew Croft walked forward a bit, appearing to drag the gathering with him as everyone swayed forward in their seats.

‘Exactly like that.’

Gamache and Beauvoir locked eyes. They had at least part of their answer.

‘So,’ said Gamache almost to himself, ‘this would have to have been done by a hunting arrow.’

Matthew Croft wasn’t sure if Gamache was speaking to him, but he answered anyway, ‘Yes, sir. No question.’

‘What’s a hunting arrow like?’

‘It’s made of metal, very light and hollow, with wings at the back.’

‘And the bow?’

‘A hunter’s bow is called a compound and it’s made from alloys.’

‘Alloy?’ Gamache asked. ‘That’s metal of some sort. I thought they were wood.’

‘They used to be,’ agreed Matthew.

‘Some still are,’ someone called from the crowd to general laughter.

‘They’re mocking me, Inspector,’ admitted Ben. ‘When I
set up the archery club it was with old bows and arrows. The traditional recurve sort—’

‘Robin Hood,’ someone called, again to some chuckles.

‘And his merry men,’ Gabri chimed in, pleased with his contribution. More quiet chuckles, but Gabri didn’t hear them, he was concentrating on getting Olivier’s vice-like grip off his leg.

‘It’s true,’ continued Ben. ‘When Peter and I started the club we had a fascination with Robin Hood, and cowboys and Indians. We used to dress up.’ Beside him, Peter groaned and Clara snorted at the long-forgotten memory of these two friends stalking the forests, in green tights and ski toques doubling as medieval caps. They were in their mid-twenties at the time. Clara also knew that sometimes, when they thought no one was watching, Peter and Ben still did it.

‘So we only used wooden recurve bows and wooden arrows,’ said Ben.

‘What do you use now, Mr Hadley?’

‘The same bows and arrows. Saw no reason to change. We only use it for target shooting out behind the schoolhouse.’

‘So let me get this straight. Modern bows and arrows are made of some metal or other. The old ones are wood, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Would an arrow go through a body?’

‘Yes, right through,’ said Matthew.

‘But, well, Mr Hadley, you talked about cowboys and Indians. In all those old movies the arrows stay in the body.’

‘Those movies weren’t actually real,’ said Matthew. Behind him Gamache heard Beauvoir give a brief laugh. ‘Believe me, an arrow would go straight through a person.’

‘Alloy and wood?’

‘Yup. Both.’

Gamache shook his head. Another myth exploded. He wondered if the church knew. But at least they had an
answer to the exit wound puzzle, and it was now more certain than ever that Jane Neal had been killed by an arrow. But where was it?

‘How far would the arrow go?’

‘Humm, that’s a good question. Ten, fifteen feet.’

Gamache looked at Beauvoir and nodded. The arrow would have gone right through her chest, out her back and flown into the woods behind. Still, they’d searched there and found nothing.

‘Would it be hard to find?’

‘Not really. If you’re an experienced hunter you know exactly where to look. It’ll be sticking up from the ground a bit, and the feathering makes it slightly easier. Arrows are expensive, Inspector, so we always look for them. Becomes second nature.’

‘The coroner found a few slivers of real feathers in the wound. What could that mean?’ Gamache was surprised to see the hubbub created by his simple statement. Peter was looking at Ben who was looking confused. Everyone, in fact, seemed to suddenly pop into activity.

‘If it was an arrow then it could only be an old arrow, a wooden one,’ said Peter.

‘Wouldn’t you find real feathers on an alloy arrow?’ Gamache was asking, finally feeling like he was getting a grasp on the subject.

‘No.’

‘So. Forgive me for going over the ground several times, I just need to be sure. Since there were real feathers in the wound we’re talking about a wooden arrow. Not alloy, but wood.’

‘Right,’ half the congregation spoke up, sounding like a revival meeting.

‘And,’ said Gamache, edging another small step forward in the case, ‘not a target-shooting arrow, like the archery club uses, but a hunting arrow? We know that because of
the shape of the wound.’ He pointed to the drawing. Everyone nodded. ‘It would have to have been a wooden arrow with a hunting tip. Can you use wooden hunting arrows with the new alloy bows?’

‘No,’ said the congregation.

‘So it would have to be a wooden bow, right?’

‘Right.’

‘A Robin Hood bow.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ve got it, thank you. Now, I have another question. You keep using the words “recurve” and “compound”. What’s the difference?’ He looked over at Beauvoir, hoping he was taking good notes.

‘A recurved’, said Ben, ‘is the Robin Hood bow. The cowboys and Indians bow. It’s a long slim piece of wood that’s thicker in the middle where there’s a sort of carved grip for your hand. And on either end of the stick there are notches. You put your string on one end then the other and the wood curves to make a bow. Simple and effective. The design is thousands of years old. When you’ve finished you take the string off and store the bow, which is now back to being a slightly curved stick. The name “recurved” is because you recurve it every time you use it.’

Simple enough, thought Gamache.

‘Compound’, said Matthew ‘is a fairly new design. Basically, it looks like a really complex bow, with pulleys at both ends and lots of strings. And a very sophisticated sighting mechanism. It also has a trigger.’

‘Is a recurved as powerful and accurate as, what was the name of the other bow?’

‘Compound,’ about twenty people said at once, including at least three of the officers in the room.

‘As accurate … yes. As powerful, no.’

‘You hesitated over accuracy.’

‘With a recurved you have to release the string with your
fingers. A rough release would affect the accuracy. A compound bow has a trigger so it’s smoother. It also has a very accurate device for sighting.’

‘There are hunters today who choose to use the wooden recurve bows and wooden arrows. Is that right?’

‘Not many,’ said Helene Charron. ‘It’s very rare.’

Gamache turned back to Matthew, ‘If you were going to kill someone, which would you use? Recurve or compound?’

Matthew Croft hesitated. He clearly didn’t like the question. Andre Malenfant laughed. It was a humorless, snarky sound.

‘No question. A compound. I can’t imagine why anyone would be hunting in this day and age with an old wooden recurved bow, and with arrows with real feathers. It’s like someone stepped out of the past. Target practice, sure. But hunting? Give me modern equipment. And frankly, if you were going to kill someone deliberately? Murder? Why take chances with a recurve? No, a compound is far more likely to do the job. Actually, I’d use a gun.’

And that’s the puzzle, thought Gamache. Why? Why an arrow and not a bullet? Why an old-fashioned wooden bow and not the state-of-the-art hunting bow? At the end of the investigation there was always an answer. And one that made sense, at least on some level. To someone. But for now it seemed nonsense. An old-fashioned wooden arrow with real feathers used to kill an elderly retired country schoolteacher. Why?

‘Mr Croft, do you still have your hunting equipment?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘Perhaps you could give me a demonstration this afternoon.’

‘With pleasure.’ Croft didn’t hesitate, but Gamache thought he saw Mrs Croft tense. He looked at his watch: 12.30.

‘Does anyone have any other questions?’

‘I have one.’ Ruth Zardo struggled to her feet. ‘Actually, it’s more a statement than a question.’ Gamache looked at her with interest. Inside he steeled himself.

‘You can use the old train station if you think it would be suitable as a headquarters. I heard you were looking. The volunteer fire department can help you set things up.’

Gamache considered for a moment. It wasn’t perfect, but it seemed like the best option now that the schoolhouse was cordoned off.

‘Thank you, we will use your fire hall. I’m most grateful.’

‘I want to say something.’ Yolande rose. ‘The police will no doubt tell me when I can have the funeral for Aunt Jane. I’ll let you all know when and where it will be.’

Gamache suddenly felt deeply sorry for her. She was dressed head to toe in black and seemed to be waging an internal battle between being weak with grief, and the need to claim ownership of this tragedy. He’d seen it many times, people jockeying for position as chief mourner. It was always human and never pleasant and often misleading. Aid workers, when handing out food to starving people, quickly learn that the people fighting for it at the front are the people who need it least. It’s the people sitting quietly at the back, too weak to fight, who need it the most. And so too with tragedy. The people who don’t insist on their sorrow can often be the ones who feel it most strongly. But he also knew there was no hard and fast rule.

Gamache wrapped the meeting up. Just about everyone sprinted through the gusty rain to the Bistro for lunch, some to cook, some to serve, most to eat. Gamache was anxious to hear the results of the search of the archery clubhouse.