Still Life (24 page)

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 though 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 cruel 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 were 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 Rémy 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 right from wrong,’ said Gamache, gently but firmly. ‘He needs 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 Brulé?’

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 gotten at least one of them wrong.’

‘Really?’ Suzanne said, hope reviving for a moment before she remembered it didn’t matter. A few days ago she’d been mortified by the thought her son had done such a thing, and been caught. Now it was nothing compared to the next thing he’d done.

‘May I see him?’ M. Guimette asked. ‘Just me and Chief Inspector Gamache.’

Matthew hesitated.

‘Remember, Mr Croft, I don’t work for the police.’

Croft really had no choice anyway and he knew it. He took them upstairs and knocked on the closed door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He put his hand on the knob then took it off and knocked yet again, this time calling his son’s name. Gamache watched all this with interest. Finally he reached out, turned the door knob and let himself into Philippe’s room.

Philippe had his back to the door and was nodding his head. Even from a distance Gamache could hear the tinny, thin line of music coming from the headphones. Philippe was wearing the uniform of the day, baggy sweatshirt and baggy pants. The walls were plastered with posters of rock and rap groups, all made up of petulant, pouting young men. Barely visible between the posters was the wallpaper. Little hockey players in red Canadiens jerseys.

Guimette touched Philippe on the shoulder. Philippe’s eyes flew open and he gave them a look of such loathing both men felt momentarily assaulted. Then the look disappeared. Philippe had hit the wrong target, not for the first time.

‘Yeah, what do you want?’

‘Philippe, I’m Claude Guimette from the Guardians Office, and this is Chief Inspector Gamache of the Sûreté.’

Gamache had expected to meet a frightened boy, and he knew fear came in many forms. Aggression was common. People who were angry were almost always fearful. Cockiness, tears, apparent calm but nervous hands and eyes. Something almost always betrayed the fear. But Philippe Croft didn’t seem afraid. He seemed … what? Triumphant.

‘So?’

‘We’re here about the death of Jane Neal.’

‘Yeah. I heard about that. What’s it to do with me?’

‘We think you did it, Philippe.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Her blood was on the bow found in your basement, along with your prints. Her blood was also on some of your clothing.’

‘That’s it?’

‘There was blood on your bike, too. Miss Neal’s blood.’

Philippe was looking pleased with himself.

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘How do you explain these things?’ Gamache asked.

‘How do you?’

Gamache sat down. ‘Shall I tell you? This is what I think happened. You went out that Sunday morning, early. Something prompted you to take the old bow and arrows and ride your bike to that spot. We know it was where your grandfather used to hunt. He even built the blind in that old maple tree, didn’t he?’

Philippe continued to stare at him. Or through him, really, thought Gamache.

‘Then something happened. Either your hand slipped and the arrow shot out by mistake, or you deliberately shot, thinking it was a deer. Either way the result was catastrophic. What happened then, Philippe?’

Gamache watched and waited, as did M. Guimette. But
Philippe was impassive, his face blank, as though listening to someone else’s story. Then he raised his eyebrows and smiled.

‘Go on. This is getting interesting. So the old lady kacks out and I’m supposed to be beside myself with grief? But I wasn’t there, remember?’

‘I forgot,’ said Gamache. ‘So let me continue. You’re a bright lad.’ Here Philippe frowned. He clearly didn’t like being patronised. ‘You could tell she was dead. You searched for the arrow and found it, getting blood on your hands and your clothes. You then came home and hid the bow and arrow in the basement. But your mother noticed the stains on your clothes and asked about it. You probably made up some story. But she also found the bow and arrow in the basement. When she heard about Jane Neal’s death she added it all up. She burned the arrow, but not the bow because it was too big to fit into the furnace.’

‘Look, man. I know you’re old so let me say this again, slowly. I was not there. I did not do it.
Comprends?’

‘Then who did?’ Guimette asked.

‘Let’s see, who could have done it? Well, who in this house is an expert hunter?’

‘Are you saying your father killed Miss Neal?’ Guimette asked.

‘Are you two idiots? Of course he did it.’

‘What about the blood stains on your bike? Your clothes?’ Guimette asked, amazed.

‘Look, I’ll tell you what happened. You might want to write this down.’

But Gamache didn’t budge, just watched Philippe quietly.

‘My father came home all upset. He had blood all over his gloves. I went out to see if I could help. As soon as he saw me he gave me a hug, and held my hands, for support. He gave me the bloody arrow and the bow and told me to put them in the basement. I began to get a little suspicious.’

‘What did you suspect?’ Guimette asked.

‘When my father hunted he always cleaned his equipment. So this was weird. And there was no deer in the back of the truck. I just put two and two together and figured he’d killed someone.’

Guimette and Gamache exchanged glances.

‘The basement’s my chore,’ continued Philippe. ‘So when he told me to put the bloody things down there I began to wonder whether he was, well, setting me up. But I put them down there anyway, then he started yelling at me. “Stupid kid, get your effin’ bike off the driveway.” Before I could wash my hands I had to move the bike. That’s how the blood stains got there.’

‘I’d like to see your left arm, please.’ Gamache asked.

Guimette turned to Philippe, ‘I advise you not to.’

Philippe shrugged and shoved back the loose sleeve, exposing a violent purple bruise. A twin for Beauvoir’s.

‘How’d you get that?’ Gamache asked.

‘How do most kids get bruises?’

‘You fell down?’ Guimette asked.

Philippe rolled his eyes. ‘What’s the other way?’

Guimette, with sadness, said, ‘Your dad did that to you?’

‘Duh.’

‘He didn’t. He couldn’t have.’ Matthew was silent, as though suddenly emptied of all that made him go. It was Suzanne who finally found her voice, and protested. They must have misheard, misunderstood, be mistaken. ‘Philippe couldn’t have said those things.’

‘We know what we heard, Mrs Croft. Philippe says his father abuses him, and out of fear of a beating Philippe helped Matthew cover up his crime. That’s how he came to have the blood on him, and his prints on the bow. He says his father killed Jane Neal.’ Claude Guimette explained all this for a second time and knew he might have to do it a few more times.

Astonished, Beauvoir caught Gamache’s eye and saw there something he’d rarely seen in Armand Gamache. Anger. Gamache broke eye contact with Beauvoir and looked over at Croft. Matthew realised, too late, that he had gotten it wrong. He’d thought the thing that would destroy his home and his family was marching toward them from a great way off. He never, ever, imagined it had been there all along.

‘He’s right,’ said Croft. ‘I killed Jane Neal’

Gamache closed his eyes.

‘Oh, Matthew, please. No. Don’t.’ Suzanne turned to the others, taking Gamache’s arm in a talon grip. ‘Stop him. He’s lying.’

‘I think she’s right, Mr Croft. I still believe Philippe killed Miss Neal.’

‘You’re wrong. I did it. Everything Philippe says is true.’

‘Including the beatings?’

Matthew looked down at his feet and said nothing.

‘Will you come with us to the station in St Rémy?’ asked Gamache. Beauvoir noticed, as did the others, that it was a request, not an order. And certainly not an arrest.

‘Yes.’ Croft seemed relieved.

‘I’m coming with you,’ said Suzanne, springing up.

‘What about Philippe?’ Claude Guimette asked.

Suzanne suppressed the urge to scream, ‘What about him?’ Instead she took a couple of breaths.

Gamache stepped forward and spoke with her softly, calmly. ‘He’s only fourteen, and as much as he might not show it, he needs his mother.’

She hesitated then nodded, afraid to speak again.

Gamache knew that while fear came in many forms, so did courage.

Gamache, Beauvoir and Croft sat in a small white interview room at the Sûreté station in St Rémy. On the metal table between them sat a plate of ham sandwiches and
several tins of soft drinks. Croft hadn’t eaten anything. Neither had Gamache. Beauvoir couldn’t stand it any longer and slowly, as though his stomach wasn’t making that whiny noise filling the room, picked up a half sandwich and took a leisurely bite.

‘Tell us what happened last Sunday morning,’ said Gamache.

‘I got up early, as I usually do. Sunday’s Suzanne’s day to sleep in. I put the breakfast things on the kitchen table for the kids then went out. Bow hunting.’

‘You told us you didn’t hunt any more,’ said Beauvoir.

‘I lied.’

‘Why go to the woods behind the schoolhouse?’

‘Dunno. I guess because that’s where my father always hunted.’

‘Your father smoked unfiltered cigarettes and ran your home as a dairy farm. You don’t,’ said Gamache. ‘You’ve proven you’re no slave to your father’s way of doing things. There must be another reason.’

‘Well, there isn’t. It was Thanksgiving and I was missing him. I took his old recurve bow and his old arrows and went to his old hunting grounds. To feel closer to him.
Point finale.’

‘What happened?’

‘I heard a sound, something coming through the trees, like a deer. Slowly and carefully. Almost on tiptoe. That’s how deer walk. So I drew my bow and as soon as the shape appeared I fired. You have to be fast with deer ‘cause any little thing will set them off.’

‘But it wasn’t a deer.’

‘No. It was Miss Neal.’

‘How was she lying?’

Croft stood up, put his arms and legs out, his eyes wide open.

‘What did you do?’

‘I ran to her, but I could see she was dead. So I panicked. I looked for the arrow, picked it up, and ran to the truck. I threw everything in the back and drove home.’

‘What happened then?’ In Beauvoir’s experience interrogation was really just asking, ‘Then what happened?’ and listening closely to the reply. Listening was the trick.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t remember anything after getting in the truck and driving home. But isn’t that enough? I killed Miss Neal. That’s all you need to know.’

‘Why didn’t you come forward?’

‘Well, I didn’t think you’d find out. I mean, the woods are full of hunters, I couldn’t believe you’d come to me. Then when you did, I didn’t want to destroy my father’s old bow. It means a lot to me. It’s like having him in the house still. When I realised it had to be destroyed it was too late.’

‘Do you beat your son?’

Croft winced, as though revolted, but said nothing.

‘I sat in your kitchen this morning and told you we thought Philippe had killed Miss Neal,’ Gamache leaned forward so his head hovered over the sandwiches, but he only had eyes for Croft. ‘Why didn’t you confess then?’

‘I was too stunned.’

‘Come on, Mr Croft. You were waiting for us. You knew what the lab tests would show. And yet now you’re saying you were going to have your son arrested for a crime you yourself committed? I don’t think you’re capable of that.’

‘You have no idea what I’m capable of.’

‘I guess that’s true. I mean, if you can beat your son you can do anything.’

Croft’s nostrils flared and his lips compressed. Gamache suspected if he truly was violent he’d have taken a swing at him then.