Castonguay spots Lillian just arriving, coming down du Moulin from where she’d parked the car. He’s had a few drinks and hurries to intercept her. Anxious to pin down their deal before she gets a chance to speak to others at the party. All the dealers and curators and gallery owners.
He steers her into the nearest garden.
“He probably didn’t even realize it was ours,” said Clara. Still watching Gamache. And still he revealed nothing. Just listened.
They breathed silence. It felt as though the world had stopped, the world had shrunk. To this instant, and this place. And these words.
“Then Lillian told him that she’d signed with François Marois.”
Clara stopped, seeing in her mind the stricken gallery owner. Well into his sixties, and ruined. A broken, drunken man. Given the final blow. And what does he do?
“She was his last hope,” said Clara softly. “And now it’s gone.”
“He’ll plead to diminished capacity or manslaughter,” said Chief Justice Pineault. “He must have been drunk at the time.”
“At the time of what?” asked Gamache.
“At the time he killed Lillian,” said Thierry.
“Oh, André Castonguay didn’t kill her. One of you did.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Even Ruth was paying attention now. Outside, the rain had begun again, falling from the dark sky and hitting the windows in great lashes, the water streaming down the old glass. Peter walked over to the door onto the porch and closed it.
They were sealed in now.
He rejoined the group, huddled together in a ragged circle. Staring at each other.
“Castonguay didn’t kill Lillian?” Clara repeated. “Then who did?”
They shot glances at each other, careful not to lock eyes. And then all eyes arrived back at Gamache. The center of the circle.
The lights flickered and even through the sealed windows they could hear a rumble of thunder. And see a flash as the dark forest around them was illuminated. Briefly. Then fell back to darkness.
Gamache spoke quietly. Barely heard above the rain and the rumble.
“One of the first things to strike us about this case was the contrast between the two Lillians. The vile woman you knew.” He looked at Clara. “And the kind, happy woman you knew.” He turned to Suzanne.
“Chiaroscuro,” said Denis Fortin.
Gamache nodded. “Exactly. The dark and the light. Who was she really? Which was the real Lillian?”
“Do people change?” asked Myrna.
“Do people change,” repeated Gamache. “Or do they revert to type, eventually? There seemed little doubt Lillian Dyson was once a dreadful person, hurting anyone unfortunate enough to come close. She was filled with bitterness and self-pity. She expected everything would just be given to her, and when it wasn’t she couldn’t cope. It took forty years but finally her life spiraled out of control, hurried along by alcohol.”
“She hit bottom,” said Suzanne.
“And she shattered,” said Gamache. “And while it was clear to us she was once a horrendous mess, it was equally clear she was trying to heal. To pick herself up with the help of AA and find,” he looked at Suzanne, “what did you call it?”
She looked puzzled for a moment then smiled slightly. “A quiet place in the bright sunshine.”
Gamache nodded, thoughtful. “Oui. C’est ça. But how to find it?”
The Chief scanned their faces and stopped, briefly, on Beauvoir, who looked as though he might weep.
“The only way was to stop drinking. But as I’ve found out in the last few days, for alcoholics stopping drinking is just the beginning. They have to change. Their perceptions, attitudes. And they have to clean up the mess they left behind. The alcoholic is like a tornado, roaring his way through the lives of others,” Gamache quoted. “Lillian underlined those words in her AA book. She underlined another passage. Hearts are broken. Sweet relationships are dead.”
His eyes fell on Clara now. She looked stricken.
“I think she was genuinely sorry about what she did to you and your friendship. By not only failing to be supportive, but actually trying to destroy your career. It was one of the things she was sincerely ashamed of. I don’t know for sure, of course,” said Gamache, and it seemed to Clara as though everyone else had disappeared, and they were alone in the room. “But I believe that beginner’s chip you found in the garden was hers. I think she brought it with her and was holding it, trying to get up the courage to speak with you. To say she was sorry.”
Gamache brought a coin out of his pocket and held it in his open palm. It was Bob’s beginner’s chip. The one he’d given Gamache at the AA meeting. He hesitated just an instant, then offered it to Clara.
“Who is it, exactly, you have needed,” Ruth whispered, “all these years to forgive?”
She looked across the room, but Olivier wasn’t looking at her. Like everyone else, his eyes were firmly on Clara, and Gamache.
Clara reached out and took the coin, closing her fist around it.
“But Lillian never got the chance to apologize,” Gamache continued. “She made a terrible mistake. In her rush to get better she skipped over some of the steps of AA. Instead of doing them slowly and carefully, in order, Lillian jumped ahead to step nine. Can you remember the exact wording?” he asked the three AA members.
“Made direct amends to such people wherever possible,” said Suzanne.
“But there’s a second part to it, isn’t there?” asked Gamache. “Everyone seems to concentrate on the amends part. But there’s more.”
“Except when to do so would injure them or others,” said Brian.
“But how can an apology ever hurt someone?” asked Paulette.
“By reopening old wounds,” said Suzanne.
“In trying to put her own demons to rest,” said Gamache, “Lillian unexpectedly raised someone else’s. Something that had been dormant sprang back to life.”
“Do you think she approached someone with an amend who didn’t want to hear it?” Thierry asked.
“Lillian wasn’t a tornado,” said Gamache. “A tornado is a destructive but natural phenomenon. Without a will or intent. Lillian deliberately, maliciously hurt people. Set out to ruin them. And for an artist it wasn’t just a job or career. Creating their works is who they are. Destroy that and you destroy them.”
“It’s a form of murder,” said Brian.
Gamache regarded the young man for a moment, then nodded. “It’s exactly that. Lillian Dyson murdered, or tried to murder, many people. Not physically, but just as cruelly. By taking away their dreams. Their creations.”
“Her weapon was her reviews,” said Normand.
“They weren’t just reviews,” agreed Gamache. “Creative people know being reviewed, and sometimes badly, is part of the package. Not pleasant, but a reality. But Lillian’s words were vitriolic. Designed to push sensitive people over the edge. And they did. More than one person gave up being an artist in the face of such judgment and humiliation.”
“She had a lot to apologize for,” said Fortin.
Gamache turned to the gallery owner. “She did. And she got an early start. But she hadn’t taken in the second part of that step. About the possibility of doing damage. Or, perhaps she had.”
“What d’you mean?” Suzanne asked.
“I think some of her amends, while early, were sincere. But I think some weren’t. I think while she was healing she wasn’t yet healthy. Old habits slipped in, disguised as noble deeds. After all, as many of you just asked, how could an apology ever be wrong? But sometimes it is. One amend gave the murderer a motive. Another gave that murderer an opportunity.”