'This is my second in command, Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir.' Beauvoir stepped forward and nodded. 'There are other Surete officers around the room. I expect they're obvious to you.' He didn't mention that most of his team were off turning the archery clubhouse upside down.
It struck Clara that the person who had killed Jane was probably among the crowd gathered in St Thomas's. She looked around and spotted Nellie and her husband Wayne, Myrna and Ruth, Olivier and Gabri. Matthew and Suzanne Croft sat in the row behind them. But no Philippe.
'We think the death of Jane Neal was an accident, but so far no one has come forward.' Gamache paused and Clara noticed how still and focused he could become. His intelligent eyes quietly swept the room before he continued. 'If this was an accident, and the person who killed her is here, I want you to know a few things.' Clara didn't think the room could get any quieter, but it did. Even the coughing stopped, miraculously cured by curiosity.
'It must have been horrible when you realised what you'd done. But you need to come forward and admit it. The longer you wait the harder it will be. For us, for the community and for yourself.' Chief Inspector Gamache paused and slowly looked around the room, each and every person feeling that he was looking inside them. The room waited. There was a frisson, an idea each person held that maybe the one responsible would get up.
Clara caught the eye of Yolande Fontaine, who smiled weakly. Clara disliked her intensely, but smiled back. Andre, Yolande's scrawny husband, was there picking his cuticles and occasionally nibbling them. Their remarkably unattractive son Bernard sat slack-jawed and sullen, slumped in his pew. He looked bored and was making faces at his friends across the way between mouthfuls of candy.
Nobody moved.
'We will find you. That's what we do.' Gamache took a deep breath, as though changing the subject. 'We're investigating this as though it was a murder, though we doubt that. I have the coroner's preliminary report here.' He flipped open his palm pilot. 'It confirms that Jane Neal died between six-thirty and seven yesterday morning. The weapon appears to have been an arrow.'
This produced more than a few murmurs.
'I say "appears" because no weapon was found. And that's a problem. It argues against this being just an accident. That, combined with the fact that nobody has taken responsibility, is why we need to treat this as suspicious.'
Gamache paused and looked at the gathering. A sea of well-meaning faces looked back, with a few rocks of petulance thrown in here and there. They have no idea what's about to happen to them, thought Gamache.
'This is how it starts. You'll see us everywhere. We'll be asking questions, checking backgrounds, talking--not just to you, but your neighbors and your employers and your family and your friends.'
Another murmur, this one with an edge of hostility. Gamache was pretty sure he heard 'fascist' from his lower left side. He stole a look and saw Ruth Zardo sitting there.
'You didn't ask for any of this to happen but it's here now. Jane Neal is dead and all of us need to deal with it. We need to do our job and you need to help us, and that means accepting things you wouldn't normally accept. That's just life. I'm sorry for it. But it doesn't change the facts.'
The murmuring diminished and there were even nods of agreement.
'We all have secrets, and before this is over I'll know most of yours. If they're not pertinent then they'll die with me. But I will find them out. Most days in the late afternoon I'll be at Mr Brule's bistro, reviewing notes. You're welcome to join me for a drink and a talk.'
Crime was deeply human, Gamache knew. The cause and the effect. And the only way he knew to catch a criminal was to connect with the human beings involved. Chatting in a cafe was the most pleasant, and disarming, way to do it.
'Any questions?'
'Are we in danger?' Hanna Parra, the local elected representative, asked.
Gamache had been expecting this. It was a tough one since they really didn't know whether it was an accident or murder.
'I don't think so. Should you be locking your doors at night? Always. Should you be careful walking in the woods or even around the Common? Yes. Should you not do these things?'
He paused and saw a whole congregation of concern.
'Did you lock the door last night?' Clara whispered to Peter. He nodded and Clara gave his hand a relieved squeeze. 'Did you?' she asked Ben, who shook his head, 'No, but I will tonight.'
'That's up to you,' Gamache was saying. The reaction I see most is caution for about a week after an event of this sort. Then people go back to the way of life that's most comfortable. Some continue the precautions all their lives, others revert to their old way of doing things. Most find a middle ground of prudence. There's no right or better way. Frankly, I would take care right now, but there is absolutely no need for panic.'
Gamache smiled and added, 'You don't look like the panicking kind.' And they didn't, though most did have slightly wider eyes then when they had walked in. 'Besides, I'll be staying at the B. & B. here, if you have any concerns.'
'My name's Old Mundin.' A man aged about twenty-five got up. He was impossibly handsome with curly dark hair, chiseled, rugged face, and a body that spoke of lots of lifting. Beauvoir shot Gamache a look both amused and confused. Was this man's name really 'Old' Mundin? He wrote it down but without conviction.
'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 Surete 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.'