'He's out cold,' said Clara. She could have left them. The stairs had collapsed, true, but there was a step ladder not far away and she could have used that to climb out.
But she didn't.
Clara had never known such fear. And anger. Not against Ben, yet, but against these morons who were supposed to have saved her. And now she had to protect them.
'I hear something,' said Beauvoir. Gamache tried to raise himself to his elbows, but his leg sent so much pain into his body it took his breath and strength away. He fell back and reached out his hands, hoping to find something to grab on to to use as a weapon.
'Upstairs,' said Beauvoir. 'They're here.'
Gamache and Clara had never heard such beautiful words.
A week later they were gathered in Jane's living room, which was beginning to feel like home to all of them, including Gamache. They looked like a Fife and Drum Corps, Gamache's leg in a cast, Beauvoir bent over with broken ribs, Peter's head bandaged and Clara's hand in plaster.
Upstairs, Gabri and Olivier could be heard quietly singing 'It's Raining Men'. From the kitchen came the sounds of Myrna humming while preparing fresh bread and home-made soup. Outside snow was falling, huge wet flakes that melted almost as soon as they landed and felt like horse kisses when they touched a cheek. The last of the autumn leaves had blown off the trees and the apples had fallen from the orchards.
'I think it's beginning to stick on the ground,' said Myrna, bringing in cutlery and setting up TV tables around the crackling fire. From upstairs they could hear Gabri exclaiming over things in Jane's bedroom.
'Greed. Disgusting,' said Ruth and made her way quickly to the stairs and up.
Clara watched as Peter got up and stirred the perfectly fine fire. She'd held him that night as he sprawled on the dirt floor. That had been the last time she'd gotten that close. Since the events of that horrible night he'd retreated completely on to his island. The bridge had been destroyed. The walls had been constructed. And now Peter was unapproachable, even by her. Physically, yes, she could hold his hand, hold his head, hold his body, and she did. But she knew she could no longer hold his heart.
She watched his handsome face, lined with care now, and bruised by the fall. She knew he'd been hurt the worst, perhaps beyond repair.
'I want this,' said Ruth, coming down the stairs. She waved a small book then tucked it into a huge pocket in her worn cardigan. Jane in her will had invited each of her friends to choose an item from her home. Ruth had made her choice.
'How'd you know it was Ben?' Myrna asked, taking a seat and calling the boys down to lunch. Bowls of soup had been put out and baskets of fresh rolls steamed on the blanket box.
'At the party here it came to me,' said Clara.
'What did you see we didn't?' Olivier asked, joining them.
'It's what I didn't see. I didn't see Ben. I knew Fair Day was a tribute to Timmer. All the people who were important to Timmer were in it--'
'Except Ben!' said Myrna, buttering her warm roll and watching the butter melt as soon as it touched the bread. 'What a fool to have missed it .'
'Took me a long time too,' admitted Gamache. 'I only saw it after staring at Fair Day in my room. No Ben.'
'But why did Ben panic when he saw Fair Day? I mean, what was so horrible about seeing his face in a painting?' Olivier asked.
'Think about it,' said Gamache. 'Ben injected his mother with a fatal dose of morphine on the final day of the fait, actually while the parade was on. He'd made sure he had an alibi, he was off in Ottawa at an antiques show.'
'And was he?' Clara asked.
'Oh yes, even bought a few things. The he raced back here, it's only about three hours by car, and waited for the parade to start--'
'Knowing I'd leave his mother? How could he have known?' asked Ruth.
'He knew his mother, knew she'd insist.'
'Go on,' said Olivier, dipping his roll in the soup. 'He looked at the painting and
'He saw himself, apparently at the parade,' said Gamache.
'There in the stands. He believed then that Jane knew what he'd done, that he'd been in Three Pines after all.'
'So he stole the painting, erased his face, and painted in a new one,' said Clara.
'The strange woman was sitting next to Peter,' Ruth pointed out. 'A natural place for Jane to put Ben.'
Peter made a conscious effort not to lower his eyes.
'That night at the B. & B. after the vernissage it all came together,' said Clara. 'He didn't lock his door after the murder. Everyone else did, but not Ben. Then there was the speed, or lack of it, with which he was uncovering the walls. Then that night we saw the light here, Ben said he was catching up on stripping the walls, and I accepted it but later I thought it sounded a little lame even for Ben.'
'Turns out,' supplied Gamache, 'he was searching Jane's home for this.' He held up the folder Beauvoir had found in Yolande's home. 'Sketches Jane did of every county fair for sixty years. Ben thought there might be some rough sketches for Fair Day around, and he was looking for them.'
'Do the sketches show anything?' Olivier asked.
'No, too rough.'
'And then there were the onions,' said Clara.
'Onions?'
'When I'd gone to Ben's home the day after Jane was killed he was frying up onions, to make chili con carne. But Ben never cooked. Egoist that I am I believed him when he said it was to cheer me up. I wandered into his living room at one stage and smelt what I took to be cleaning fluid. It was that comforting smell that means everything's clean and cared for. I figured Nellie had cleaned. Later I was talking to her and she said Wayne had been so sick she hadn't cleaned anywhere in a week or more. Ben must have been using a solvent and he fried the onions to cover up the smell.'
'Exactly,' confirmed Gamache, sipping on a beer. 'He'd taken Fair Day from Arts Williamsburg that Saturday after your Thanksgiving dinner, stripped away his own face and painted in another. But he made the mistake of making up a face. He also used his own paints, which were different to Jane's. Then he returned the work to Arts Williamsburg, but he had to kill Jane before she could see the change.'
'You', Clara turned to Gamache, 'put it beyond doubt for me. You kept asking who else had seen Jane's work. I remembered then that Ben had specifically asked Jane at the Thanksgiving dinner if she'd mind him going to Arts Williamsburg to see it.'
'Do you think he was suspicious that night?' Myrna asked.
'Perhaps a little uneasy. His guilty mind might have been playing tricks on him. The look on his face when Jane said the picture was of the parade and it held a special message. She'd looked directly at him.'
'He also looked odd when she quoted that poem,' said Myrna.
'What poem was that?' Gamache asked.
'Auden. There, in the pile by her seat where you're sitting, Clara. I can see it,' said Myrna. 'The Collected Works of W H. Auden.'
Clara handed the hefty volume to Myrna.
'Here it is,' said Myrna. 'She'd read from Auden's tribute to Herman Melville:Evil is unspectacular and always human, and shares our bed and eats at our own table.'
Peter reached out for the book and scanned the beginning of the poem, the part Jane hadn't read: 'Towards the end he sailed into an extraordinary mildness, and anchored in his home and reached his wife and rode within the harbour of her hand, and went across each morning to an office as though his occupation were another island. Goodness existed: that was the new knowledge. His terror had to blow itself quite out.'
Peter looked into the fire, listening to the murmur of the familiar voices. Gently he slipped a piece of paper into the book and closed it.