“Look up what?”
“That word you used.”
“‘Schadenfreude,’” smiled Gamache. “Don’t bother. It means being happy for the misfortunes of others.”
Beauvoir paused at the table. “I think that describes the victim pretty well. But Lillian Dyson took it the next step. She actually created the misfortune. She must’ve been a very happy person.”
But Gamache thought differently. Happy people didn’t drink themselves to sleep every night.
Beauvoir left and the Chief Inspector sipped his coffee and read from the AA book, noting passages underlined and comments in the margins, losing himself in the archaic but beautiful language of this book that so gently described the descent into hell and the long climb back out. Eventually he closed the book over his finger and stared into space.
“May I join you?”
Gamache was startled. He got to his feet, bowing slightly, and pulled out a chair. “Please do.”
Myrna Landers sat, putting her éclair and café au lait on the bistro table. “You looked lost in thought.”
Gamache nodded. “I was thinking about Humpty Dumpty.”
“So the case is almost solved.”
The Chief smiled. “We’re getting closer.” He looked at her for a moment. “May I ask you a question?”
“Always.”
“Do you think people change?”
Myrna, the éclair on its way to her mouth, paused. Lowering the pastry she looked at the Chief Inspector with clear, searching eyes.
“Where did that come from?”
“There’s some debate over whether the dead woman had changed, whether she was the same person everyone knew twenty years ago, or if she was different.”
“What makes you think she’d changed?” Myrna asked, then took a bite.
“That coin you found in the garden? You were right, it’s from AA and it belonged to the dead woman. She’d stopped drinking for eight months now,” said the Chief. “People who knew her in AA describe a completely different person than Clara does. Not just slightly different, but completely. One is kind and generous, the other is cruel and manipulative.”
Myrna frowned and thought, taking a sip of her café au lait.
“We all change. Only psychotics remain the same.”
“But isn’t that more growth than change? Like harmonics, but the note remains the same.”
“Just a variation on a theme?” asked Myrna, interested. “Not really change?” She considered. “I think that’s often the case. Most people grow but they don’t become totally different people.”
“Most. But some do?”
“Some, Chief Inspector.” She watched him closely. Saw the familiar face, clean-shaven. The graying hair curling slightly around his ears. And the deep scar by his temple. Below that scar his eyes were kindly. She’d been afraid they might have changed. That when she next looked into them they’d have hardened.
They hadn’t. Nor had he.
But she didn’t kid herself. He might not look it, but he’d changed. Anyone who came out of that factory alive came out different.
“People change when they have no choice. It’s change or die. You mentioned AA. Alcoholics only stop drinking when they hit bottom.”
“What happens then?”
“What you’d expect after a great fall.” She looked at him now, understanding dawning. A great fall. “Like Humpty Dumpty.”
He nodded his head slightly.
“When people hit bottom,” she continued, “they can lie there and die, most do. Or they can try to pick themselves up.”
“Put the pieces back together,” said Gamache. “Like our friend Mr. Dumpty.”
“Well he had the help of all the King’s horses and all the King’s men,” said Myrna, with mock earnestness. “And even they couldn’t put Mr. Dumpty together again.”
“I’ve read the reports,” agreed the Chief.
“Besides, even if they succeeded, he’d just fall again.” Now she really did look serious. “The same person will just keep doing the same stupid thing, over and over. So if you put all the pieces back exactly as they were, why would you expect your life to be different?”
“Is there another option?”
Myrna smiled at him. “You know there is. But it’s the hardest. Not many have the stomach for it.”
“Change,” said Gamache.
Maybe, he thought, that was the point of Humpty Dumpty. He wasn’t meant to be put together again. He was meant to be different. After all, an egg on a wall would always be in peril.
Maybe Humpty Dumpty had to fall. And maybe all the King’s men had to fail.
Myrna drained her mug and rose. He rose too.
“People do change, Chief Inspector. But you need to know something.” She lowered her voice. “It’s not always for the better.”
*
“Why don’t you go and say something to him?” Gabri asked, as he put the tray of empty glasses on the counter.
“I’m busy,” said Olivier.
“You’re cleaning glasses, one of the waiters can do that. Speak to him.”
Both men looked out the leaded glass window, at the large man sitting alone at the table. A coffee and a book in front of him.
“I will,” said Olivier. “Just don’t push me.”
Gabri took the dishtowel and started drying the glasses as his partner washed the suds off. “He made a mistake,” said Gabri. “He apologized.”
Olivier looked at his partner, with his cheery white and red heart-shaped apron. The one he’d begged Gabri not to buy for Valentine’s Day two years ago. Had begged him not to wear. Had been ashamed of, and prayed no one they knew from Montréal visited and saw Gabri in such a ridiculous outfit.
But now Olivier loved it. Didn’t want him to change it.
Didn’t want him to change anything.
As he washed the glasses he saw Armand Gamache take a sip of his coffee and get to his feet.
*
Beauvoir walked over to the sheets of paper tacked to the walls of the old railway station. Uncapping the Magic Marker he waved it under his nose as he read what was written. It was all in neat, black columns.
Very soothing. Legible, orderly.
He read and reread their lists of evidence, of clues, of questions. Adding some gathered by their investigations so far that day.
They’d interviewed most of the guests at the party. Not surprisingly, none had admitted to wringing Lillian Dyson’s neck.
But now, staring at the sheets, something occurred to him.
All other thoughts left his mind.
Was it possible?
There were others at the party. Villagers, members of the art community, friends and family.
But someone else was there. Someone mentioned a number of times but never remarked upon. And never interviewed, at least not in depth.
Inspector Beauvoir picked up the phone and dialed a Montréal number.