‘The only person I remember moving around at the curling match was that photographer person,’ said Myrna a few minutes later. As soon as she’d returned Peter and Clara had put the dinner out for people to help themselves. Gamache had taken her aside briefly and Myrna had agreed there was something very wrong with Crie. They arranged to get together the next day to talk.
Now their dinner was on tray tables in the living room. Clara had been right. It looked like something found in the bottom of the sink on Christmas Day once the dish water had been drained. But it tasted wonderful. Mashed potatoes, roast turkey, gravy and peas, all mushed together in a steaming casserole. Fresh bread and a green salad sat in bowls on the coffee table, with Lucy drifting around like a hungry shark.
‘The photographer popped up everywhere,’ agreed Clara, taking a hunk of bread and spreading it with butter. ‘But he only took pictures of CC.’
‘He was hired to do that. Where were all of you?’ asked Gamache. He took a sip of red wine and listened as the others talked.
‘In the stands, next to Olivier,’ said Ruth.
‘I was sitting between Myrna and Gabri,’ said Clara, ‘and Peter was curling.’
‘Richard Lyon was beside me,’ said Myrna.
‘Was he there the whole time?’ Gamache asked.
‘Definitely. I’d have noticed if he left. Body heat. But what about Kaye Thompson?’ Myrna looked at the others. ‘She was sitting right next to CC. She must have seen something.’
Everyone nodded and looked at Gamache expectantly. He shook his head. ‘I spoke to her today. She says she saw nothing. Only knew something was wrong when CC started screaming.’
‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Ruth.
‘Nobody did,’ said Gamache. ‘It was masked by the noise of Mother clearing the house.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Peter. ‘Everyone was cheering.’
‘How about Crie?’ Gamache asked. ‘Did anyone notice her?’
Blank stares.
Gamache was again struck by how sad it must be to be Crie. She’d swallowed all her feelings, all her pain. She carried such an enormous weight, and yet she was invisible. No one ever saw her. It was the worst of all possible states, he knew, to never be noticed.
‘Do you have a Bible?’ Gamache asked Clara. ‘Old Testament, if you have one. In English, please.’
They wandered over to the bookcase and Clara finally found it.
‘May I return it tomorrow?’
‘You can return it next year if you like. Can’t remember the last time I read the Old Testament,’ said Clara.
‘The last time?’ Peter asked.
‘Or the first time,’ admitted Clara with a laugh.
‘Would you like to watch the movie now?’ Peter asked.
‘Very much,’ said Gamache.
Peter reached out to pick up the cassette from the living room table, but Gamache stayed his hand.
‘I’ll do it, if you don’t mind.’ Gamache took out a handkerchief and slipped the movie out of its sleeve. Everyone noticed, but no one asked, and Gamache didn’t volunteer the information that this particular tape had been found in the garbage of the dead woman.
‘What’s it about?’ asked Myrna.
‘Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband King Henry,’ said Ruth. Gamache turned to her, surprised. ‘What? It’s a great film. Katharine Hepburn and Peter O’Toole. All the action takes place at Christmas, if I remember well. Strange, isn’t it. Here we are at Christmas too.’
There were many strange things about this case, thought Gamache.
The opening credits started, the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion roared, the powerful Gothic music filled their quaint little living room and grotesque images of gargoyles leered on the screen. Already the film reeked of power and decay.
And dread.
The Lion in Winter began.