‘He didn’t do it,’ said Myrna twenty minutes later.
‘How d’you know?’ Gamache asked, settling into the rocking chair. He stretched his long legs out in front of the woodstove, which was radiating heat. Myrna had stirred up a hot rum toddy for him and it sat on a stack of New York Review of Books on the blanket box between them. Gamache was thawing out.
‘He sat beside me on the bleachers the whole time.’
‘I remember you told me that, but is it possible he left for a few minutes without you noticing?’
‘As you were walking here from the old Hadley house would you have noticed if your coat had fallen off, just for a few minutes?’ She had a twinkle in her eye as she asked.
‘Maybe.’ He knew what she was getting at, and didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to hear that his perfect suspect, his only perfect suspect, couldn’t have done it because Myrna here would have noticed the sudden absence of Lyon’s body heat, if not his personality.
‘Look, I don’t have any love for the man,’ she said. ‘Someone over a period of years has screwed Crie up to the point where she’s almost comatose. At first I thought she might be autistic, but after spending a few minutes with her I don’t think so. I think she’s run away, inside her head. And I think Richard Lyon’s to blame.’
‘Tell me.’ Gamache picked up his warm mug. He could smell the rum and the spices.
‘Well, let me be careful here. In my opinion Crie’s been emotionally and verbally abused all her life. I think CC was the abuser, but there are generally three parties to child abuse. The abused, the abuser and the bystander. One parent does it but the other knows it’s happening and does nothing.’
‘If CC emotionally abused her daughter, would she also have abused her husband?’ Gamache remembered Lyon, frightened and lost.
‘Almost without a doubt. Still, he’s Crie’s father and he needed to save her.’
‘And didn’t.’
Myrna nodded. ‘Can you imagine what it was like living in that house?’ Myrna’s back was to the window and she couldn’t see the old Hadley house, but she could feel it.
‘Should we call Family Services? Would Crie be better somewhere else?’
‘No, the worst is over, I think. What she needs is a loving parent and intense therapy. Has anyone spoken to her school?’
‘They say she’s bright, in fact her grades are very high, but she doesn’t fit in.’
‘And probably never will now. Too much damage done. We become our beliefs, and Crie believes something horrible about herself. Has heard it all her life, and now it haunts her, in her own mother’s voice. It’s the voice most of us hear in the quiet moments, whispering kindnesses or accusations. Our mother.’
‘Or our father,’ said Gamache, ‘though in this case he said nothing. She said too much and he said not enough. Poor Crie. No wonder it led to murder.’
‘We live in a world of guided missiles and misguided men,’ said Myrna. ‘Dr Martin Luther King, Junior.’
Gamache nodded, then remembered something else.
‘Your beliefs become your thoughts
Your thoughts become your words
Your words become your actions
Your actions become your destiny.
Mahatma Gandhi,’ he said. ‘There’s more, but I can’t remember it all.’
‘I didn’t know the Mahatma was so chatty, but I agree with him. Very powerful. It starts with our beliefs, and our beliefs come from our parents, and if we have a sick parent we have sick beliefs and it infects everything we think and do.’
Gamache wondered who CC’s mother was and what beliefs she’d filled her daughter with. He sipped his toddy, his chilled body finally warming up, and looked around.
The store felt like an old library in a country house. The walls were lined with warm wooden shelves, and they in turn were lined with books. Hooked rugs were scattered here and there and a Vermont Castings woodstove sat in the middle of the store with a sofa facing it and a rocking chair on either side. Gamache, who loved bookstores, thought this was just the most attractive one he’d ever met.
He’d arrived a few minutes before five, passing Ruth. The elderly poet again stopped halfway across the village green and plunked down on the icy bench. He looked out Myrna’s window now and saw her there still, rigidly and frigidly outlined in the cheerful lights of the Christmas tree.
‘Well, all children are sad,’ quoted Gamache, ‘but some get over it.’
Myrna followed his gaze.
‘Beer walk,’ she said.
‘Beer walk,’ repeated Robert Lemieux. He was in the Morrow home, having wandered away from the television set. Clara and Inspector Beauvoir were still there, eyes like satellite dishes, staring at the screen. The only sign of life Lemieux had seen in Beauvoir since The Lion in Winter had begun was the occasional gasp. Lemieux had tried to get into it, but found himself drifting off to sleep. He had visions of his head slipping onto Beauvoir’s shoulder, mouth open, drooling. Best to get up and walk around.
Now he stared out the window and Peter Morrow joined him.
‘What’s she doing?’ Lemieux pointed to the old woman sitting on the bench while the rest of the village huddled indoors or scurried through the night that felt as though the air itself would freeze solid.
‘Oh, that’s her beer walk.’
Lemieux shook his head. Pathetic old drunk.