‘There was a group of villagers on the road, sir,’ said Nichol. Gamache and Beauvoir looked at her. She’d done it again, she realised. In an effort to impress and redeem herself she’d in fact done the opposite. She’d answered a question not directed at her, interrupting a senior officer with information obvious to a three-year-old. Inspector Gamache had seen those people as well as she had. Damn! Nichol knew with a creeping chill that in trying to impress them with her brilliance she was having the opposite effect. She was proving herself a fool.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Inspector Beauvoir?’
‘I’ve tried to keep this a sterile site.’ He turned to Nichol.
‘No outsiders, and none of our people talking about the crime outside our perimeter.’ Nichol blushed a deep red. She hated that he felt he had to explain it to her, and she hated even more that she needed the explanation.
‘But—’ Beauvoir shrugged.
‘Time to speak with Mr Hadley,’ said Gamache, walking with a measured pace in his direction.
Ben Hadley had been watching them, understanding clearly that the boss had arrived.
‘Mr Hadley, I’m Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the S?reté du Quebec.’
Ben had been expecting a francophone, perhaps even a unilingual French detective, so he’d spent a few minutes practicing his French, and how to describe his movements. Now this immaculate man with the trimmed moustache, the deep-brown eyes looking at him over the rim of his half-moon glasses, the three-piece suit (could that possibly be a Burberry coat?), the tweed cap with graying, groomed hair underneath, was extending his large hand—as though this was a slightly formal business occasion—and speaking English with a British accent. Yet he’d heard snippets of his conversation with his colleagues and that was definitely in fast and fluid French. In Quebec it was far from unusual that people spoke both languages, even fluently. But it was unusual to find a francophone speaking like a hereditary member of the House of Lords.
‘This is Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir and Agent Yvette Nichol.’ They all shook hands, though Nichol was slightly leery, not sure what he’d wiped his face with after throwing up.
‘How can I help?’
‘Let’s walk,’ Gamache pointed down the path through the woods, ‘just a little away from here.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ben, genuinely grateful.
‘I’m sorry about the death of Miss Neal. Was she a close friend?’
‘Very. She actually taught me at the school house here.’
Gamache was watching him attentively, his dark brown eyes on Ben’s face, taking in what was being said, without judgment or accusation. Ben could feel himself relax for the first time in hours. Gamache said nothing, just waited for Ben to continue.
‘She was a wonderful woman. I wish I was good with words, I could begin to describe her for you.’ Ben turned his face away, ashamed of the tears that came up again. He balled his hands into fists and could feel the welcome pain of his fingernails biting into his palms. That was a pain he could understand. The other was beyond his comprehension. Strangely it was so much greater than when his mother had died. He gathered himself again, ‘I don’t understand what’s happened. Jane’s death wasn’t natural, was it?’
‘No, Mr Hadley, it wasn’t.’
‘Someone killed her?’
‘Tell us about this morning, please.’
By now their walking had slowed and petered to a stop.
‘I found Jane just lying—’
Gamache interrupted, ‘From the time you woke up, please.’ Ben raised an eyebrow but did as he was asked.
‘I woke up at about seven. I always get up with the sun. The light comes into my bedroom and I never bothered to get curtains. I got up, had a shower and the rest, and fed Daisy.’ He watched their faces closely, looking for some sign that he was giving too much or too little detail. The woman agent looked as puzzled as he felt. The tall good-looking Inspector (Ben had already forgotten their names) was writing everything down. And the boss looked interested and encouraging. ‘Then we went outside for a walk, but she has arthritis and this morning she was very sore. Daisy’s a dog, by the way. Anyway, I let her back in the house and took myself off for a walk. This was a quarter to eight.’ Ben figured, correctly, they’d be interested in the timing. ‘It takes just a few minutes to walk here, up the road and past the school house then into the woods.’
‘Did you see anyone?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘No, I didn’t. It’s possible someone saw me, but I missed them. I tend to walk with my head down, lost in thought. I’ve passed right by people without noticing them. My friends know that about me and don’t take offense. I was walking along the path and something made me look up.’
‘Please try to remember, Mr Hadley. If you normally walk with your head down, why would you raise it?’
‘Odd, isn’t it? I can’t remember. But unfortunately, as I said, I’m normally lost in thought. Never deep or important thoughts. My mother used to laugh and say some people try to be in two places at once. I, on the other hand, am generally nowhere.’ Ben laughed, but Nichol privately thought that was an awful thing for a mother to say.
‘She was right, of course. Look at today. Beautiful sunshine. I’m walking through the gorgeous woods. It’s like a postcard, but I don’t notice anything, don’t appreciate it, except perhaps sometime later when I’m somewhere else and thinking about this walk. It seems my mind is constantly one step behind my body.’
‘Looking up, sir,’ Beauvoir prompted.
‘I really can’t think what made me look up, but it’s a good thing I did. I might have fallen right over her. Funny but it never occurred to me that she was dead. I was reluctant to disturb her. I kind of tiptoed up and called her name. Then I noticed a stillness and my mind just kind of exploded. I thought she’d had a stroke, or heart attack.’ He shook his head, still in disbelief.
‘Did you actually touch the wound?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘I think I might have. I just remember leaping up and wiping my hands on my pants. I panicked and like a—I don’t know what - an hysterical child I ran in circles. Idiot! Anyway, I finally got a hold of myself and dialed 911 on my cell phone.’
‘I’m curious,’ said Gamache. ‘Why did you bring a cell phone to walk in the woods?’
‘These woods belong to my family and every fall hunters trespass. I’m not a brave man, I’m afraid, but I can’t tolerate killing. Killing anything. I have spiders in my home with names. In the mornings when I go for a walk I bring a cell phone. Partly out of fear that I’ll get shot by some drunken hunter and need to call for help and partly to call Natural Resources and get a warden up here if I do spot someone.’