OK, thought Beauvoir, joke’s over.
‘Mrs Croft, we’re going to go out with your husband in a minute and look at the bows and arrows. While we’re out there I’d like you to think about something. We need to speak with Philippe. We know he was involved in the manure incident in Three Pines, and that Miss Neal identified him.’
‘And others,’ she said defiantly.
‘Two days later she’s dead. We need to speak to him.’
‘He had nothing to do with it.’
‘I’m willing to accept that you believe that. And you might be right. But did you think he was capable of attacking two men in Three Pines? Do you really know your son, Mrs Croft?’
He’d hit a nerve, but then he’d expected to. Not because Beauvoir had any particular insight into the Croft family, but because he knew every parent of a teenage boy fears they’re housing a stranger.
‘If we can’t speak with your son by the time we’re ready to leave then we’ll get a warrant and have him brought to the police station in St Rémy to be questioned. Before today is over, we will speak with him. Here or there.’
Chief Inspector Gamache watched all this and knew they had to somehow get into that basement. These people were hiding something, or someone. And whatever it was was in the basement. Yet it was odd, thought Gamache. He could have sworn Matthew Croft had been relaxed and natural in the public meeting. It was Suzanne Croft who had been so upset. Now they both were. What had happened?
‘Mr Croft, may we see those bows and arrows now?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘How dare you—’ Croft was vibrating with rage.
‘It’s not a question of “dare”.’ Beauvoir looked him hard in the face. ‘At the meeting this morning Chief Inspector Gamache made it clear that unpleasant things would be asked of each and every one of you. That’s the price you’ll pay for finding out who killed Miss Neal. I understand your anger. You don’t want your children traumatised by this. But, frankly, I think they already are. I’m giving you a choice. We can speak with your son here, or we can speak with him at the St Rémy station.’
Beauvoir paused. And paused. And in his mind dared Nichol to offer cookies. Finally he continued. ‘The rules of normal life are suspended when there’s a violent death. You two and your family are among the first casualties. I have no illusions about what we do, and we do it as painlessly as possible -’ Matthew Croft sputtered in disgust’—which is why I’ve offered you the choice. Now, the bows and arrows please.’
Matthew Croft took a deep breath, ‘This way.’
He led them out of the kitchen on to the screen porch.
‘Mrs Croft,’ Gamache said, and poked his head back into the kitchen just as Suzanne Croft was stepping toward the basement door, ‘would you join us, please?’
Suzanne Croft’s shoulders sagged.
‘There.’ It was all Matthew Croft could do to be civil. ‘That’s a recurve and that’s a compound, and there’re the arrows.’
‘Are these two the only bows you have?’ Beauvoir asked, picking up the arrows and noting they were the target-shooting kind.
‘Yes, they are,’ said Croft without hesitation.
They looked exactly as they had been described, only larger. Beauvoir and Gamache lifted each bow in turn. They were heavy, even the simple recurve.
‘Could you put the string on the recurve, please?’ Beauvoir asked.
Matthew grabbed the recurve, took a long string with loops on either end, put the ‘stick’ between his legs and bent the bow down until the string could reach the little notch at the top. Gamache could see it took some strength. Suddenly, there stood a ‘Robin Hood’ bow.
‘May I?’
Croft handed Gamache the bow and as he took it he noticed dust. But no dirt. Gamache then turned his attention to the compound. It looked more like a traditional bow than he’d expected. He picked it up, noticing the wisps of cobwebs between some of the strings. This bow too hadn’t been used in some time. And it was far heavier than he’d expected. He turned to Mrs Croft.
‘Do you bow hunt or target shoot?’
‘I sometimes target shoot.’
‘Which bow do you use?’
After a breath of hesitation Suzanne Croft pointed to the recurve.
‘Would you mind taking off the string?’
‘Why?’ Matthew Croft stepped forward.
‘I’d like to see your wife do it.’ Gamache turned to Suzanne, ‘Please.’
Suzanne Croft picked up the recurve, and swiftly putting it around her leg she leaned on the bow and popped the string off. She’d clearly done this many times before. Then Gamache had an idea.
‘Could you restring the bow, please?’
Suzanne shrugged and replaced the now straight bow around her leg and leaned on the upper part. Not much happened. Then she gave a huge thrust down and slipped the string over the top, recreating the recurve. She handed it to Gamache without a word.
‘Thank you,’ he said, puzzled. He’d had a hunch, but it didn’t seem to be right.
‘Would you mind if we shot a few arrows?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘Not at all.’