Each time the phone rang in the Incident Room activity stopped. And it rang often. Various officers checking in. Shopkeepers, neighbors, bureaucrats returning phone calls.
The old Canadian National rail station had proven perfect for their needs. A team had worked with the volunteer fire department and cleared a space in the center of what must have been the waiting room. Glowing varnished wood went a quarter of the way up the walls and the walls themselves had held posters with fire tips and past winners of the Governor-General’s Literary Awards, a hint as to who the fire chief might be. The S?reté officers had removed those, neatly rolling them up, and replaced them with flow charts and maps and lists of suspects. It now looked like any other incident room, in an old and atmospheric train station. It was a space that seemed used to waiting. All those hundreds, thousands, of people who’d sat in this room, waiting. For trains. To take them away, or to bring their loved ones home. And now men and women again sat in the space, waiting. This time for a report from the S?reté lab in Montreal. The report that would send them home. The report that would destroy the Crofts. Gamache got up, pretended to stretch, and started to walk. The chief always paced, his hands clasped behind his back, his head down looking at his feet, when he got impatient. Now, as the others pretended to work the phones and gather information, Chief Inspector Gamache circled them, slowly, with a measured pace. Unhurried, unperturbed, unstoppable.
Gamache had risen before the sun that morning. His little travel alarm said 5.55. He was always delighted when a digital clock had all the same numbers. Half an hour later, dressed in his warmest clothes, he was tiptoeing down the stairs toward the front door of the B. & B. when he heard a noise in the kitchen.
‘Bonjour, M. l’Inspecteur’, said Gabri coming out in a deep purple bathrobe and fluffy slippers, holding a thermos. ‘I thought you might like a café au lait, to go.’
Gamache could have kissed him.
‘And’, Gabri whipped a small paper bag out from behind his back, ‘a couple of croissants.’
Gamache could have married him. ‘Merci, infiniment, patron.’
Minutes later Armand Gamache sat on the frosted wooden bench on the green. For half an hour he sat there in the still, peaceful, dark morning, and watched the sky change. Black became royal blue and then a hint of gold. The forecasters had finally gotten it right. The day dawned brilliant, crisp, clear and cold. And the village awoke. One by one lights appeared in the windows. It was a tranquil few minutes, and Gamache appreciated every calm moment, pouring rich, full bodied café au lait from the thermos into the little metal cup, and burrowing into the paper bag for a flaky croissant, still warm from the oven.
Gamache sipped and chewed. But mostly he watched.
At ten to seven a light went on over at Ben Hadley’s place. A few minutes later Daisy could be seen limping around the yard, her tail wagging. Gamache knew from experience the last earthly acts of most dogs was to lick their master and wag their tail. Through the window Gamache could just make out movement in Ben’s home as he prepared breakfast.
Gamache waited.
The village stirred and by seven-thirty most homes had come to life. Lucy had been let out of the Morrow home and was wandering around, sniffing. She put her nose in the air, then slowly turned and walked then trotted and finally ran to the trail through the woods that would take her home. Back to her mother. Gamache watched the golden-feathered tail disappear into the maple and cherry forest, and felt his heart break. A few minutes later Clara came out and called Lucy. A single forlorn bark was heard and Gamache watched as Clara went into the woods and returned a moment later, followed slowly by Lucy, her head down and her tail still.
Clara had slept fitfully the night before, waking up every few hours with that sinking feeling that was becoming a companion. Loss. It wasn’t the shriek it had been, more a moan in her marrow. She and Peter had spoken again over the dishes while the others sat in the living room, mulling over the possibility Jane had been murdered.
‘I’m sorry,’ Clara said, a dish towel in her hand, taking the warm, wet plates from Peter’s hand. ‘I should have told you about my conversation with Gamache.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s not good enough, Clara. Can it be that you don’t trust me?’
He searched her face, his icy-blue eyes keen and cold. She knew she should hold him, should tell him how much she loved him and trusted him and needed him. But something held her back. There it was again. A silence between them. Something else unsaid. Is this how it starts? Clara wondered. Those chasms between couples, filled not with comfort and familiarity, but with too much unsaid, and too much said.
Once again her lover closed up. Became stone. Still and cold.
Ben had walked in on them at that moment, and caught them in an act more intimate than sex. Their anger and pain was fully exposed. Ben stammered and stumbled and bumbled and finally left, looking like a child who had walked in on his parents.
That night, after everyone had left, Clara said the things she knew Peter had longed to hear. How much she trusted him and loved him. How sorry she was, and how grateful she was for his patience in the face of her own pain at Jane’s death. And she asked for his forgiveness. And he gave it, and they’d held each other until their breathing became deep and even and in sync.
But still, something had been left unsaid.
The next morning Clara rose early, let Lucy out, and made Peter pancakes, maple syrup and bacon. The unexpected smell of cured Canadian bacon, fresh coffee and woodsmoke woke Peter. Lying in bed he resolved to try to move beyond the hard feelings of the day before. Still, it had confirmed for Peter that feelings were too dangerous to expose. He showered, put on clean clothes and his game face, and went downstairs.
‘When do you think Yolande’ll move in?’ Clara asked Peter over breakfast.
‘I guess after the will has been read. A few days, maybe a week.’
‘I can’t believe Jane would leave her home to Yolande, if for no other reason than she knew how much I hate her.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t about you, Clara.’
Zing. And maybe, thought Clara, he’s still pissed off. ‘I’ve been watching Yolande for the last couple of days. She keeps lugging stuff into Jane’s place.’
Peter shrugged. He was getting tired of comforting Clara.
‘Didn’t Jane make a new will?’ she tried again.
‘I don’t remember that.’ Peter knew Clara enough to know this was a ruse, an attempt to take his mind off his hurt and to get him on her side. He refused to play.
‘No, really,’ said Clara. ‘I seem to remember when Timmer was diagnosed and knew it was terminal that they both talked about revising their wills. I’m sure Jane and Timmer went off to that notary in Williamsburg. What was her name? You know. The one who just had the baby. She was in my exercise class.’
‘If Jane made a new will, the police’ll know about it. It’s what they do.’