‘Right, let’s have your reports.’ Beauvoir brought the briefing to order a few minutes later. ‘Lacoste, you first.’
‘Matthew Croft. Thirty-eight,’ she said, taking the pen out of her mouth. ‘Head of the roads department for the county of St Rémy. I spoke with the county manager, and he’s glowing in his praise. I actually haven’t heard praise like that since my own evaluation.’
The place erupted. Jean Guy Beauvoir, who conducted their evaluations, was notoriously tough.
‘But, a fired worker lodged a complaint. Said Croft had beaten him.’
‘Who was this worker?’ Gamache asked.
‘André Malenfant.’ There was a rumble of appreciation. ‘Croft won, hands down. Thrown out. But not before Malenfant had gone to the local papers. Nasty piece of work, that man. Next, Suzanne Belanger. Also thirty-eight. Married to Croft for fifteen years. Works part time at Les Reproductions Doug, in St Rémy. Let’s see, what else?’ Lacoste scanned her notes for something worth saying about this woman who had led a quiet, unremarkable life.
‘No arrests?’ Nichol asked.
‘Only the one for murdering an old woman last year.’ Nichol made a sour face.
‘What about Philippe?’
‘He’s fourteen and in grade nine. ‘B plus student until last Christmas. Then something happened. His marks started slipping and his attitude changed. I spoke with the guidance counselor. She says she has no idea what’s wrong. Might be drugs. Might be problems at home. She says at fourteen most boys go a little wacky. She didn’t seem particularly worried.’
‘Any idea whether he was on any school teams?’ Gamache wanted to know.
‘Basketball and hockey, though he didn’t try out for basketball this term.’
‘Do they have an archery team?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s never been on it.’
‘Good,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Nichol, what about the will?’
Yvette Nichol consulted her notebook. Or pretended to. She’d totally forgotten. Well, not totally. She’d remembered at the end of yesterday afternoon, but by then she’d solved the case and it would be just a waste of time. Besides, she had no idea how to find out whether another will existed, and she had absolutely no intention of parading her ignorance in front of so-called colleagues who had so far proven unhelpful.
‘The Stickley will is the latest,’ said Nichol, looking Beauvoir in the eyes. Beauvoir hesitated before dropping his eyes.
And so the reports progressed. The tension rose in the room as the one phone they all willed to ring sat silent in Gamache’s large hand.
Jane Neal, according to reports, had been a dedicated and respected teacher. She had cared about her students, enough to occasionally fail them. Her personal finances were healthy. She was a church warden at St Thomas’s and active in the Anglican Church Women, organising thrift sales and socials. She played bridge and gardened with a passion.
Her neighbors saw and heard nothing on Sunday morning.
All Quiet on the Western front, thought Gamache, listening to this gentle life. His magical thinking allowed him to be surprised that when such a good soul dies it isn’t remarked. The bells of the church didn’t set themselves off. The mice and deer didn’t cry out. The earth didn’t shudder. It should have. If he were God, it would have. Instead, the line in the official report would read, ‘Her neighbors noticed nothing.’
The reports finished, the team went back to their phones and their paperwork. Armand Gamache began pacing. Clara Morrow called to tell Gamache that Matthew Croft’s father had built the blind, a fact of some interest, given their suspicions.
At ten fifteen his palm rang. It was the lab.