NINE
Matthew Croft was to remember for the rest of his life where he was when the police cars drew up. It was three minutes past eleven on the kitchen clock. He’d expected them much earlier. Had been waiting since seven that morning.
Every fall, at canning season, Suzanne’s mother Marthe would come over with her shopping bag of old family recipes. The two women would ‘put up’ the preserves over a couple of days and invariably Marthe would ask, ‘When does a cucumber become a pickle?’
At first he’d tried to answer that question as though she genuinely wanted to know. But over the years he realised there was no answer. At what point does change happen? Sometimes it’s sudden. The ‘ah ha’ moments in our lives, when we suddenly see. But often it’s a gradual change, an evolution.
For four hours, waiting, Matthew wondered what had happened. When did things start to go wrong? This, too, he couldn’t answer.
‘Good morning, Mr Croft.’ Chief Inspector Gamache looked calm, solid. Jean Guy Beauvoir was standing beside Gamache, next to him was that woman officer, and slightly behind was a man Matthew hadn’t met yet. Middle-aged, in a suit and tie, hair streaked with gray and conservatively cut. Gamache followed Croft’s look.
’This is Claude Guimette. He’s one of the provincial guardians. We’ve had the results of the tests from the bow and arrows. May we come in?’
Croft stepped back, and they entered his home. Instinctively he took them into the kitchen.
‘It would be valuable to have you and your wife together right now.’
Croft nodded and went upstairs. Suzanne was sitting on the side of the bed. It had taken her all morning to dress, one piece of clothing at a time then flopping back on the bed, exhausted. Finally, about an hour ago, the last piece was in place. Her body looked fine but her face was a monstrosity, and there was no hiding that.
She’d tried praying, but had forgotten the words. Instead she kept repeating the only thing she could remember:
Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn, the sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.
She’d recited it over and over to Philippe when he was little but now she couldn’t remember the rest. It seemed to matter, even though it wasn’t itself a prayer. It was more than that. It was proof she’d been a good mother. Proof she’d loved her children. Proof, whispered the little girl’s voice inside her head, that it isn’t your fault. But she couldn‘t remember the rest of the nursery rhyme. So maybe it was her fault.
‘They’re here,’ said Matthew, standing at the doorway. ‘They want you downstairs.’
When she appeared, Matthew at her side, Gamache got up and took her hand. She sat at the chair offered, as thougt she’d become a guest in her own home. In her own kitchen.
‘We have the results of the lab tests’. Gamache launched right into it. It would be curel to mince words. ‘Jane Neal’s blood was on the bow we found in your basement. It was also on some pieces of clothing belonging to Philippe. The arrow tip matches the wound. The feathers found in the wound wer of the same type and vintage as the feathers in the old quiver. We believe your son accidentally killed Jane Neal’.
There it was.
‘What will happen to him ?’ Matthew asked, all fight had fled. ‘I’d like to talk to him,’ said M. Guimette. My job is to represent him. I came here with the police but I don’t work for them. The Quebec Guardians Office is independent of the police. In fact, I work for Philippe’.
‘I see,’ said Matthew. Would he have to go to jail ?’
‘We spoke in the car on our way out here. Chief Inspector Gamache has no intention of charging Philippe with manslaughter.’
‘So what might happen to him ?’ Matthew asked again.
‘He’ll be taken to the police station in St Rémy and charged with “mischief”.’ Matthew’s brows went up. Had he known you could be charged with mischief’ his own youth might have been far different. He’d been a mischief-maker like his son. It now seemed literally true.
‘But he’s just a boy,’ said Suzanne, who felt she should be saying something in her son”s defense.
‘He’s fourteen. Old enough to know that when he does something wrong,’ however unintentionally, there s a consequence. Was Philippe one of the boys who threw manure at Messieurs Dubeau and Brulé?’
The change of subject seemed to revive Matthew.
‘Yes. He came home and bragged about it.’ Matthew could remember staring at his little boy in the kitchen, wondering who this stranger was.
‘But are you sure? I know Miss Neal called out three names, Philippe’s being one of them, but she may have gotten at least one of them wrong.’
‘Really?’ Suzanne said, hope reviving for a moment before she remembered it didn’t matter. A few days ago she’d been mortified by the thought her son had done such a thing, and been caught. Now it was nothing compared to the next thing he’d done.
‘May I see him?’ M. Guimette asked. ‘Just me and Chief Inspector Gamache.’
Matthew hesitated.
‘Remember, Mr Croft, I don’t work for the police.’ Croft really had no choice anyway and he knew it. He took them upstairs and knocked on the closed door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He put his hand on the knob then took it off and knocked yet again, this time calling his son’s name. Gamache watched all this with interest. Finally he reached out, turned the door knob and let himself into Philippe’s room.
Philippe had his back to the door and was nodding his head. Even from a distance Gamache could hear the tinny, thin line of music coming from the headphones. Philippe was wearing the uniform of the day, baggy sweatshirt and baggy pants. The walls were plastered with posters of rock and rap groups, all made up of petulant, pouting young men. Barely visible between the posters was the wallpaper. Little hockey players in red Canadiens jerseys.
Guimette touched Philippe on the shoulder. Philippe’s eyes flew open and he gave them a look of such loathing both men felt momentarily assaulted. Then the look disappeared. Philippe had hit the wrong target, not for the first time.
‘Yeah, what do you want?’