ELEVEN
‘Tabernacle’, whispered Beauvoir, then after a pause during which neither man breathed. ‘Christ.’
They stood on the threshold of Jane’s living room, frozen in place. Riveted as to a particularly gruesome accident. But what held them fast was no mere accident, it was more aggressive, more intentional.
‘If I was Jane Neal I’d keep people out, too,’ said Beauvoir, regaining his secular voice. For a moment. ‘Sacré.’
Jane’s living room assaulted them with color. Huge Timothy Leary flowers daygloed, psychedelic three-dimensional silver towers and mushrooms advanced and retreated, enormous yellow Happy Faces marched around the fireplace. It was a veritable parade of bad taste.
‘Shit,’ whispered Beauvoir.
The room glowed in the gathering gloom. Even the ceiling between the old timbers was wallpapered. It was more than a joke, it was a travesty. Any lover of Quebecois heritage and architecture would feel wretched in this room and Gamache, who was both, could taste his lunch in his throat.
He hadn’t expected this. Faced with this cacophony of color he couldn’t remember what he’d expected, but certainly not this. He tore his eyes from the maniacal Happy Faces and forced himself to look down to the wide plank floors, made with timber hand-hewn by a man being chased by winter two hundred years ago. Floors like this were rare, even in Quebec, and considered by some, Gamache included, works of art. Jane Neal was fortunate enough to live in one of the tiny original fieldstone homes, made from stones literally yanked from the land as it was cleared for planting. To own a home like this was to be a custodian of Quebec history.
With dread Gamache lowered his eyes from the walls to the floor.
It was painted pink. Glossy pink.
He groaned. Beside him Beauvoir almost, almost reached out to touch the Chief Inspector on the arm. He knew how upsetting this would be for any lover of heritage. It was a sacrilege.
‘Why?’ asked Gamache, but the Happy Faces remained mute. So did Beauvoir. He had no answer but then he was always astonished by ‘les Anglais’. This room was just one more example of their unfathomable behavior. As the silence stretched on Beauvoir felt he owed the Chief at least an attempt at an answer.
‘Maybe she needed a change. Isn’t that how most of our antiques ended up in other people’s homes? Our grandparents sold them to rich Anglos. Got rid of pine tables and armoirs and brass beds to buy junk from the Eaton’s catalogue.’
‘True,’ agreed Gamache. That was exactly how it had happened sixty, seventy years earlier, ‘but look at that.’ He pointed to a corner. An astonishing diamond-point pine armoire with its original milk paint sat filled with Port Neuf pottery. ‘And there.’ Gamache pointed to a huge oak Welsh dresser. ‘This here,’ he walked over to a side table, ‘is a faux Louis Quatorze table, made by hand by a woodworker who knew the style in France and was trying to duplicate it. A piece like this is almost priceless. No, Jean Guy, Jane Neal knew antiques and loved them. I can’t imagine why she’d collect these pieces, then turn around and paint the floor. But that wasn’t what I was asking.’ Gamache turned around slowly, surveying the room. A throbbing was starting in his right temple. ‘I was wondering why Miss Neal kept her friends out of here.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ an amazed Beauvoir asked.
‘No, it isn’t. If she did this she must have liked this style. She certainly wouldn’t have been ashamed of it. So why keep them out? And let’s even suppose this was done by someone else, her parents, for example, back in the days this sort of thing was in—’
‘Hate to tell you, but it’s back.’ Beauvoir had just bought a lava lamp, but didn’t think he’d tell the chief about that now. Gamache brought his hands up and rubbed his face. Lowering them he still saw the acid-trip room. Shit, indeed.
‘All right, let’s just say her elderly and probably demented parents did this and she didn’t change it for some reason, like finances or loyalty to them or something like that, well, really it’s pretty awful, but it’s not that bad. Embarrassing at worst, but not shameful. To keep friends out of the heart of her home for decades speaks of more than embarrassment.’
Both men looked around again. The room had beautiful proportions, Beauvoir had to admit. But that was kind of like saying a blind date had a good personality. You still wouldn’t want to introduce her to your friends. Beauvoir could understand perfectly how Jane Neal felt. He thought, perhaps, he’d return the lava lamp.
Gamache walked slowly around the room. Was there anything here he shouldn’t see? Why had Jane Neal, a woman who loved and trusted her friends, kept them out of this room? And why did she change her mind two days before she was killed? What secret did this room hold?
‘Upstairs?’ suggested Beauvoir.
‘After you.’ Gamache lumbered over and looked at the stairway which ascended from the rear of the living room. It was also wallpapered, this time in a burgundy velveteen effect. To say it clashed with the flowers would be to suggest there was a wallpaper in existence which wouldn’t. Still, of all the colors and styles to have chosen, this was the worst. Up it went, like a strep throat, into the second floor. The steps of the stairs had also been painted. It broke Gamache’s heart.
The modest second floor had a large bathroom and two good-size bedrooms. What looked to be the master bedroom had dark red painted walls. The next room had been painted a deep blue.
But something was missing in the house.
Gamache went back downstairs and searched the living room, then back out into the kitchen and mudroom.
‘There’re no easel, no paints. There’s no studio. Where’d she do her art?’
‘How about the basement?’
‘Sure, go down and check, but I can guarantee you an artist isn’t going to paint in a windowless basement.’ Though, come to think of it, Jane Neal’s work did look like it’d been done in the dark.
‘There’re paints down there, but no easel,’ Beauvoir said, emerging from the basement. ‘Her studio wasn’t in the basement. There’re another thing -’ he loved being able see something the chief had missed. Gamache turned an interested face to him. ‘Pictures. There are no pictures on the walls. Anywhere.’
Gamache’s face opened in astonishment. He was right. Gamache spun in place, searching the walls. Nothing.
‘Upstairs too?’
‘Upstairs too.’
‘I just don’t get it. All of this is odd, the wallpaper, the painted rooms and floors, the lack of pictures. But none of it’s so odd she’d have to keep her friends out. But there is something around here she didn’t want anyone to see.’
Beauvoir flopped into the big sofa and looked around. Gamache subsided into the leather chair, put his hands together like steeples on his stomach, and thought. After a few minutes he rocked himself to his feet and went downstairs. The unfinished basement was replete with cardboard boxes, an old cast iron tub, a fridge with wines. He took one out. A Dunham vineyard, reputed to be quite good. Replacing the bottle he closed the fridge and turned around. Another door led to her preserves cupboard. Auburn jellies, rich red and purple jams, British racing-green dill pickles. He looked at the dates, some from the year before, most from this year. Nothing spectacular. Nothing abnormal. Nothing he hadn’t found in his mother’s basement after she’d died.
He closed the door and took a step backward. Just as his back brushed the rough basement wall something bit his shoe. Hard. It was at once shocking and familiar.
‘Tabernacle!’ he yelped. Above he could hear feet running to the basement door. In an instant Beauvoir was there, his hand resting on his revolver still in its holster.
‘What! What is it?’ He’d so rarely heard the chief swear that when he did it acted like a siren. Gamache pointed to his foot. A small wooden plank had attached itself to his shoe.
‘Pretty big mouse,’ said Beauvoir with a grin. Gamache bent down and removed the trap. It had been smeared with peanut butter to attract mice. He wiped a bit off his shoe and looked around. More traps became apparent, all lined up against the wall.
‘She got a couple,’ said Beauvoir, pointing to some upturned traps, little tails and balled up fists poking out from underneath.
‘I don’t think she set those. I think these are hers.’ Gamache bent down and picked up a small gray box. Opening it he found a small field mouse curled up inside. Dead. ‘It’s a humane trap. She caught them alive then released them. This, poor one, must have been caught after she was murdered. It starved to death.’
‘So who set those other mousetraps? Wait, don’t tell me. Yolande and André, of course. They were here alone for a week or so. Still, you’d think they could have at least checked the humane trap,’ said Beauvoir with disgust. Gamache shook his head. Violent, intentional, death still surprised him, whether of a man or mouse.
‘Come with me, little one,’ he said to the curled-up mouse, as he took it upstairs. Beauvoir tossed the other traps into a plastic bag and followed the chief. The two men locked up and walked down Jane’s garden path and across the Commons. A few headlights could be seen now that the sun had set. Rush hour. And a few villagers were out doing errands or walking dogs. In the silence Gamache could hear unintelligible snippets of conversations from other strollers. Off toward du Moulin he heard, ‘Pee, please pee.’ He hoped it was directed at a dog. The two men crossed the village green toward the brightly lit and welcoming B. & B. Halfway across Gamache stopped and laid the mouse on the grass, beside him Beauvoir opened the plastic bag and released the other little bodies from the traps.
‘They’ll be eaten,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Exactly. Something will benefit at least. Abby Hoffman said we should all eat what we kill. That would put an end to war.’
Not for the first time Beauvoir was at a loss for words with Gamache. Was he serious? Was he, perhaps, a little touched? And who was Abbe Offman? A local cleric? Sounds like exactly the sort of things some Christian mystic would say.