Clara needed to think, and for that she needed her safe place, which happened to be Jane’s kitchen. She turned on all the lights and sank into one of the big old chairs beside the wood stove.
Was it possible? Surely she’d gotten something wrong. Forgotten something, or read too much into something. It’d struck her first staring at Fair Day during the cocktail, though the beginnings of the idea had started at Arts Williamsburg earlier in the evening. But she’d rejected the thought. Too painful. Too close. Much too close.
But the damning idea had come back with force in the B. & B. just now. As they’d stared at Fair Day all the pieces had come together. All the clues, all the hints. Everything made sense. She couldn’t go home. Not now. She was afraid to go home.
‘What do you think?’ Beauvoir asked, sitting in the chair opposite Gamache. Nichol was lounging on the sofa reading a magazine, punishing Gamache with her silence. Gabri and Olivier had gone to bed.
‘Yolande,’ said Gamache. ‘I keep coming back to that family. So many lines of enquiry lead us back there. The manure throwing, papering the walls. André has a hunting bow.’
‘But he doesn’t have a recurve,’ said Beauvoir, sadly.
‘He’ll have destroyed it,’ said Gamache, ‘but why use it at all, that’s the problem. Why would anyone use an old bow instead of a new compound-hunting bow?’
‘Unless it was a woman,’ said Beauvoir. This was his favorite part of the job, sitting with the chief late at night with a drink and a fireplace, hashing out the crime. ‘A recurve is easier to use and an old recurve easier still. We saw that with Suzanne Croft. She wasn’t able to use the modem bow, but she’d obviously used the older one. We’re back to Yolande. She’d know her aunt’s art, probably better than anyone, and art runs in the family. If we dug we’d probably find she’s done some painting in her life. Everyone around here does, I think it’s a law.’
‘OK, so let’s follow this through. Why would Yolande want to kill Jane?’
‘For money, or the home, which comes to the same thing. She probably thought she inherited, she probably bribes that crooked notary in Williamsburg for information and God knows she’d be highly motivated to find out about her aunt’s will.’
‘Agreed. But what’s the connection with Fair Day? What was in the painting that would make Yolande change it? It’s of the closing parade of this year’s fair, but it seems to be a tribute to Timmer Hadley. How could Yolande have seen it, and even if she did see it, why would she need to change it?’
This met with silence. After a few minutes Gamache moved on.
‘OK, let’s look at others. What about Ben Hadley?’
‘Why him?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘He had access to the bows, has the skill and local knowledge, Miss Neal would have trusted him, and he knows how to paint. Apparently he’s very good. And he’s on the board of Arts Williamsburg, so he had a key to the gallery. He could have let himself in any time to see Fair Day.’
‘Motive?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘That’s the problem. There’s no clear motive, is there? Why would he need to kill Jane Neal? Not for money. Why?’
Gamache stared into the dying flames, racking his brain. He wondered whether he was trying too hard, trying not to come to the other conclusion.
‘Come on. Peter Morrow did it. Who else?’
Gamache didn’t have to look up to know who spoke. The pumpkin on the cover of Harrowsmith Country Life had found its voice.
Clara stared at her reflection in the window of Jane’s kitchen. A ghostly, frightened woman looked back. Her theory made sense.
Ignore it, the voice inside said. It’s not your business. Let the police do their work. For God’s sake, don’t say anything. It was a seductive voice, one that promised peace and calm and the continuation of her beautiful life in Three Pines. To act on what she knew would destroy that life.
What if you’re wrong? cooed the voice. You’ll hurt a lot of people.
But Clara knew she wasn’t wrong. She was afraid of losing this life she loved, this man she loved.
He’ll be furious. He’ll deny it, shrieked the now panicked voice in her head. He’ll confuse you. Make you feel horrible for suggesting such a thing. Best not to say anything. You have everything to lose and nothing to gain. And, no one need know. No one will ever know that you said nothing.
But Clara knew the voice lied. Had always lied to her. Clara would know and that knowing would eventually destroy her life anyway.
Gamache lay in bed staring at Fair Day. Conversations and snippets of conversations swirled in his head as he stared at the stylised people and animals and remembered what each person had said at one time or another over the past two weeks.
Yvette Nichol had been right. Peter Morrow was the likeliest suspect, but there was no evidence. Gamache knew that their best chance of catching him lay with this picture and the analysis tomorrow. Fair Day was their smoking gun. But as he stared at each face in the picture something suggested itself, something so unlikely he couldn’t believe it. He sat up in bed. It wasn’t what was in Fair Day that would prove who murdered Jane Neal. It was what wasn’t in Fair Day. Gamache leapt out of bed and threw on his clothes.