An hour and a half later Dominique, Carole and the four horses were still standing in front of the barn. But now they’d been joined by a vet.
“Once they’re bathed you’ll need to rub this into their sores.” He handed Dominique a bucket of ointment. “Twice a day, in the morning and at night.”
“Can they be ridden?” Carole asked, holding the halter of the largest horse. Privately she suspected it wasn’t a horse at all, but a moose. Its name was Macaroni.
“Mais, oui. I’d encourage it.” He was walking round them again, his large, sure hands going over the sorry beasts. “Pauvre cheval,” he whispered into the ear of the old mare, Buttercup, her mane almost all fallen out, her tail wispy and her coat bedraggled. “They need exercise, they need good food and water. But mostly they need attention.”
The vet was shaking his head as he finished his examinations.
“The good news is there’s nothing terminally wrong with them. Left to rot in muddy fields and bitter cold barns. Never groomed. Neglected. But this one.” He approached the tall, walleyed dark horse, who shied away. The vet waited and approached again quietly, making soothing sounds until the horse settled. “This one was abused. You can see it.” He pointed to the scars on the horse’s flanks. “He’s afraid. What’s his name?”
Dominique consulted the bill from the abattoir, then looked at Carole.
“What is it?” the older woman asked, walking over to read the bill as well. “Oh,” she said, then looked at the vet. “Can a horse’s name be changed?”
“Normally I’d say yes, but not this one. He needs some continuity. They get used to their names. Why?”
“His name’s Marc.”
“I’ve heard worse,” said the vet, packing up.
The two women exchanged glances. So far Marc, her husband, not the horse, had no idea Dominique had canceled the hunters in favor of these misfits. He almost certainly wouldn’t be happy. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice, and if she gave them mighty, masculine names like Thunder and Trooper he might not care. But he’d certainly notice a half-blind, scarred and scared old wreck named Marc.
“Ride them as soon as you can,” said the vet from his car. “Just walk at first until they get their strength back.” He gave the two women a warm smile. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. These are four lucky horses.”
And he drove off.
“Oui,” said Carole, “until we saddle the wrong end.”
“I think the saddle goes in the middle,” said Dominique.
“Merde,” said Carole.
The S?reté was out for blood. If the victim hadn’t been murdered in the bistro he was killed somewhere else, and they needed to find the crime scene. Blood, and quite a bit of it, had been spilled. And while the murderer had had two days to clean up, blood stained. Blood stuck. It would be almost impossible to completely erase the evidence of this brutal murder. Every home, every business, every shed, every barn, garage, kennel in and around Three Pines was scoured. Jean Guy Beauvoir coordinated it, sending teams of S?reté officers throughout the village and into the countryside. He stayed in the Incident Room and received their reports, guiding them, occasionally chastising them, his patience eroding as the negative reports flowed in.
Nothing.
No sign of a murder scene or a murder weapon. Not even at the old Hadley house, whose new floors proved bloodless. The lab tests had come back on Olivier’s pokers, confirming neither was the weapon. It was still out there, somewhere.
They did find Guylaine’s missing boots, and a root cellar under Monsieur Béliveau’s house, long overgrown and abandoned, but still housing pickled beets and cider. There was a squirrel’s nest in Ruth’s attic, not perhaps surprisingly, and suspicious seeds in Myrna’s mudroom that turned out to be hollyhock.
Nothing.
“I’ll widen the search area,” said Beauvoir to the Chief, over the phone.
“Probably a good idea.” But Gamache didn’t sound convinced.
Through the receiver Beauvoir could hear bells and music and laughter.
Armand Gamache was at the fair.
The Brume County Fair was more than a century old, bringing people in from all over the townships. Like most fairs it had started as a meeting place for farmers, to show their livestock, to sell their autumn produce, to make deals and see friends. There was judging in one barn and displays of handicraft in another. Baking was for sale in the long aisles of open sheds and children lined up for licorice and maple syrup candy, popcorn and freshly made doughnuts.
It was the last celebration of summer, the bridge into autumn.
Armand Gamache walked past the rides and hawkers, then consulted his watch. It was time. He made for a field to the side of the barns, where a crowd had gathered. For the Wellington Boot Toss.
Standing on the edge of the field he watched as kids and adults lined up. The young man in charge settled them down, gave them each an old rubber boot, and standing well back he raised his arm. And held it there.
The tension was almost unbearable.
Then like an ax he dropped it.
The line of people raised their arms in unison and shot them forward, and to whoops of encouragement from onlookers a storm of Wellington boots was released.
Gamache knew in that instant why he’d gotten such an unexpectedly good spot at the side of the field. At least three boots shot his way.
He turned and hunched his back, instinctively bringing his arm up to protect his head. With a series of thuds the boots landed around him, but not on him.
The young man in charge ran over.
“You okay?”
He had curly brown hair that shone auburn in the sun. His face was tanned and his eyes a deep blue. He was stunningly handsome, and pissed off.
“You shouldn’t be standing there. I thought for sure you’d move.”
Gamache was treated to the look of someone recognizing they were in the presence of immeasurable stupidity.
“C’était ma faute,” admitted Gamache. “Sorry. I’m looking for Old Mundin.”
“That’s me.”
Gamache stared at the flushed and handsome young man.
“And you’re Chief Inspector Gamache.” He stuck out his hand, large and calloused. “I’ve seen you around Three Pines. Didn’t your wife take part in the clog dancing on Canada Day?”
Gamache could barely look away from this young man, so full of vigor and light. He nodded.
“Thought so. I was one of the fiddlers. You’re looking for me?”
Behind Old Mundin more people were forming up and looking in his direction. He glanced at them, but seemed relaxed.
“I’d like to talk, when you have a moment.”