A Trick of the Light

“I didn’t know about this,” said Suzanne. “If she’d told me I’d have told her to stop. Probably why she never told me.”

“Then André quit AA,” said Gamache, and Pineault nodded. “But there was a problem.”

“As you said, André had one big client,” said Thierry. “Kelley Foods. He lived in terror someone was going to tell them about his drinking.”

“But he couldn’t keep it secret for long,” said Myrna. “If his time here is anything to go by, he was drunk more than he was sober.”

“True,” said Thierry. “It was just a matter of time before André lost everything.”

“As soon as you saw him here you realized what might have happened,” said Gamache. “You listen to trials all the time, often murder trials. You put things together.”

Pineault seemed to be considering what to say next. Everyone naturally leaned forward, toward the Chief Justice. Drawn to the silence, and the promise of a story.

“I was afraid that Lillian had come to the party to confront him. That she’d met him in Clara’s garden and threatened to tell the Kelley people about his drinking unless André represented her,” said Pineault. “You saw him tonight. There’s no control left, of his drinking or his anger.”

When Pineault was silent for a few moments Gamache gently prodded.

“Go on.”

Still they waited. Their eyes wide, their breathing shallow.

“I was afraid Lillian had pushed him over the edge. Threatening blackmail.”

Pineault stopped again, and again, after an excruciating pause, Gamache prodded.

“Go on.”

“I was afraid he killed her. In a blackout probably. Probably couldn’t even remember doing it.”

Gamache wondered if a jury, or a judge, would believe that. And whether it would matter. He also wondered if anyone else had caught what he had.

The Chief Inspector waited.

“But,” said Clara, perplexed. “Didn’t Monsieur Castonguay just accuse you of stealing Lillian from him?”

She turned to François Marois. The elderly art dealer was silent. Clara’s brows were drawn together in concentration. As she tried to figure it out. Her gaze shifted to Gamache.

“Have you seen Lillian’s art?”

He nodded.

“Was it that good? Worth fighting over?”

He nodded again.

Clara looked surprised, but accepted Gamache’s judgment. “So she wouldn’t have had to blackmail Castonguay. In fact, it sounds like Castonguay was desperate to sign Lillian. There’d be no need for her to confront him. He was sold, he wanted her art. Unless,” said Clara, making the connections, “that’s what pushed him over the edge.”

She looked at Gamache, but his face told her nothing. He was listening, attentive, but nothing more.

“Castonguay knew he’d lose Kelley,” said Clara, walking carefully through the facts. “Once he quit AA that was inevitable. His only hope was to find something to replace Kelley Foods. An artist. But not just anyone. They had to be brilliant. They’d save his gallery. His career. But it had to be someone no one else knew about. His own find.”

Around her there was silence. Even the rain had stopped, perhaps to better listen.

“Lillian and her art would save him,” Clara continued. “But Lillian did something Castonguay never expected. She did what she always did. She looked after herself. She spoke to Castonguay, but she also approached Monsieur Marois, the more powerful dealer.” Clara turned to Marois. “And you took her on.”

François Marois’s face had slid from a benign, kindly smile to a sneer.

“Lillian Dyson was a grown woman. She wasn’t indentured to André,” said Marois. “She was free to choose whoever she wanted.”

“Castonguay saw her at the party here,” Clara continued, trying not to be intimidated by Marois’s glare. “He probably wanted a quiet word with her. He must have led her into our garden for privacy.”

They all imagined the scene. The fiddlers, the dancing and laughing.

Castonguay spots Lillian just arriving, coming down du Moulin from where she’d parked the car. He’s had a few drinks and hurries to intercept her. Anxious to pin down their deal before she gets a chance to speak to others at the party. All the dealers and curators and gallery owners.

He steers her into the nearest garden.

“He probably didn’t even realize it was ours,” said Clara. Still watching Gamache. And still he revealed nothing. Just listened.

They breathed silence. It felt as though the world had stopped, the world had shrunk. To this instant, and this place. And these words.

“Then Lillian told him that she’d signed with François Marois.”

Clara stopped, seeing in her mind the stricken gallery owner. Well into his sixties, and ruined. A broken, drunken man. Given the final blow. And what does he do?

“She was his last hope,” said Clara softly. “And now it’s gone.”

“He’ll plead to diminished capacity or manslaughter,” said Chief Justice Pineault. “He must have been drunk at the time.”

“At the time of what?” asked Gamache.

“At the time he killed Lillian,” said Thierry.

“Oh, André Castonguay didn’t kill her. One of you did.”

TWENTY-EIGHT