A Trick of the Light

“From me?” His surprise was obvious, as was his delight.

“From you.” She saw this and was happy she hadn’t told him the reason she wasn’t asking Gamache was because he wasn’t alone. And Beauvoir was.

“Coffee?” Jean Guy gestured toward a full pot already brewed.

“I’d love one, thanks.”

They got up and poured coffees into chipped white mugs, and each got a couple of Fig Newtons, then sat back down.

“So, what’s the story?” Beauvoir leaned back and looked at her. In a way that was all his own yet reminiscent of Gamache.

It was very comforting, and Clara was glad she’d decided to speak with this young Inspector.

“It’s about Lillian’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. I knew them, you know. Quite well at one stage. I was wondering if they’re still alive.”

“They are. We went to see them yesterday. To tell them about their daughter.”

Clara paused, trying to imagine what that was like, for both parties.

“It must have been horrible. They adored her. She was their only child.”

“It’s always horrible,” admitted Beauvoir.

“I liked them a lot. Even when Lillian and I fell out I tried to keep in touch but they weren’t interested. They believed what Lillian told them about me. It’s understandable, I guess.” She sounded, though, less than convinced.

Beauvoir said nothing, but remembered the venom in Mr. Dyson’s voice when he all but accused Clara of their daughter’s murder.

“I was thinking of visiting them,” said Clara. “Of telling them how sorry I am. What is it?”

The look on Beauvoir’s face had stopped her.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, putting his mug down and leaning forward. “They’re very upset. I think a visit from you wouldn’t help.”

“But why? I know they believed the terrible things Lillian said, but maybe my going could ease some of that. Lillian and I were best friends growing up, don’t you think they’d like to talk about her with someone who loved her?” Clara paused. “Once.”

“Maybe, eventually. But not now. Give them time.”

It was, more or less, the advice Myrna had given her. Clara had gone to the bookstore for ribbon and the dried sage and sweetgrass cigar. But she’d also gone for advice. Should she drive into Montréal to visit the Dysons?

When Myrna had asked why she’d want to do such a thing, Clara had explained.

“They’re old and alone,” Clara had said, shocked her friend needed to be told. “This is the worst thing that could happen. I just want to offer them some comfort. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is drive in to Montréal and do this, but it just seems the right thing to do. To put all the hard feelings behind.”

The ribbon was twisted tight around Clara’s fingers, strangling them.

“For you, maybe,” Myrna had said. “But what about them?”

“How do you know they haven’t let all that go?” Clara unwound the ribbon, then fidgeted with it. Winding it. Worrying it. “Maybe they’re sitting there all alone, devastated. And I’m not going because I’m afraid?”

“Go if you have to,” said Myrna. “But just make sure you’re doing it for them and not for you.”

With that ringing in her ears Clara had crossed the village green and made for the Incident Room, to speak with Beauvoir. But also to get something else.

Their address.

Now, after listening to the Inspector, Clara nodded. Two people had given her the same advice. To wait. Clara realized she was staring at the wall of the old railway station. At the photos of Lillian, dead. In her garden.

Where that strange woman and Chief Inspector Gamache were waiting for her.

*   *   *

“I’ve remembered most of Lillian’s secrets, I think.”

“You think?” asked Gamache. They were strolling around Clara’s garden, stopping now and then to admire it.

“I wasn’t lying to you last night, you know. Don’t tell my sponsees, but I get their secrets all mixed up. After a while it’s hard to separate one from the other. All a bit of a blur, really.”

Gamache smiled. He too was the safe in which many secrets were stored. Things he’d learned in investigations that had no relevance to the case. That never needed to come to light. And so he’d locked them away.

If someone suddenly demanded Monsieur C’s secrets he’d balk. At spilling them, certainly, but also, frankly, he’d need time to separate them from the rest.

“Lillian’s secrets were no worse than anyone’s,” said Suzanne. “At least, not the ones she told me about. Some shoplifting, some bad debts. Stealing money from her mother’s purse. She’d dabbled in drugs and cheated on her husband. When she was in New York she’d steal from her boss’s till and not share some tips.”

“Nothing huge,” said Gamache.

“It never is. Most of us are brought down by a bunch of tiny transgressions. Little things that add up until we collapse under them. It’s fairly easy to avoid doing the big bad things, but it’s the hundred mean little things that’ll get you eventually. If you listen to people long enough you realize it’s not the slap or the punch, but the whispered gossip, the dismissive look. The turned back. That’s what people with any conscience are ashamed of. That’s what they drink to forget.”