A Trick of the Light

“What you’d expect after a great fall.” She looked at him now, understanding dawning. A great fall. “Like Humpty Dumpty.”

He nodded his head slightly.

“When people hit bottom,” she continued, “they can lie there and die, most do. Or they can try to pick themselves up.”

“Put the pieces back together,” said Gamache. “Like our friend Mr. Dumpty.”

“Well he had the help of all the King’s horses and all the King’s men,” said Myrna, with mock earnestness. “And even they couldn’t put Mr. Dumpty together again.”

“I’ve read the reports,” agreed the Chief.

“Besides, even if they succeeded, he’d just fall again.” Now she really did look serious. “The same person will just keep doing the same stupid thing, over and over. So if you put all the pieces back exactly as they were, why would you expect your life to be different?”

“Is there another option?”

Myrna smiled at him. “You know there is. But it’s the hardest. Not many have the stomach for it.”

“Change,” said Gamache.

Maybe, he thought, that was the point of Humpty Dumpty. He wasn’t meant to be put together again. He was meant to be different. After all, an egg on a wall would always be in peril.

Maybe Humpty Dumpty had to fall. And maybe all the King’s men had to fail.

Myrna drained her mug and rose. He rose too.

“People do change, Chief Inspector. But you need to know something.” She lowered her voice. “It’s not always for the better.”

*   *   *

“Why don’t you go and say something to him?” Gabri asked, as he put the tray of empty glasses on the counter.

“I’m busy,” said Olivier.

“You’re cleaning glasses, one of the waiters can do that. Speak to him.”

Both men looked out the leaded glass window, at the large man sitting alone at the table. A coffee and a book in front of him.

“I will,” said Olivier. “Just don’t push me.”

Gabri took the dishtowel and started drying the glasses as his partner washed the suds off. “He made a mistake,” said Gabri. “He apologized.”

Olivier looked at his partner, with his cheery white and red heart-shaped apron. The one he’d begged Gabri not to buy for Valentine’s Day two years ago. Had begged him not to wear. Had been ashamed of, and prayed no one they knew from Montréal visited and saw Gabri in such a ridiculous outfit.

But now Olivier loved it. Didn’t want him to change it.

Didn’t want him to change anything.

As he washed the glasses he saw Armand Gamache take a sip of his coffee and get to his feet.

*   *   *

Beauvoir walked over to the sheets of paper tacked to the walls of the old railway station. Uncapping the Magic Marker he waved it under his nose as he read what was written. It was all in neat, black columns.

Very soothing. Legible, orderly.

He read and reread their lists of evidence, of clues, of questions. Adding some gathered by their investigations so far that day.

They’d interviewed most of the guests at the party. Not surprisingly, none had admitted to wringing Lillian Dyson’s neck.

But now, staring at the sheets, something occurred to him.

All other thoughts left his mind.

Was it possible?

There were others at the party. Villagers, members of the art community, friends and family.

But someone else was there. Someone mentioned a number of times but never remarked upon. And never interviewed, at least not in depth.

Inspector Beauvoir picked up the phone and dialed a Montréal number.

TWENTY

Clara closed the door and leaned against it. Listening for Peter. Hoping, hoping. Hoping she’d hear nothing. Hoping she was alone.

And she was.

Oh, no no no, she thought. Still the dead one lay moaning.

Lillian wasn’t dead. She was alive in Mr. Dyson’s face.

Clara had raced home, barely able to keep her car on the road, her view obscured by that face. Those faces.

Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. Lillian’s mom and dad. Old, infirm. Almost unrecognizable as the robust, cheery people she’d known.

But their voices had been strong. Their language stronger.

There was no doubt. Clara had made a terrible mistake. And instead of making things better, she’d made them worse.

How could she have been so wrong?

*   *   *

“Fucking little asshole.” André Castonguay shoved the table away and got up, unsteadily. “I have a thing or two to say to him.”

François Marois also got up. “Not now, my friend.”

They both watched as Denis Fortin walked back down the hill and into the village. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look in their direction. Didn’t deviate from a course he’d clearly chosen.

Denis Fortin was making for the Morrow house. That much was clear to Castonguay, to Marois, and to Chief Inspector Gamache, who was also watching.

“But we can’t let him speak to them,” said Castonguay, trying to pull himself away from Marois.

“He won’t be successful, André. You know that. Let him have his try. Besides, I saw Peter Morrow leave a few minutes ago. He’s not even there.”

Castonguay turned unsteadily toward Marois. “Vraiment?” There was a slightly stupid smile on his face.

“Vraiment,” Marois confirmed. “Really. Why don’t you go back to the inn and relax.”

“Good idea.”