Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

This shook Gamache. Had he thought this all the way through he wouldn't have been surprised, but he hadn't seen it coming. He felt his stomach lurch. The force of his reaction stunned him. He'd have to think about why and fortunately he had a long drive home in which to consider.

Gamache pulled himself together, reached into his breast pocket and handed over both his badge and his warrant card. Then he slipped the holster off his belt.

'I'm sorry,' whispered Beauvoir. Gamache had been quick to recover, but not quick enough to hide his feelings from Beauvoir. As he took the items Beauvoir remembered one of the many things he'd learned from Gamache. Matthew 10:36.

The funeral for Jane Neal, spinster of the village of Three Pines in the county of St Remy, Province of Quebec, was held two days later. The bells of the Eglise Ste Marie rang and echoed along the valleys, heard miles away, and felt deep in the earth, where creatures lived who might not otherwise, had Jane Neal herself not lived and been the sort of person she'd been.

And now people gathered to say a formal goodbye. Armand Gamache was there, having driven in from Montreal. It made a nice break from his forced inaction. He sailed through the crowd, through the front of the small church, and found himself in the gloom inside. It always struck Gamache as paradoxical that churches were gloomy. Coming in from the sunshine it took a minute or so to adjust. And even then, to Gamache, it never came close to feeling like home. Churches were either great cavernous tributes not so much to God as the wealth and privilege of the community, or they were austere, cold tributes to the ecstasy of refusal.

Gamache enjoyed going to churches for their music and the beauty of the language and the stillness. But he felt closer to God in his Volvo. He spotted Beauvoir in the crowd, waved, then made his way over.

'I hoped you'd be here,' said Beauvoir. 'You'll be interested to hear we've arrested the entire Croft family and their farm animals.'

'You've found the safe side.'

'Damn straight, pardner.' Gamache hadn't seen Beauvoir since he'd left that Tuesday afternoon, but they'd talked on the phone several times. Beauvoir wanted to keep Gamache in the loop, and Gamache wanted to make sure Beauvoir knew there were no hard feelings.

Yolande wobbled behind the casket as it was led into the church. Andre, slim and greasy, was beside her and Bernard slouched behind, his furtive, active eyes darting everywhere as though in search of his next victim.

Gamache felt deeply sorry for Yolande. Not for the pain she felt, but for the pain she didn't feel. He prayed, in the silence, that one day she wouldn't have to pretend to emotions, other than resentment, but could actually feel them. Others in the church were sad but Yolande cut the saddest figure. Certainly the most pathetic.

The service was short and anonymous. The priest clearly had never met Jane Neal. No member of the family got up to speak, except Andre, who read one of the beautiful scriptures with less enlightenment than he might read the TV Guide listings. The service was entirely in French, though Jane herself had been English. The service was entirely Catholic, though Jane herself had been Anglican. Afterwards Yolande, Andre and Bernard accompanied the casket to a 'family only' burial, though Jane's friends had actually been her family.

'A real chill in the air today,' said Clara Morrow, who had appeared at his elbow, her eyes bloodshot. 'There'll be frost on the pumpkins tonight.' She managed a smile. 'We're having a memorial service for Jane at St Thomas's on Sunday. A week to the day since she died. We'd like you to be there, if you don't mind coming down again.'

Gamache didn't mind. Looking around he realised how much he liked this place and these people. Too bad one of them was a murderer.

TEN

The memorial service for Jane Neal was short and sweet, and had it been plump it would have been an exact replica of the woman. The service was really nothing more than Jane's friends getting up one after the other and talking about her, in French and English. The service was simple, and the message was clear. Her death was just one instant in a full and lovely life. She'd been with them for as long as she was meant to be. Not a minute longer, not a moment less. Jane Neal had known that when her time came God wouldn't ask how many committees she'd sat on, or how much money she'd made, or what prizes she'd won. No. He'd ask how many fellow creatures she'd helped. And Jane Neal would have had an answer.

At the end of the service Ruth stood at her seat and sang, in a thin, unsure, alto, 'What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?' She sang the unlikely sea shanty at a quarter speed, like a dirge, then slowly picked up speed. Gabri joined in, as did Ben and in the end the whole church was alive with people clapping and swinging their hips and asking the musical question, 'What do you do with a drunken sailor, err-lie in the morning?'