by Louise Penny
‘Just hunting?’ Peter asked.
‘Why? What do you have in mind?’
‘The bows and arrows for recreational archery are called recurve and are different to the hunters’ equipment. Those are compound.’
‘But they would bring the same results, if used against a person?’
‘I think so.’ Peter turned to Ben who thought for an instant.
‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘Though the arrows are different. You’d have to be amazingly lucky, or unlucky, I guess, to kill with a target-shooting arrow.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, a target-shooting arrow has a very small head, not unlike the tip of a bullet. But a hunter’s arrow, well, that’s different. I’ve never shot one, but Matt, you have.’
‘A hunter’s arrow has four, sometimes five razors at the end, tapering into a tip.’
Beauvoir had set up the easel with paper near the altar. Gamache went to it and quickly drew a big black circle, with four lines radiating from it, a duplicate of the one Beauvoir had drawn at lunch the day before.
‘Would it produce a wound like that?’
Matthew Croft walked forward a bit, appearing to drag the gathering with him as everyone swayed forward in their seats.
‘Exactly like that.’
Gamache and Beauvoir locked eyes. They had at least part of their answer.
‘So,’ said Gamache almost to himself, ‘this would have to have been done by a hunting arrow.’
Matthew Croft wasn’t sure if Gamache was speaking to him, but he answered anyway, ‘Yes, sir. No question.’
‘What’s a hunting arrow like?’
‘It’s made of metal, very light and hollow, with wings at the back.’
‘And the bow?’
‘A hunter’s bow is called a compound and it’s made from alloys.’
‘Alloy?’ Gamache asked. ‘That’s metal of some sort. I thought they were wood.’
‘They used to be,’ agreed Matthew.
‘Some still are,’ someone called from the crowd to general laughter.
‘They’re mocking me, Inspector,’ admitted Ben. ‘When I set up the archery club it was with old bows and arrows. The traditional recurve sort—’
‘Robin Hood,’ someone called, again to some chuckles.
‘And his merry men,’ Gabri chimed in, pleased with his contribution. More quiet chuckles, but Gabri didn’t hear them, he was concentrating on getting Olivier’s vice-like grip off his leg.
‘It’s true,’ continued Ben. ‘When Peter and I started the club we had a fascination with Robin Hood, and cowboys and Indians. We used to dress up.’ Beside him, Peter groaned and Clara snorted at the long-forgotten memory of these two friends stalking the forests, in green tights and ski toques doubling as medieval caps. They were in their mid-twenties at the time. Clara also knew that sometimes, when they thought no one was watching, Peter and Ben still did it.
‘So we only used wooden recurve bows and wooden arrows,’ said Ben.
‘What do you use now, Mr Hadley?’
‘The same bows and arrows. Saw no reason to change. We only use it for target shooting out behind the schoolhouse.’
‘So let me get this straight. Modern bows and arrows are made of some metal or other. The old ones are wood, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Would an arrow go through a body?’
‘Yes, right through,’ said Matthew.
‘But, well, Mr Hadley, you talked about cowboys and Indians. In all those old movies the arrows stay in the body.’
‘Those movies weren’t actually real,’ said Matthew. Behind him Gamache heard Beauvoir give a brief laugh. ‘Believe me, an arrow would go straight through a person.’
‘Alloy and wood?’
‘Yup. Both.’
Gamache shook his head. Another myth exploded. He wondered if the church knew. But at least they had an answer to the exit wound puzzle, and it was now more certain than ever that Jane Neal had been killed by an arrow. But where was it?
‘How far would the arrow go?’
‘Humm, that’s a good question. Ten, fifteen feet.’
Gamache looked at Beauvoir and nodded. The arrow would have gone right through her chest, out her back and flown into the woods behind. Still, they’d searched there and found nothing.
‘Would it be hard to find?’
‘Not really. If you’re an experienced hunter you know exactly where to look. It’ll be sticking up from the ground a bit, and the feathering makes it slightly easier. Arrows are expensive, Inspector, so we always look for them. Becomes second nature.’
‘The coroner found a few slivers of real feathers in the wound. What could that mean?’ Gamache was surprised to see the hubbub created by his simple statement. Peter was looking at Ben who was looking confused. Everyone, in fact, seemed to suddenly pop into activity.
‘If it was an arrow then it could only be an old arrow, a wooden one,’ said Peter.
‘Wouldn’t you find real feathers on an alloy arrow?’ Gamache was asking, finally feeling like he was getting a grasp on the subject.
‘No.’
‘So. Forgive me for going over the ground several times, I just need to be sure. Since there were real feathers in the wound we’re talking about a wooden arrow. Not alloy, but wood.’
‘Right,’ half the congregation spoke up, sounding like a revival meeting.
‘And,’ said Gamache, edging another small step forward in the case, ‘not a target-shooting arrow, like the archery club uses, but a hunting arrow? We know that because of the shape of the wound.’ He pointed to the drawing. Everyone nodded. ‘It would have to have been a wooden arrow with a hunting tip. Can you use wooden hunting arrows with the new alloy bows?’
‘No,’ said the congregation.
‘So it would have to be a wooden bow, right?’
‘Right.’
‘A Robin Hood bow.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ve got it, thank you. Now, I have another question. You keep using the words “recurve” and “compound”. What’s the difference?’ He looked over at Beauvoir, hoping he was taking good notes.
‘A recurved’, said Ben, ‘is the Robin Hood bow. The cowboys and Indians bow. It’s a long slim piece of wood that’s thicker in the middle where there’s a sort of carved grip for your hand. And on either end of the stick there are notches. You put your string on one end then the other and the wood curves to make a bow. Simple and effective. The design is thousands of years old. When you’ve finished you take the string off and store the bow, which is now back to being a slightly curved stick. The name “recurved” is because you recurve it every time you use it.’
Simple enough, thought Gamache.
‘Compound’, said Matthew ‘is a fairly new design. Basically, it looks like a really complex bow, with pulleys at both ends and lots of strings. And a very sophisticated sighting mechanism. It also has a trigger.’
‘Is a recurved as powerful and accurate as, what was the name of the other bow?’
‘Compound,’ about twenty people said at once, including at least three of the officers in the room.
‘As accurate ... yes. As powerful, no.’
‘You hesitated over accuracy.’
‘With a recurved you have to release the string with your fingers. A rough release would affect the accuracy. A compound bow has a trigger so it’s smoother. It also has a very accurate device for sighting.’
‘There are hunters today who choose to use the wooden recurve bows and wooden arrows. Is that right?’
‘Not many,’ said Helene Charron. ‘It’s very rare.’ Gamache turned back to Matthew, ‘If you were going to kill someone, which would you use? Recurve or compound?’
Matthew Croft hesitated. He clearly didn’t like the question. André Malenfant laughed. It was a humorless, snarky sound.
‘No question. A compound. I can’t imagine why anyone would be hunting in this day and age with an old wooden recurved bow,
And that’s the puzzle, thought Gamache. Why? Why an arrow and not a bullet? Why an old-fashioned wooden bow and not the state-of-the-art hunting bow? At the end of the investigation there was always an answer. And one that made sense, at least on some level. To someone. But for now it seemed nonsense. An old-fashioned wooden arrow with real feathers used to kill an elderly retired country schoolteacher. Why?
‘Mr Croft, do you still have your hunting equipment?’
‘Yes, sir, I do.’
‘Perhaps you could give me a demonstration this afternoon.’
‘With pleasure.’ Croft didn’t hesitate, but Gamache thought he saw Mrs Croft tense. He looked at his watch: 12.30.
‘Does anyone have any other questions?’
‘I have one.’ Ruth Zardo struggled to her feet. ‘Actually, it’s more a statement than a question.’ Gamache looked at her with interest. Inside he steeled himself.
‘You can use the old train station if you think it would be suitable as a headquarters. I heard you were looking. The volunteer fire department can help you set things up.’
Gamache considered for a moment. It wasn’t perfect, but it seemed like the best option now that the schoolhouse was cordoned off.
‘Thank you, we will use your fire hall. I’m most grateful.’
‘I want to say something.’ Yolande rose. ‘The police will no doubt tell me when I can have the funeral for Aunt Jane. I’ll let you all know when and where it will be.’
Gamache suddenly felt deeply sorry for her. She was dressed head to toe in black and seemed to be waging an internal battle between being weak with grief, and the need to claim ownership of this tragedy. He’d seen it many times, people jockeying for position as chief mourner. It was always human and never pleasant and often misleading. Aid workers, when handing out food to starving people, quickly learn that the people fighting for it at the front are the people who need it least. It’s the people sitting quietly at the back, too weak to fight, who need it the most. And so too with tragedy. The people who don’t insist on their sorrow can often be the ones who feel it most strongly. But he also knew there was no hard and fast rule.
Gamache wrapped the meeting up. Just about everyone sprinted through the gusty rain to the Bistro for lunch, some to cook, some to serve, most to eat. Gamache was anxious to hear the results of the search of the archery clubhouse.
FIVE
With trembling hands, Agent Isabelle Lacoste reached into the plastic bag and carefully withdrew a lethal weapon. In her fingers, wet and numb with cold, she held an arrowhead. The other Sûreté officers around the room sat in silence, many squinting, trying to get a clear look at the tiny tip, designed to kill.
‘We found it and others in the clubhouse,’ she said, passing it around. She’d arrived early that morning, leaving her husband to look after the kids and driving through the rain and dark from Montreal. She liked her quiet time at the office, and today the office was a cold and silent former schoolhouse. Inspector Beauvoir had given her the key and as she let herself past the yellow police tape she pulled out her thermos of coffee, dropped her police bag with ‘scene of crime’ paraphernalia on the floor, switched on the light and looked around. The tongue-in-groove walls were covered with quivers hanging from what must once have been hooks for little coats. At the front of the room the blackboard still dominated, no doubt permanently attached to the wall. On it someone had drawn a target, an ‘X’ and an arc between the two with numbers written below. Agent Lacoste had done her homework on the Internet the night before and recognised this as a pretty basic archery lesson on wind, distance and trajectory. Still, she took out her camera and photographed it. Pouring herself a coffee, she sat down and drew the diagram in her notebook. She was a careful woman.
Then, before any of the other officers assigned to the search arrived, she did something only she knew about: she went back outside and in the strained light of the rainy morning she walked to the spot where Jane Neal had died. And she told Miss Neal that Chief Inspector Gamache would find out who had done this to her.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste believed in ‘do unto others’ and knew she’d want someone to do this for her.
She then returned to the unheated archery clubhouse. The other officers had arrived and together they searched the single room, fingerprinting, measuring, photographing, bagging. And then Lacoste, reaching into the back of a drawer in the only desk remaining in the room, had found them.
Gamache held it in the palm of his hand, as though holding a grenade. The arrowhead clearly meant for hunting. Four razors tapered to a fine tip. Now, finally, he could appreciate what had been said in the public meeting. This arrowhead seemed to yearn to cut through his palm. Hurtled from a bow with all the force thousands of years of need could produce, it would without a doubt pass straight through a person. It’s a wonder guns were ever invented when you already had such a lethal and silent weapon.
Agent Lacoste wiped a soft towel through her dripping dark hair. She stood with her back to the lively fire perking in the stone fireplace, feeling warm for the first time in hours, and she smelt the homemade soup and bread and watched the deadly weapon progress around the room.
Clara and Myrna stood in line at the buffet table, balancing mugs of steaming French Canadian pea soup and plates with warm rolls from the boulangerie. Just ahead Nellie was piling food on to her plate.
‘I’m getting enough for Wayne too,’ Nellie explained unnecessarily. ‘He’s over there, poor guy.’
‘I heard his cough,’ said Myrna. ‘A cold?’
‘Don’t know. It’s gone to his chest. This is the first time I’ve been out of the house in days, I’ve been that worried. But Wayne cut Miss Neal’s lawn and looked after odd jobs and he wanted to go to the meeting.’ The two women watched as Nellie took her huge plate over to Wayne, who sat slouched and exhausted in a chair. She wiped his brow and then got him to his feet. The two of them left the Bistro, Nellie concerned and in charge, and Wayne docile and happy to be led. Clara hoped he’d be all right.
‘What did you think of the meeting?’ Clara asked Myrna as they edged along.
‘I like him, Inspector Gamache.’
‘Me too. But it’s strange, Jane being killed by a hunting arrow.’
‘Though if you think about it, it makes sense. It’s hunting season, but I agree the old wooden arrow gave me the shivers. Very weird. Turkey?’
‘Please. Brie?’ asked Clara.
‘Just a sliver. Perhaps a bigger sliver than that.’
‘When does a sliver become a hunk?’
‘If you’re a hunk, size doesn’t matter,’ Myrna explained.
‘I’ll remember that next time I go to bed with a hunk of Stilton.’
‘You’d cheat on Peter?’
‘With food? I cheat on him everyday. I have a very special relationship with a gummy bear who shall remain nameless. Well, actually his name is Ramon. He completes me. Look at that.’ Clara pointed to the floral arrangement on the buffe.
‘I did that this morning,’ said Myrna, happy that Clara had noticed. Clara noticed most things, Myrna realised, and had the wit to mostly mention just the good.
‘I thought perhaps you had. Anything in it?’
‘You’ll see,’ said Myrna, with a smile. Clara leaned into the arrangement of annual monarda, helenium and artist’s acrylic paint brushes. Nestled inside was a package wrapped in brown waxed paper.
‘It’s sage and sweetgrass, ’ said Clara back at the table , unwrapping the package. ‘Does this mean what I think?’
‘A ritual,’ said Myrna.
‘Oh, what a fine idea.’ Clara reached over and touched Myrna’s arm.
‘From Jane’s garden?’ Ruth asked, inhaling the musky, unmistakable aroma of sage, and the honey-like fragrance of the sweetgrass.
‘The sage, yes. Jane and I cut it in August. The sweet- grass I got from Henri a couple of weeks ago, when he cut back his hay. It was growing around Indian Rock.’
Ruth passed them to Ben who held them at arm’s length.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, man, they won’t hurt you.’ Ruth snatched them up and whipped them back and forth under Ben’s nose. ‘As I recall, you were even invited to the Summer Solstice ritual.’
‘Only as a human sacrifice,’ said Ben.
‘Come on, Ben, that’s not fair,’ said Myrna. ‘We said that probably wouldn’t be necessary.’
‘It was fun,’ said Gabri, swallowing a deviled egg. ‘I wore the minister’s frocks.’ He lowered his voice and darted his eyes around, in case the minister should have actually.
‘Best use they’ve been put to,’ said Ruth.
‘Thank you,’ said Gabri.
‘It wasn’t meant as a compliment. Weren’t you straight before the ritual?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ Gabri turned to Ben. ‘It worked. Magic. You should definitely go to the next one.’
‘That’s true,’ said Olivier, standing behind Gabri and massaging his neck. ‘Ruth, weren’t you a woman before the ritual?’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘And you say this’, Gamache held the arrowhead up so the tip was pointing to the ceiling, ‘was found in an unlocked drawer along with twelve others?’ He examined the hunting tip with its four razor edges coming to an elegant and lethal point. It was a perfect, silent, killing device.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Lacoste. She’d firmly claimed the spot directly in front of the fire. From where she stood in the back room of the Bistro she could see out the French doors as rain, almost sleet, whipped against the glass. Her hands, now free of lethal weapons, cradled a mug of hot soup and a warm roll stuffed with ham, melting brie and a few leaves of arugula.
Gamache carefully placed the arrowhead on to Beauvoir’s open palm. ‘Can this be put on to the end of any arrow?’
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