Still Life (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #1) - Louise Penny Page 0,113

Peter’s hand with her own broken hand, exchanging physical pain for emotional solace.

‘Ben?’ Gamache asked, and hoped soon he’d be able to form full sentences. His leg was shooting pain and his head throbbed, but he recognised that some threat was still out there, in the dark, in the basement with them.

‘He’s out cold,’ said Clara. She could have left them. The stairs had collapsed, true, but there was a step ladder not far away and she could have used that to climb out.

But she didn’t.

Clara had never known such fear. And anger. Not against Ben, yet, but against these morons who were supposed to have saved her. And now she had to protect them.

‘I hear something,’ said Beauvoir. Gamache tried to raise himself to his elbows, but his leg sent so much pain into his body it took his breath and strength away. He fell back and reached out his hands, hoping to find something to grab on to to use as a weapon.

‘Upstairs,’ said Beauvoir. ‘They’re here.’

Gamache and Clara had never heard such beautiful words.

* * *

A week later they were gathered in Jane’s living room, which was beginning to feel like home to all of them, including Gamache. They looked like a Fife and Drum Corps, Gamache’s leg in a cast, Beauvoir bent over with broken ribs, Peter’s head bandaged and Clara’s hand in plaster.

Upstairs, Gabri and Olivier could be heard quietly singing ‘It’s Raining Men’. From the kitchen came the sounds of Myrna humming while preparing fresh bread and homemade soup. Outside snow was falling, huge wet flakes that melted almost as soon as they landed and felt like horse kisses when they touched a cheek. The last of the autumn leaves had blown off the trees and the apples had fallen from the orchards.

‘I think it’s beginning to stick on the ground,’ said Myrna, bringing in cutlery and setting up TV tables around the crackling fire. From upstairs they could hear Gabri exclaiming over things in Jane’s bedroom.

‘Greed. Disgusting,’ said Ruth and made her way quickly to the stairs and up.

Clara watched as Peter got up and stirred the perfectly fine fire. She’d held him that night as he sprawled on the dirt floor. That had been the last time she’d gotten that close. Since the events of that horrible night he’d retreated completely on to his island. The bridge had been destroyed. The walls had been constructed. And now Peter was unapproachable, even by her. Physically, yes, she could hold his hand, hold his head, hold his body, and she did. But she knew she could no longer hold his heart.

She watched his handsome face, lined with care now, and bruised by the fall. She knew he’d been hurt the worst, perhaps beyond repair.

‘I want this,’ said Ruth, coming down the stairs. She waved a small book then tucked it into a huge pocket in her worn cardigan. Jane in her will had invited each of her friends to choose an item from her home. Ruth had made her choice.

‘How’d you know it was Ben?’ Myrna asked, taking a seat and calling the boys down to lunch. Bowls of soup had been put out and baskets of fresh rolls steamed on the blanket box.

‘At the party here it came to me,’ said Clara.

‘What did you see we didn’t?’ Olivier asked, joining them.

‘It’s what I didn’t see. I didn’t see Ben. I knew Fair Day was a tribute to Timmer. All the people who were important to Timmer were in it –’

‘Except Ben!’ said Myrna, buttering her warm roll and watching the butter melt as soon as it touched the bread. ‘What a fool to have missed it.’

‘Took me a long time too,’ admitted Gamache. ‘I only saw it after staring at Fair Day in my room. No Ben.’

‘No Ben,’ repeated Clara. ‘I knew there was no way Jane would’ve left him out. But he wasn’t there. Unless he had been there and it was his face that’d been removed.’

‘But why did Ben panic when he saw Fair Day? I mean, what was so horrible about seeing his face in a painting?’ Olivier asked.

‘Think about it,’ said Gamache. ‘Ben injected his mother with a fatal dose of morphine on the final day of the fair, actually while the parade was on. He’d made sure he had an alibi, he was off in Ottawa at an antiques show.’

‘And was he?’ Clara asked.

‘Oh yes, even bought a few things. Then he raced back here, it’s only about