Still Life (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #1) - Louise Penny Page 0,36
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. Andre 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 with arrows with real feathers. It’s like someone stepped out of the past. Target practice, sure. But hunting? Give me modern equipment. And frankly, if you were going to kill someone deliberately? Murder? Why take chances with a recurve? No, a compound is far more likely to do the job. Actually, I’d use a gun.’
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.