Read Page 37

‘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.Advertisement

‘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.’

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‘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?’

‘What do you have in mind?’ Beauvoir asked the boss. pqdm.com