Dr. Harris and Inspector Beauvoir watched the dead man being lowered to the ground. At the same time, Chief Inspector Gamache walked over to the living man. Tom Scott.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sick and cold. Can I go now?”
“In a minute.”
“I’ve been here for hours.” Tom Scott looked at his watch. “It’s almost ten. I’ve missed breakfast. My wife will kill me.”
“Perhaps you should call her.”
Scott paused. “That’s okay.”
“I insist. I wouldn’t want her to worry.”
“I already called. She’s fine.”
Seeing Gamache’s face, he said in a small voice, “This is my vacation. I don’t get many. I just want to get back to the Inn.”
“Tell me again what happened.”
Tom Scott took a deep breath. “I woke up early, and it was a nice day, so I decided to go for a jog. The woman at the front desk said there were paths cut through the woods where I could run. So I did. After about five minutes, I found . . .” He jerked his head toward the now-empty tree.
“What did you do?”
“I had my cell phone with me, so I called the police. Then I called my wife.”
Gamache studied Tom Scott. He was lying. That much was certain. But why? What was this nervous little man hiding?
“And then what did you do?”
“I waited for the cops. What else would I do? Keep on jogging?”
“You might have tried to help the man.”
“Are you crazy?” Scott yelled. “Did you see what he looked like? You should thank me for even stopping and calling. I could have just run away. But I didn’t.”
Scott was so angry he trembled.
The chief inspector waited. And waited. Quietly staring at Tom Scott.
“What?” Scott’s voice was high, like a girl’s. “What is it?”
“You might have helped the man,” Gamache said again.
“He was dead!”
“He certainly was by the time we arrived.”
“What are you saying?” Scott’s face went from red to white. “That I had something to do with this?”
Armand Gamache said nothing. He knew that screaming and yelling upset people. But silence was even more disturbing.
“Tell me the truth, Mr. Scott,” the chief inspector’s voice was calm but commanding. Here was a man used to leading and used to being followed.
“I am.” Tom Scott dropped his eyes to the dead leaves on the ground. A few feet away lay the dead man. The earth seemed covered in death.
Gamache decided to drop the subject and move to another topic.
“You told one of my officers that the man looked familiar. Where did you see him?”
“The Inn. I think he might be one of the guests.”
“Chief?” Inspector Beauvoir waved. He and Dr. Harris were kneeling over the body.
“Excuse me,” Gamache said, and walked over. “What have you found?”
He knelt to join them.
“He’s been dead since last night, probably since early evening,” said Dr. Harris. “Say, seven or eight o’clock. Hanged himself with medium-weight rope. His neck is broken. I suspect he climbed to the second branch, tied the rope on, then tied it around his neck.”
“And threw himself off,” said Inspector Beauvoir.
The chief inspector looked down at the dead man’s face. What despair had driven him to kill himself? And in this terrible way?
“Would his death have been fast?”
“Very,” said Dr. Harris.
That was something, the chief thought. Perhaps he didn’t suffer in death the way he had suffered in life.
“Can I go?” Tom Scott called.
“Do we have his information?” Gamache asked. Beauvoir nodded.
The chief rose. “You can go, but please don’t leave the Inn and Spa.”
“He gives me the creeps,” said Dr. Harris, watching Scott disappear into the woods.
“Creeps?” asked Beauvoir. “Is that your medical judgment? Does he give you the willies, too?”
“No. You give me the willies.”
“You wish.” Beauvoir smiled and all but winked.
Dr. Harris blushed and silently cursed herself. Inspector Beauvoir was kneeling on the opposite side of the body. He was in his mid-thirties, lean, and athletic. His hair was dark and his eyes playful. Beauvoir always made her feel a little uncomfortable.
Chief Inspector Gamache was another matter. She found him very attractive, too, though not as a lover. In his mid-fifties, he was old enough to be her father. His dark hair was greying, and so was his trim moustache. Where Beauvoir was slim, Gamache was a large man, without being fat. Where Beauvoir was active, always moving, always ready with a quick comment, Gamache was calm. But the most striking thing about Armand Gamache was his deep brown eyes.
They were kind.
“Who is he?” Gamache looked at the man lying between them.
“That’s why I called you over, Chief,” said Beauvoir. “We don’t know. We’ve been through his pockets, and there wasn’t a wallet. Not even papers.”
“Nothing? Not even a suicide note?”
Beauvoir shook his head. That was the real mystery. They’d find out who this man was easily enough, but the real question was, why didn’t he write a note? Not everyone who committed suicide left a note, but not leaving one was rare. Most people wanted to explain. It was the last natural act of a person about to do something very unnatural.
“So far, nothing.”
Gamache stood. The others joined him.
“What can you tell us, doctor?”
“I can tell you that he’s in his late forties or early fifties. His hands are soft. He’s an office worker, I’d say. His nails are trimmed. We didn’t find anything under them.”
“Nothing?” Gamache asked.
She shook her head.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Dr. Harris looked at Gamache. He rarely questioned her so closely. “Why?”
“I was just wondering.”
“I’ll have more for you later.” She signalled the paramedics to take away the body and turned to follow them.
“May I join you?” Chief Inspector Gamache fell into step beside her. “Inspector Beauvoir will continue the work at the scene. I want to check the Inn and Spa.”
“And the fact that the place is warm and you might find hot coffee there has nothing to do with it?”
“Nothing at all, doctor. I’m shocked at your suggestion.” But he smiled a little as they followed the path out of the woods.
“Ever climb a tree, doctor?” he asked after a minute.
She grinned. “Of course I have. What Canadian child hasn’t?”
“So have I,” he said. “But that man hasn’t. Not recently.”
Chief Inspector Gamache nodded toward the body being carried just ahead of them.
“How do you know?” Dr. Harris asked.
“Think about it.”
Under their feet, twigs snapped and dead maple leaves swished. The forest smelled of moss and pine.
Dr. Harris thought about climbing trees. Reaching for the branches. Worrying one would break and she’d fall. But that was part of the fun. Anything could happen.
And then she stopped, amazed that she’d missed it.
She looked down at her hands, then up into the chief’s thoughtful eyes.
“His hands,” she said. “They were clean. No dirt. No tree bark. He didn’t climb that tree himself.”
“No,” said Gamache sadly. “He was helped up it and helped off it. He was murdered.”