The Murder Stone

by Louise Penny

  ‘Now you must remember I was young,’ he warned her. ‘And in love. And not very worldly-wise.’

  ‘This is going to be good,’ said Peter to Clara.

  ‘Reine-Marie invited me round after mass on a Sunday for lunch, to meet her family. There were seventy-three siblings.’

  ‘Nine,’ his wife corrected him.

  ‘I wanted to impress them, of course, so I spent all week trying to figure out what to take her mother. Nothing too big. Didn’t want to show off. Nothing too small. Didn’t want to appear cheap. I lost sleep. Couldn’t eat. It became the most important thing in my life.’

  ‘What did you take?’ Clara asked.

  ‘A bath mat.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ sputtered Peter. Gamache shook his head, unable to speak. As the others broke into howls of laughter he finally found his voice.

  ‘Well,’ he wiped away his tears, ‘it never goes bad.’

  ‘Or out of style, but doesn’t it lack a certain je ne sais quoi?’

  ‘His gift giving has improved,’ admitted Reine-Marie.

  ‘Soap dishes?’ asked Clara.

  ‘Toilet plunger?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Shhh,’ whispered Gamache. ‘That’s a surprise for our golden anniversary.’

  ‘And surprise it will be,’ said Clara, laughing. ‘But don’t get us started on toilets.’

  ‘Oh, please. Don’t,’ said Peter, trying to recover himself.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Gamache, clasping Peter by the arm. ‘Your turn, old son.’

  ‘OK.’ Peter relented and took a swig of Drambuie. ‘When I first went away to school and was unpacking all my little socks and shoes and slacks, I found a note pinned to my blazer in my father’s handwriting. It said, Never use the first stall in a public washroom.’

  Peter, grown up and greying, stood in the room, but what Gamache saw was a serious little boy with spots on his hands holding the note. And memorizing it, as one might memorize a passage from the Bible. Or a poem.

  Breathes there the man with soul so dead?

  What kind of man was Charles Morrow that he’d write that to his son? Gamache was longing to ask Peter about the statue, but hadn’t yet had the chance.

  ‘Good advice,’ said Reine-Marie and they all looked at her. ‘If you’re in a hurry, where do you go? To the first stall.’

  She didn’t need to say more.

  Peter, who’d never decoded what his father had meant but knew in his heart it must be vital, wondered.

  Was it that mundane? Was it really just practical advice after all? As a child, even as a teen, and even, dare he admit it, as an adult, he’d fantasized that it was a secret code. Given only to him. Entrusted to him. By his father. A code that would lead to treasure.

  Never use the first stall in a public washroom.

  And he hadn’t.

  Gamache was just about to ask Peter’s opinion of the statue when Thomas strolled in.

  ‘You were talking about public washrooms?’ he said.

  ‘Toilets?’ asked Mariana, breezing into the room with Sandra. ‘Bean’ll be sorry to be in bed. It’s the sort of conversation a ten year old is good at.’

  ‘Hello.’ Julia walked through the screen doors from the terrasse carrying a demi-tasse of espresso. ‘There’s lightning and thunder out there. I think a storm’s coming.’

  ‘No,’ said Thomas sarcastically. ‘Peter’s been talking about toilets, Julia.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Peter quickly.

  Julia stared at him.

  ‘Men’s or women’s?’ asked Mariana, with exaggerated interest.

  ‘Probably men’s,’ said Thomas.

  ‘That’s it, that’s enough.’ Julia threw her coffee cup to the carpet, where it shattered. The action was so unexpected, so violent, everyone in the room jumped.

  ‘Stop it,’ she rasped. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Calm down,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Like you? You think I don’t know?’ She started to smile, or at least to show her teeth. ‘Thomas the success, the talented one,’ she hissed at him.

  ‘And you.’ She turned to Mariana. ‘Magilla, the gorilla. The screw-up with the screwed-up child. Bean. Bean? What kind of a name is that? What kind of kid is that? You think you’re so smart? Well I know. I know it all.

  ‘And you. You’re the worst.’ She closed in on Peter. ‘Gimme, gimme, gimme. You’d destroy anything and everything to get what you want, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Julia.’ Peter could barely breathe.

  ‘You haven’t changed. Cruel and greedy. Empty. A coward and a hypocrite. You all came here to suck up to Mother. You hated Father. And he knew it. But I know something none of you does.’ Now she was up against Peter, tilting her face up to his. He didn’t move, kept his eyes fixed on the painting above the fireplace. The Krieghoff. Lines and colour he understood. His sister’s hysterics were unfathomable, terrifying.

  ‘I know Daddy’s secret,’ Julia was hissing. ‘I had to spend my life as far from you as I could get to figure it out, but I finally did. And now I’m back. And I know.’

  She grinned malevolently and stared around the room. Her eyes finally came to rest on the Gamaches. For a moment she seemed confused, surprised to see them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered, the spell broken, the rage gone. She looked down at the mess she’d made. ‘I’m sorry.’ She bent to pick it up.

  ‘No, don’t,’ Reine-Marie said, stepping forward.

  Julia stood up, holding a piece of the cup, a slight trickle of blood on her finger. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Her eyes filled with tears and her chin dimpled. All her rage dissolved. Turning, she ran out of the screen door leaving behind her family, who might have had their heads mounted on the old log walls. They’d been hunted, slaughtered, and put on display.

  ‘She’s cut her finger,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I’ll take her a bandage.’

  ‘She’s not hurt badly,’ said Sandra. ‘She’ll be fine. Leave her.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Gamache, grabbing the flashlight on the table by the door. He and Reine-Marie followed the bright spot of the flashlight as it played on the rough stones of the terrasse then the grass. They followed the light and the sobs and found Julia sitting on the lawn, near the edge of the forest. Near the statue.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Reine-Marie, kneeling down and putting an arm round her.

  ‘It’s. Not. All. Right.’

  ‘Let me see your hand.’

  All fight gone, Julia raised her hand. Reine-Marie examined it. ‘The other one, please.’ She found the small cut on Julia’s finger and dabbed at the blood with a Kleenex. ‘It’s stopped bleeding. You’ll be fine.’

  Julia laughed, sputtering slime from her nose and mouth. ‘You think?’

  ‘We all get angry, we all shout and say things we don’t mean,’ said Reine-Marie.

  Gamache handed Julia his handkerchief and she blew into it.

  ‘I meant them.’

  ‘Then things that didn’t need to be said.’

  ‘They did.’ She was stuffing her innards back, sewing herself up, putting her skin, her make-up, her party frock back on.

  ‘They’ll never forgive me, you know.’ She stood up, smoothed her dress, and wiped the tears and mucus from her face. ‘Morrows have long memories for things like this. It was a mistake to come back. Foolish, really.’ She gave a small snort of laughter. ‘I think I might leave before breakfast tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Talk to them. If you leave without seeing them it’ll just get worse.’

  ‘And you think talking would help? You don’t know the Morrows. I’ve said way too much already.’

  Gamache had been silent, watching and listening. And holding the torch. In the light he could just see her face, unnaturally pale, with harsh lines and shadows.

  Not everything needed to be brought into the light, he knew. Not every truth needed to be told. And he knew she was right. He’d seen
their faces as she’d fled. She’d said too much. He didn’t understand it, couldn’t see it, but he knew something foul had just come to light, come to life.

  NINE

  Gamache woke a few hours later to a rending, ripping sound as though something huge was tearing towards them. Then a sudden crash.

  Thunder. Not quite on top of them, but close.

  Drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled and soaking around his feet, he got up and quietly splashed cold water across his neck and on his face, tasting salt and feeling the stubble under his fingers and momentary relief from the sullen heat.

  ‘Can’t sleep either?’

  ‘Just woke up,’ he said, returning to bed. He turned his sodden pillow over and laid his head on the cool pillowcase. But within moments it too was hot, and damp with perspiration. Any moment now, he felt, the air must surely turn to liquid.

  ‘Oh,’ said Reine-Marie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The clock just went out.’ She stretched out and he heard a click, though nothing happened. ‘The light’s gone as well. Storm’s knocked out the electricity.’

  Gamache tried to fall back to sleep, but an image kept intruding. Of Charles Morrow, alone in the garden, illuminated by the flashes of lightning. Then in darkness again.

  He’d expected the statue to be imperious, commanding. But as the canvas hood had slipped from the sculpture there’d been the most astonishing sight.

  The statue was a deep undulating grey, and instead of holding his head high and proud he was bowed slightly. He looked off balance, as though about to step forward. But this Charles Morrow was not full of purpose and plans. This stooped, grey man hesitated on his pedestal.

  There’d been silence when the canvas had collapsed to the ground and the Morrows looked once again upon their father.

  Mrs Finney had walked up to the statue. One by one the children followed, circling it like nuts around a bolt, then Mrs Finney turned to the others.

  ‘I think it’s time for a drink.’

  And that was that.

  Once they’d gone inside Gamache and Reine-Marie had approached and looked up into that handsome face. Straight noble nose. Forehead high. Lips full and slightly pursed. Not in judgement, nor, Gamache thought, in sour reflection, but with something to say. But his eyes were the most striking. They looked ahead and what they saw had turned this man to stone.

  What did Charles Morrow see? And why would the sculptor put that there? And how had the Morrows really felt? Gamache suspected that last question was the most difficult of all.

  Light flashed for an instant into their bedroom. Instinctively he started counting. One one thousand, two one thousand.

  Another rumble and another crash.

  ‘Angels bowling,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Mother told me.’

  ‘Better than my answer. I actually thought it might be a storm.’

  ‘Ignorant man. What kind of storm? Deciduous or coniferous?’

  ‘Aren’t those trees?’

  ‘I believe you’re thinking of the cumulous tree.’

  ‘I have an idea,’ he said, getting off the damp bed.

  Minutes later, in their light summer dressing gowns, they’d snuck downstairs, through the living room and onto the screen porch. Sitting in the wicker rocking chairs they watched as the storm moved towards them down the lake. Reine-Marie picked plump purple cherries from a fruit bowl and Gamache ate a juicy peach. They were ready for whatever was coming. Or so they thought.

  The silence was suddenly shattered as the wind picked up, keening through the trees and sending the leaves into wild, simpering applause for what was coming. Gamache could hear the lake too. Waves crashed against the dock and the shore, whitecaps breaking as the storm marched towards them. Gamache and Reine-Marie watched as the lightning bolted and approached, spearing its way down the bay.

  It was a big one. The wind hit the porch, bowing the screens inward as though grabbing for them.

  The lake and mountains flashed visible for an instant. Beside him Gamache could feel Reine-Marie tense as another huge fork of lightening shot into the forest across the lake.

  ‘One one thousand, two—’

  A huge explosion of thunder drowned their counting. The storm was less than two miles off, and heading straight for them. Gamache wondered if the Manoir had a lightning rod. It must, he thought, otherwise it would have been struck and burned years ago. Another lightning bolt lanced into the forest across the bay and they heard a huge rending crack, as an old-growth tree was destroyed.

  ‘Perhaps we should go inside,’ said Reine-Marie, but just as they rose a massive gust of wind hit the screen porch and with it a wash of rain. They stumbled inside, drenched and a little shaken.

  ‘God, you scared me,’ a small, quivering voice said.

  ‘Madame Dubois, désolée,’ said Reine-Marie. Any more conversation was drowned out by another blast of lightning and thunder. But in that flash the Gamaches saw figures running across the Great Room, like spectres, as though the storm had pushed the Manoir into the netherworld.

  Then small spots of light began appearing in the room. Torrential rain pounded against the windows and doors could be heard banging furiously in the wind.

  The spots of light began converging on them and they saw in an instant that Pierre, Elliot, Colleen the gardener and a few others had found flashlights. Within moments they’d swarmed away, closing storm shutters and locking doors and windows. There was no space for counting now between lightning and thunder. The storm was caught between the mountains, unable to escape. It hurled itself against the Manoir, over and over. Gamache and Reine-Marie helped and before long they were sealed into the log lodge.

  ‘Do you have a lightning rod?’ Gamache asked Madame Dubois.

  ‘We do,’ she said, but in the wavering light she looked uncertain.

  Peter and Clara joined them and after a few minutes Thomas and Sandra appeared. The rest of the guests and staff were either sleeping through it, or too frightened to move.

  For an hour or more the massive logs shuddered, the windows rattled, the copper roof pounded. But it held.

  The storm moved on, to terrorize other creatures deeper in the forest. And the Gamaches returned to bed, throwing open their windows for the cool breeze the storm had left as an apology.

  In the morning the power was restored, though the sun wasn’t. It was overcast and drizzly. The Gamaches rose late to the seductive aromas of Canadian back bacon, coffee and mud. The smell of the Quebec countryside after a heavy rain. They joined the others in the dining room, nodding hellos.

  After ordering café au lait and waffles with wild blueberries and maple syrup, and visiting the buffet, they settled in for a lazy, rainy day. But just as their waffles arrived they heard a faraway sound, something so unexpected it took Gamache a moment to recognize it.

  It was a scream.

  Rising rapidly he strode across the dining room, while the others were still looking at each other. Pierre caught up with him and Reine-Marie followed, her eyes on her husband.

  Gamache stopped in the hallway.

  The shriek came again.

  ‘Upstairs,’ said Pierre.

  Gamache nodded and started up, taking the stairs two at a time. At the landing they listened again.

  ‘What’s above us?’

  ‘The attic. There’s a stairway hidden behind a bookcase. Over here.’ They followed Pierre to a slight widening of the hall, where bookcases had been built in. One was swung open. Gamache peered up. There was an old staircase, dim and dusty.

  ‘Stay here.’

  ‘Armand?’ Reine-Marie began, but stopped when he held up his hand. He ran up the stairs, disappearing round a bend.

  A bare bulb swished from side to side. Dust floated in what little light it threw and cobwebs hung from the rafters. It smelled of spiders. Gamache forced himself to stop and listen. There was nothing but the thumping of his heart. He stepped forward and a floorboard creaked. Behind him came another shrie
k. He turned and plunged into a darkened room. Bending low, ready to leap to either side, he stared and felt a pressure in his own throat.

  Hundreds of eyes were staring at him. Then he saw a head. And another. Eyes peered at him from decapitated heads. And just as his racing brain registered that, something flew at him from a corner and knocked him almost off balance.

  Bean sobbed and clung, digging small fingers into Gamache’s thigh. He prised them loose and held the child tight in his arms.

  ‘What is it? Is someone else up here? Bean, you must tell me.’

  ‘M-m-monsters,’ Bean whispered, all eyes and dread. ‘We have to get out. Pleeease.’

  Gamache picked Bean up, but the child screamed as though scalded and writhed in his arms. He lowered Bean back to the ground and held the small hand and together they ran to the stairs and down. A crowd had gathered.

  ‘You again. What have you done to Bean this time?’ Mariana demanded, clawing at her child.

  ‘Bean found the heads?’ Madame Dubois asked. Gamache nodded. The old woman knelt down and put a wrinkled hand on the tiny heaving back.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Bean. It was my fault. Those are just decorations. Animal heads. Someone shot them years ago and had them stuffed. I can see how they’d be scary, but they can’t hurt you.’

  ‘Of course they can’t hurt you.’ Another withered hand landed on Bean’s back and the child stiffened. ‘Now, no tears, Bean. Madame Dubois has explained it all. What do you say?’

  ‘Merci, Madame Dubois,’ was heard, muffled.

  ‘No, Bean. You must apologize for trespassing. You must have known you shouldn’t go there. You’re old enough to know better.’

  ‘Non, ce n’est pas nécessaire,’ Madame Dubois protested, but it was clear no one was going anywhere until the child apologized for being frightened half to death. And eventually Bean did.

  All returned to normal and within minutes the Gamaches were in their wicker rocking chairs in the screen porch. There was something deeply peaceful about a rainy summer day. Outside the rain was soft and steady and refreshing after the terrible heat and humidity. The lake was dull and small squalls could be seen marking the surface. Reine-Marie did crossword puzzles as Gamache stared out of the screen porch and listened to the rain drum steadily on the roof and drip to the grass from the trees. In the distance he heard the call of the ‘Oh Canada’ bird, and a crow. Or was it a raven? Gamache wasn’t very good with bird calls, except loons. But this was like no bird he’d ever heard before.