by Louise Penny
‘No, she had plenty of that. I think she just wanted to hurt. To make us feel guilty. It was her little game. Sending cards, phoning occasionally, but always making sure we knew she was the one who’d made the first move. We owed her. It was subtle, but we Morrows are nothing if not subtle.’
Not as subtle as you think, Gamache thought.
‘We’re a greedy family, Gamache. Greedy and even cruel. I know that. Why do you think I live with Clara in Three Pines? To get as far away as possible. I know salvation when I see it. And Julia? You want to know about Julia?’ He heaved a stone as far as he could into the iron waters. ‘She was the cruellest, the greediest, of us all.’
Sandra snuffed out her cigarette and smiled, smoothing down her slacks. They were tight, but Sandra knew country air made things shrink. Then she walked back into the Manoir. The dining room was empty. There, at the far end, was the dessert tray.
But a movement caught her eye.
Bean.
What was the child doing? Stealing the best desserts, probably.
The two stared at each other and then Sandra noticed something white and gleaming in Bean’s hand. She moved closer.
It was a cookie. A chocolate-covered marshmallow cookie, with the chocolate eaten off, leaving just the mallow and the biscuit, and a guilty-looking child holding it.
‘Bean, what’ve you been doing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That means something. Now tell me.’
Just then an object fell and bounced on the floor between them. Sandra looked up. Dotted on the cathedral ceiling, between and sometimes on the old maple beams, were cookies. Bean had licked the marshmallow then tossed the cookies at the ceiling, sticking them there.
It was a constellation of cookies.
There must have been a pack and a half up there.
Sandra looked sternly at the odd child. And then, just as she opened her mouth to chastise, something else came out. Laughter. A small burp of amusement, then another. Bean, steeled for rebuke, looked surprised. But not half as surprised as Sandra, who’d expected to scold and instead had laughed.
‘Want one?’
Bean held out the box and Sandra took one.
‘You do thith, thee,’ said Bean, sucking the chocolate cone off the top. ‘Then you lick it.’ Bean did. ‘Then you toss it.’
Bean hurled the moistened cookie towards the ceiling. Sandra watched, breath held, to see if it stuck. It did.
‘Try it. I’ll show you.’
Bean, patient and clear, a born teacher, taught Sandra how to stick cookies to the ceiling. Granted, Sandra was a natural, and before long the dining room ceiling was covered, a form of insulation undreamed of by the Robber Barons or the Abinaki. Or Madame Dubois.
Sandra left the room, smiling, having forgotten why she went in. She’d never wanted children, too much work. But sometimes, in the company of an extraordinary child, a kind child, she felt an ache. It was inconceivable that fat, stupid, lazy Mariana had managed to have a baby. It gave Sandra some comfort to think Bean was screwed up. But then sometimes she forgot to hate Bean. And terrible things happened.
‘Where were you?’ Mariana asked when Sandra returned. ‘The police want you.’
‘I was taking a walk. I heard Peter talking to that Chief Inspector and he said the oddest thing.’ She noticed her mother-in-law and raised her voice slightly. ‘He said he thought if his mother died it would be a blessing.’
‘He didn’t,’ said Mariana, clearly delighted. ‘Really?’
‘There’s more. He said Julia was greedy and cruel. Imagine that. She’s barely gone and already he’s badmouthing her, and to a stranger. But maybe I misheard.’
‘What was that?’ Mrs Finney spoke from across the room, her soft pink face turned to them.
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Forget I said anything.’
‘He said Julia was greedy and cruel?’
Mrs Morrow saw again her daughter’s white hand reaching out. So typical of Charles, to do such damage. Especially to Julia. But he’d damaged them all.
And now Peter was continuing his father’s work.
‘I won’t have it. Julia was the most kind, the most sensitive, of all the children. Certainly the most loving.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sandra, and she was beginning to mean it.
‘Who would want to kill your sister?’
Across from Beauvoir sat Thomas Morrow, a man in command even in the wilderness. He smoothed his linen slacks and smiled charmingly.
‘She was a lovely woman. No one would want her dead.’
‘Why not?’
‘Shouldn’t you be asking why?’ But he was suddenly nonplussed.
‘Why?’
‘Huh?’ asked Thomas, lost now. ‘Look, this is ridiculous. My sister is dead, but she can’t have been murdered.’
‘Why not?’
Back there again. Beauvoir loved rattling witnesses.
‘Listen, she lived most of her life in Vancouver. If she angered anyone enough to kill her they’d be there, not here, and sure as hell not in the middle of nowhere.’
‘You’re here.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I heard all about what happened last night. In this very room. That must be the coffee stain.’ He walked over and looked down. He’d found it before, but he liked the drama of this ‘sudden’ discovery.
‘She wasn’t herself, she was upset.’
‘What upset her?’
‘She’d been flustered all day. Father’s unveiling. She and Father had had a falling out. It was emotional for all of us to see that statue, but probably more so for her. It’s a difficult time for her. She’s just been through a very public and messy divorce. Her husband was David Martin, you know.’
His grey-blue eyes slid over to Beauvoir, to make sure he’d understood. Beauvoir already knew about David Martin but was interested in Morrow’s manner. He’d spoken with both malicious pleasure and pride. Pleasure that his little sister had screwed up and married a felon, and pride that the felon was one of the wealthiest men in Canada, even after paying back all that money.
‘Who would want your sister dead?’
‘Nobody. This was a family reunion, a happy time. No one wanted her dead.’
Beauvoir slowly turned his head to look into the misty day and was silent but even a Morrow couldn’t miss his meaning. A hole in the ground outside those windows put the lie to Thomas Morrow’s words.
Don’t believe a thing they say, Mariana Morrow had said. And Beauvoir didn’t.
‘Did Julia have any children?’ Gamache asked as he and Peter emerged from the woods and headed slowly back to the Manoir.
‘None. Don’t even know if they tried. We’re not a big family for kids,’ said Peter. ‘We eat our young.’
Gamache let that join the mist around them. ‘What did you think of the statue of your father?’
Peter didn’t seem fazed by the non sequitur. ‘I didn’t give it any thought. I had no reaction at all.’
‘That’s not possible. Even as an artist you must’ve had an opinion.’
‘Oh, well, as an artist, yes. I can see the merit. Obviously the person who did it has some technique. It wasn’t bad. But he’d never met Father.’
Gamache just kept walking, his large hands clasped behind his back, his gaze alternately on his soaking feet and on the ever growing Manoir.
‘My father never looked like that. Never looked sad or whatever that was on his face. He only ever scowled. And he never, ever stooped. He was huge and, and …’ Peter gestured with his arms, as though sketching the world. ‘Huge. He killed Julia.’
‘His statue killed Julia.’
‘No, I mean before she left, he killed her. He took her spirit and he crushed her. He crushed us all. That’s what you’ve been dying for me to say, isn’t it? Why do you think we have no children, any of us? Look at our role models. Would you?’
‘There is one child. Bean.’
Peter harrumphed.
Again, Gamache was quiet.
‘Bean doesn’t jump.’
Gamache stopped, arrested by this unlikely string of words from his companion.
Bean doesn’t jump.
‘Pardon?’ he asked.
‘Bean doesn’t jump,’ Peter repeated.
He might as well have said, ‘Toaster picture bicycle,’ for all the sense he made.
‘What do you mean?’ Gamache asked, suddenly feeling very stupid.
‘Bean can’t leave the ground.’
Armand Gamache felt the damp seep into his bones.
‘Bean’s feet never leave the ground, at least not together. The child can’t or won’t jump.’
Bean can’t jump, thought Armand Gamache. What family produces a child so earthbound? Mired. How does Bean express excitement? Joy? But thinking about the child, and the family, he had his answer. So far, in ten years, that hadn’t been an issue.
Armand Gamache decided to call his son as soon as he was back at the Manoir.
FOURTEEN
‘Daniel?’
Hi, Dad, enfin. I was beginning to think I’d imagined you.’
Gamache laughed. ‘Mom and I are at the Manoir Bellechasse, not exactly a telecommunications hub.’
As he spoke he looked out of the French doors of the library, across the mint-green wet grass and to the misty lake beyond. A low cloud clung softly to the forest. He could hear birds and insects, and sometimes a splash as a feeding trout or bass jumped. And he could hear the wah-wah of a siren and the irritated honking of a horn.
Paris.
The City of Light mingling with the wilderness. What a world we live in, he thought.
‘It’s nine p.m. here. What time is it there?’ Daniel asked.
‘Almost three. Is Florence in bed?’
‘We’re all in bed, I’m embarrassed to admit. Ah, Paris.’ Daniel laughed his deep, easy rumble. ‘But I’m glad we finally connected. Here, wait, let me just get to another room.’
Gamache could see him in their tiny flat in Saint-Germaindes-Prés. Moving to another room wouldn’t guarantee either privacy for him or peace for his wife and child.
‘Armand?’ Reine-Marie stood at the door of the library. She’d packed her bags and a porter was just taking them out to the car. They’d talked about it, and Armand had asked her to leave the Bellechasse.
‘I will, of course, if that’s what you want,’ she’d said. But she searched his face. She’d never seen him on a case before, though he talked about his work all the time and often asked her opinion. Unlike most of his colleagues, Gamache hid nothing from his wife. He didn’t think he could keep so much of his life from her and not have it come between them. And she was more important than any career.
‘I’ll worry less if you’re not here,’ he said.
‘I understand,’ and she did. She’d feel the same way, if roles were reversed. ‘But do you mind if I don’t go far?’
‘A pup tent on the edge of the property?’
‘You are intuitive,’ she’d said. ‘But I was thinking of Three Pines.’
‘What a good idea. I’ll just ring Gabri and get you into his B&B.’
‘No, you find out who murdered Julia and I’ll call the B&B.’
And now she was ready to go. Ready but not happy. She’d felt a pain in her chest as she’d watched him negotiating the first steps of the investigation. His people so respectful, the officers from the local detachment so deferential and even frightened of him, until he’d put them at ease. But not too much at ease. She’d watched her husband take command of the situation, naturally. She knew, and he knew, that someone needed to be in charge. And he was by temperament more than rank the natural leader.
She’d never actually witnessed it before, and she’d watched with surprise as a man she knew intimately exposed a whole new side of himself. He commanded with ease because he commanded respect. Except from the Morrows, who seemed to think he’d tricked them. They’d seemed more upset by that than by the death of Julia.
But Armand always said people react differently to death, and it was folly to judge anyone and double folly to judge what people do when faced with sudden, violent death. Murder. They weren’t themselves.
But privately Reine-Marie wondered. Wondered whether what people did in a crisis was, in fact, their real selves. Stripped of artifice and social training. It was easy enough to be decent when all was going your way. It was another matter to be decent when all hell was breaking loose.
Her husband stepped deliberately into all hell every day, and maintained his decency. She doubted the same could be said for the Morrows.
She’d interrupted him. She could see he was on the phone and began to leave the room. Then she heard the word Roslyn.
He was speaking to Daniel and asking after their daughter-in-law. Reine-Marie had tried to speak to Armand about Daniel, but it had never seemed the right time and now it was too late. Standing on the threshold she listened, her heart pounding.
‘I know Mom told you about the names we’ve chosen. Geneviève if it’s a girl—’
‘Beautiful name,’ said Gamache.
‘We think so. But we also think the boy’s name is beautiful. Honoré.’
Gamache had promised himself there’d be no awkward silence when the name was said. There was an awkward silence.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
‘This is my own, my native land!’
The words of the old poem, spoken as always in the deep, calm voice in his head, filled the void. His large hand clasped gently shut as though holding on to something.
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand?
Daniel was in Paris, so far away, but he also felt Daniel was in danger of making a very serious mistake that could propel him further still.
‘I think that might not be the best choice.’
‘Why?’ Daniel sounded curious, not defensive.
‘You know the history.’
‘You told me, but it is history, Dad. And Honoré Gamache is a good name, for a good man. You more than anyone know that.’
‘It’s true.’ Gamache felt a twinge of anxiety. Daniel wasn’t backing down. ‘But more than anyone I also know what can happen in a world not always kind.’
‘You’ve taught us we make our own world. What was that Milton quote we were raised with?
‘The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.
‘It’s what you believe, Dad, and so do I. Remember those walks in the park? You’d take Annie and me and recite poetry all the way there. That was one of your favourites. And mine.’
Gamache felt a fizzing in his throat as he remembered walks, tiny, pudgy fingers in what seemed a massive hand. Not so much holding as being held.
‘One day soon it’ll be my turn. I’ll be taking Florence and Honoré to Parc Mont Royal blabbing poetry all the way.’
‘Blabbing? Don’t you mean reciting in a strong yet musical voice?’
‘Of course. Breathes there the man with soul so dead. Re member that one?’
‘I do.’
‘All the ones you taught me, I’ll teach them, including Milton, including that the mind is its own place and we make our own reality, our own world. Don’t worry,’ Daniel continued, his voice full of reason and patience. ‘Honoré will know the world starts between his ears and is his for the making. And he’ll be taught as I was what a beautiful name that is.’
‘No, Daniel, you’re making a mistake.’ There, he’d said it. The one thing he’d promised himself not to say. Still, Daniel had to be made to see it, had to be stopped from making this well-intentioned but tragic mistake.
In his peripheral vision he saw a movement. Reine-Marie had taken a step into the room. He looked at her. Her
body was composed but her eyes were filled with surprise and anxiety. Still, it had to be done. Sometimes parenting was standing up and doing what was unpopular. Risking censure. Daniel must not be allowed to name his son Honoré.
‘I’d hoped you’d feel differently, Dad.’
‘But why would I? Nothing’s changed.’
‘Time has changed. That was years ago. Decades. You need to let it go.’
‘I’ve seen things. I’ve seen what wilful parents can do to a child. I’ve seen kids so deeply wounded—’ they can’t even jump, he almost said. Their feet never leave the ground. No leap for joy, no skipping rope, no jumping from the dock, no dangling in the arms of a loving and trusted parent.
‘Are you accusing me of hurting our child?’ Daniel’s voice was no longer full of reason and patience. ‘Are you really suggesting I’d hurt my son? He isn’t even born yet and you’re already accusing me? You still see me as a screw-up, don’t you?’
‘Daniel, calm down. I never saw you as a screw-up, you know that.’
Across the room he could hear Reine-Marie inhale.
‘You’re right. Always right. You get to win because you know things I don’t, you’ve seen things I haven’t. And you seem to know I’m so wilful I’d give our child a name that will ruin him.’
‘Life can be hard enough without giving a child a name that will lead to abuse, to bullying.’
‘Yes, it could lead to that, but it could also lead to pride, to self-worth—’
‘He’ll find his own self-worth no matter what name you give him. Don’t handicap him.’
‘You’d consider Honoré a birth defect?’ Daniel’s voice was dangerously distant.
‘I didn’t say that.’ Gamache tried to pull back but knew it had gone too far. ‘Look, we should talk about this in person. I’m sorry if I seemed to say you’d deliberately hurt your child. I know you wouldn’t. You’re a wonderful parent—’
‘Glad you think so.’
‘Any child would be fortunate to be born to you. But you asked how I feel, and it’s possible I’m wrong but I think it would be unfair to name your son Honoré.’