The Murder Stone

by Louise Penny

  ‘Thanks for calling,’ said Daniel and hung up.

  Gamache stood with the phone to his ear, stunned. Had it really gone so far wrong?

  ‘Was it bad?’ Reine-Marie asked.

  ‘Bad enough.’ Gamache hung up. ‘But we’ll work it out.’

  He wasn’t worried, really. He and Daniel argued sometimes, as he did with his daughter Annie. Disagreements were natural, he told himself. But this was different. He’d hurt his son in a place he himself knew. He’d questioned his ability as a father.

  ‘Oh good, you’re back.’

  Beauvoir swung into the room, narrowly avoiding a technician carrying a huge box. ‘Agent Lacoste’s just finishing her search of the guest rooms. They’ve been all over the buildings. Nothing. And I’ve interviewed Thomas, Mariana and just now Sandra. They’re not exactly the Waltons.’

  Equipment was arriving and the old log library was being transformed into a modern incident room. Desks were cleared, computers hooked up, blackboards and foolscap put up on easels, ready for Inspector Beauvoir’s facts, for witness lists and movement charts. For evidence lists and clues.

  ‘We have a problem, Chief.’ This came from a technician kneeling beside a computer.

  ‘I’ll be right with you. Did you get through to the B&B?’

  ‘All arranged,’ said Reine-Marie.

  ‘Inspector, will you join me? We’ll drive over to Three Pines with Madame Gamache then head on to the Sherbrooke detachment. We’re meeting the crane operator there in an hour.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Beauvoir, adjusting an easel and fishing in a box for magic markers.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Gamache stood over the technician.

  ‘This place. Hasn’t been rewired in years, sir. I don’t think we can plug these in.’ She held up the plug for a computer.

  ‘I’ll find the maître d’,’ said Beauvoir, heading to the dining room.

  Fucking country. Middle of nowhere. He’d been doing quite well until now. Trying to ignore the mosquitoes and blackflies and no-see-’ems. At least in Montreal you see what’s coming at you. Cars. Trucks. Kids jonesing on crack. Big things. Out here everything’s hidden, everything’s hiding. Tiny bloodsucking bugs, spiders and snakes and animals in the forests, rotten wiring behind walls made from tree trunks for God’s sake. It was like trying to conduct a modern murder investigation in Fred Flintstone’s cave.

  ‘Bonjour?’ he called. No one.

  ‘Anyone there?’ He poked his head into the dining room. Empty.

  ‘Hello?’ What, was it siesta time? Maybe they were out shooting dinner. He swung open a door and stepped into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, hello. Can I help you?’

  A voice, deep and sing-song, came from a walk-in cold room. Then a woman walked out, carrying a roast. She wore a white apron round her neck and tied at her thick waist. It was simple, no-nonsense. Nothing cute written on it. She marched towards him, her eyes keen and enquiring. She was six feet if she was an inch, Beauvoir guessed. Far from young and far from slim. Her hair was curly, black and grey, short and unbecoming. Her hands were huge, indelicate.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ The voice sounded as though she’d swallowed it.

  Beauvoir stared.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ the throaty voice asked, as the roast was slapped down on the maple cutting block.

  Beauvoir was all tingles. He tried to stop staring, but couldn’t. Instead of feeling his heart racing, he actually felt it slow down. Calm down. Something happened and all the tension, all the excess energy, all the insistence, left.

  He relaxed.

  ‘Do I know you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He stepped forward. ‘I’m Inspector Beauvoir. Jean Guy Beauvoir, with the Sûreté.’

  ‘Of course. I should have known.’

  ‘Why? Do you know me?’ he asked, hopeful.

  ‘No, I know Madame Martin was killed.’

  He was disappointed. He wanted her to know him. To explain this familiarity he suddenly felt. It was disquieting.

  Beauvoir looked at the woman who had done this to him. She must have been almost sixty, was built like an oak, moved like a trucker, spoke as if she’d swallowed a tuba.

  ‘Who are you?’ he managed to get out.

  ‘I’m the chef here. Véronique Langlois.’

  Véronique Langlois. It was a lovely name but it meant nothing. He felt sure he knew her.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ she asked.

  What could she do to help? Think, man, think.

  ‘The maître d’. I’m looking for him.’

  ‘He’s probably through there.’ She pointed to swinging double doors from the kitchen. Beauvoir thanked her and walked out in a daze.

  Through the French doors he saw the maître d’ talking to one of the waiters on the deserted terrasse outside.

  ‘You think this job is so difficult? Try planting trees or working in a mine, or cutting lawns at a cemetery all summer.’

  ‘Look, I don’t care what you did at my age. It doesn’t interest me. All I know is Julia Martin’s dead and someone here did it.’

  ‘Do you know anything about her death, Elliot?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, boy. If you know something—’

  ‘You think I’d tell you? She was a decent person and someone killed her. That’s all I know.’

  ‘You’re lying. You spent time with her, didn’t you?’

  ‘Time? What? All the spare time you give us? I work twelve hours a day, when would I have time to spend with anyone?’

  ‘Are you going to go through life complaining?’

  ‘Depends. Are you going to go through life bending over?’

  Elliot turned and stomped away. Beauvoir held back, curious to see what the maître d’ would do when he thought no one was watching.

  Pierre Patenaude stared after Elliot, grateful no one had heard their conversation. It’d been a mistake to tell Elliot about his own summer jobs, he could see that. But it was too late now. Then he remembered his father’s words, spoken in the boardroom, surrounded by ancient, serious men.

  ‘Everyone gets a second chance. But not a third.’

  He’d fired a man that day. Pierre had seen it. It was horrible.

  This was Elliot’s third chance. He’d have to fire Elliot. Once the investigation was over and the police gone. It was no use doing it before that, since Elliot had to hang around anyway. The maître d’ hadn’t had to fire many people, but every time he did he thought of that day in the boardroom, and his father. And he thought of what his father did later.

  Years after the firing his father had quietly invested hundreds of thousands of his own dollars in helping the man he’d fired start his own company.

  He’d given him a third chance after all. But then he suspected his father was kinder than he was.

  Turning round, Pierre was startled to see a man watching through the doors. Then he waved as the Inspector joined him on the stone terrasse.

  ‘I’ve arranged accommodations for you and the other officer. We’ve put you in the main building, not far from the Chief Inspector.’

  Beauvoir swatted a mosquito. More swarmed.

  ‘Merci, Patron. Quite a kid.’ Beauvoir gestured towards Elliot’s retreating back.

  ‘You heard that? I’m sorry. He’s just upset.’

  Beauvoir had thought the maître d’ heroic for not punching the kid but now he wondered if Pierre Patenaude wasn’t just weak, letting others, even kids, walk all over him. Beauvoir didn’t like weakness. Murderers were weak.

  They left the maître d’ and the technicians to sort out the electrical problems while Gamache, Reine-Marie and Beauvoir headed to Three Pines. Beauvoir sat in the back seat. Behind Mom and Dad. He quite liked the thought. Ever since his encounter with the chef he’d felt strangely relaxed.

  ‘Do you know the chef at the Manoir?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve met
him,’ said Reine-Marie.

  ‘Her,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Véronique Langlois.’ Just saying her name calmed him. It was the oddest sensation.

  Reine-Marie shook her head. ‘Armand?’

  ‘I met her for the first time this morning.’

  ‘Strange that we haven’t met her,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I thought chefs loved to take bows. Maybe we met her and forgot.’

  ‘Believe me, she’s not easily forgotten,’ said Gamache, remembering the massive, confident woman. ‘Agent Lacoste will have interviewed the staff by the time we get back. She’ll know more about her then. You know, I had the feeling I knew her.’

  ‘Me too.’ Beauvoir sat forward between the two front seats. ‘Have you ever been walking down the street and smelled something, and suddenly you’re someplace else? It’s as if the smell transports you.’

  With anyone other than the Chief Inspector he’d feel foolish saying that.

  ‘I do. But it’s more than that,’ said Gamache. ‘A feeling goes with it. I’ll suddenly feel melancholy or at ease or calm. For no reason, except the scent.’

  ‘Oui, c’est ça. Especially an emotion. That’s what I felt when I walked into the kitchen.’

  ‘Was it just the smells of the kitchen, do you think?’ Reine-Marie asked.

  Beauvoir considered. ‘No. I didn’t have that feeling until I saw the chef. It was her. It’s frustrating. It’s as if it’s just beyond my grasp. But I know her.’

  ‘And how did you feel?’ asked Madame Gamache.

  ‘I felt safe.’

  He’d also felt an almost overwhelming desire to laugh. A sort of joy had bubbled up in his chest.

  He thought about that as the Volvo splashed along the muddy roads towards the village of Three Pines.

  FIFTEEN

  The Volvo came to rest on the crest of the hill. All three got out and walked to the edge, looking down on the tiny village. It sat in a gentle valley, surrounded by forested hills and mountains.

  Gamache had never seen Three Pines in summer. The leaves of the maple, apple and oak trees obscured slightly the old homes round the village green. But that made them all the more magical, as though half hiding their beauty only added to it. Three Pines revealed itself slowly, and only to people with the patience to wait, to sit quietly in one of the faded armchairs in the bistro, sipping Cinzano or café au lait, and watch the changing face of the venerable village.

  To their right the white spire of the chapel rose, and the Rivière Bella Bella tumbled down from the millpond then meandered behind the homes and businesses.

  In a semicircle at the far end of the village green the shops sat in a small brick embrace. Myrna’s new and used bookstore, Olivier’s Bistro, with its bold blue and white umbrellas protecting the assortment of chairs and tables on the sidewalk. Next to that Sarah’s Boulangerie. An elderly, erect woman was just leaving, limping and carrying a sagging net bag. She was followed by a duck.

  ‘Ruth.’ Gamache nodded. Rosa the duck was a dead giveaway. They watched as the embittered old poet went into the general store. Rosa waited outside.

  ‘If we hurry we can miss her,’ said Beauvoir, turning for the car.

  ‘But I don’t want to miss her,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I called her from the Manoir. We’re having tea together this afternoon.’

  Beauvoir stared at Madame Gamache, as though for the last time. She was about to be devoured by Ruth Zardo, who ground up good people and turned them into poetry.

  Villagers walked dogs and ran errands or, more precisely, strolled errands. Some could be seen with their floppy gardening hats and gloves and rubber boots kneeling in the moist gardens, snipping roses for bouquets. Each home had an abundant perennial bed. Nothing designed, no new species, none of the latest horticultural offerings. Nothing that wouldn’t have been found in gardens by soldiers returning home from the Great War. Three Pines changed, but it changed slowly.

  Back in the car they drove slowly down rue du Moulin and came to a stop at Gabri’s B&B. The large, rumpled man in his mid-thirties stood on the wide porch, as though waiting for them.

  ‘Salut, mes amis.’ He walked down the wooden stairs and grabbed Reine-Marie’s case from Gamache after giving them all, even Beauvoir, an affectionate hug and kiss on both cheeks. ‘Welcome back.’

  ‘Merci, Patron.’ Gamache smiled, enjoying being back in the little village.

  ‘Olivier and I were so sorry to hear about Peter’s sister,’ Gabri said as he showed Reine-Marie to her room in the inn. It was warm and inviting, the bed a dark, rich wood, the bedding in clean, luxurious white. ‘How’re they doing?’

  ‘It’s a shock,’ said Gamache, ‘but they’re coping.’ What else could he say?

  ‘Terrible.’ The large man shook his head. ‘Clara called and asked me to pack a bag for them. She sounded a bit stressed. Do you clog?’ he asked Reine-Marie, mimicking the old dance, a rustic cross between tap and Celtic.

  It wasn’t the next obvious question and she stared.

  ‘I’ve never tried,’ she said.

  ‘Well, Mary Queen of the World, you’re in for a treat. In a few days we have the Canada Day celebrations on the village green and we’re putting together a clogging demonstration. I’ve signed you up.’

  ‘Please take me back to the place with the murderer,’ Reine-Marie whispered in her husband’s ear as she kissed him goodbye at the car minutes later, smelling his slight rosewater and sandalwood scent. As he drove away she waved, still in the world of his scent, a world of comfort and kindliness and calm, and no clogging.

  Chief Inspector Armand Gamache walked into the Sûreté offices in Sherbrooke and introduced himself. ‘Perhaps you can direct us to your evidence area.’

  The agent behind the desk leapt to his feet. ‘Yessir. The statue’s through here.’

  They followed the agent to the back of the station and into a large garage. Charles Morrow was leaning against a wall as though ordering a huge drink. An agent sat in a chair in front of the statue, guarding it.

  ‘I thought it best to be sure no one interfered with it. I know you took blood and soil samples. We’ve sent them to the lab by courier, but I took some more, to be sure.’

  ‘You’re very thorough,’ said Gamache. Their feet echoed across the concrete floor of the garage. Gamache had the impression Charles Morrow was waiting for them.

  He nodded to the agent guarding the statue and dismissed him, then reached out a hand and touched the stone torso. He held it there, not really sure what he expected to feel. A distant pulse, perhaps.

  And Gamache indeed felt something unexpected. He moved his hand to another position, this time on Morrow’s arm, and rubbed up and down.

  ‘Jean Guy, look at this.’

  Beauvoir leaned closer. ‘What?’

  ‘Feel it.’

  Beauvoir put his hand where the chief’s had been. He’d expected to feel it cool to the touch, but it was warm as though Charles Morrow, the miser, had sucked the warmth from the chief.

  But he felt something else. Drawing his brows together he moved his hand to Morrow’s torso and stroked. Then he leaned even closer so that his nose was almost touching the statue.

  ‘But this isn’t stone,’ he said at last.

  ‘I don’t think so either,’ said Gamache, stepping back.

  Charles Morrow was grey. A deep grey in some places, a lighter grey in others. And his surface undulated slightly. At first Gamache thought it was an effect somehow achieved by the sculptor, but touching the statue and looking more closely he realized it was ingrained. The waves, like sagging skin, were part of whatever Charles Morrow had been sculpted from. It was as though this was a real man, a giant. And the giant had petrified.

  ‘What is it? What’s it made of?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Gamache. He was saying that a lot in this case. He looked up into the face of Charles Morrow. Then he took another step back.

  The face had bits of earth and grass still clinging to it. He looked like a
dead man dug up. But the face, beneath its layer of earth, looked determined, resolved. Alive. The arms, held loosely at the waist, palms up, looked as though he had lost something. Traces of blood, now dried, coloured Charles Morrow’s head and hands. His slight stride looked hesitant.

  Taken in parts he gave the impression of a sullen, impatient, greedy, certainly needy, man.

  But taken as a whole Gamache had an entirely different impression. The sum of his parts spoke of longing, of sadness, of resignation mixed with resolve. It was the same feeling he’d had about Charles Morrow the moment the canvas caul had been whisked away at the unveiling. And now Gamache had the impression he was back in a familiar garden in Paris.

  Where most visitors went to the Louvre, the Tuileries, the Tour Eiffel, Armand Gamache went to a quiet courtyard garden behind a tiny museum.

  And there he paid his respects to men long dead.

  For that was the musée of Auguste Rodin. And Armand Gamache went to visit the Burghers of Calais.

  ‘Does the statue remind you of anything?’

  ‘Horror movies. He looks as though he’s about to come alive,’ said Beauvoir.

  Gamache smiled. There was something otherworldly about the statue. And it had killed once, after all.

  ‘Have you ever heard of Les Bourgeois de Calais? The Burghers of Calais?’

  Beauvoir pretended to think.

  ‘Non.’ He had the feeling he was about to. At least the chief wasn’t quoting poetry. Yet.

  ‘He reminds me of them.’ Gamache stepped back again. ‘Auguste Rodin sculpted them. They’re in the Musée Rodin, in Paris, but there’s also one outside the Musée des Beaux Arts in Montreal, if you want to see it.’

  Beauvoir took that as a joke.

  ‘Rodin lived about a hundred years ago, but the story goes back much further, to 1347.’

  He had Beauvoir’s attention. The chief’s deep, thoughtful voice spoke as though reciting a tale and Beauvoir could see the events unfold.

  The port of Calais almost seven hundred years ago. Bustling, rich, strategic. In the middle of the Hundred Years War between the French and the English, though of course they didn’t call it that then. Just war. Calais was an important French port and it found itself under siege by the mighty army of Edward III of England. Expecting to be relieved by Philip VI of France the townspeople settled in, unconcerned. But days stretched to weeks stretched to months and hope stretched to breaking. And beyond. Eventually starvation was at the door, through the gate and in their homes. Still they held on, trusting relief would come. That surely they wouldn’t be forgotten, forsaken.