by Louise Penny
Gamache took a forkful of scrambled eggs with Brie and stared out of the window. Beauvoir was right. But then, it wasn’t any more likely that Peter or Thomas had done it. They were looking at an impossible murder. No one could have budged Charles Morrow, never mind shove him a foot or more until he’d tumbled. And if they did, it would have taken time and made noise. Julia wouldn’t have just stood there and let it happen. But Charles Morrow, like the rest of his family, had been silent.
Besides, the statue scraping along the marble would have made not just noise but scratches and blemishes, but the surface was pristine.
Impossible. The whole thing was impossible. And yet it’d been done.
But another thought dawned and Gamache looked over to the family. Bean couldn’t have done it. Finney couldn’t have done it. Nor could Madame Finney or Mariana or even the men. Not alone.
But together?
‘Peter’s mistaken about Julia’s life insurance,’ said Beauvoir. He’d waited all breakfast to tell them his news. He soaked up the maple syrup with the last bit of crêpe. ‘Madame Finney doesn’t get her daughter’s insurance.’
‘Who does?’ asked Lacoste.
‘Nobody. She wasn’t insured.’ Ha, he thought, loving the looks on their faces. He’d had the night to absorb this unexpected news. The wife of the wealthiest insurance executive in Canada, uninsured?
‘You need to speak to David Martin,’ said Gamache, after a moment’s thought.
‘I have a call in to his lawyer in Vancouver. I hope to be speaking to him by noon.’
‘Honoré Gamache?’
The name sped across the quiet room and landed on their table. Both Beauvoir and Lacoste jerked their heads up, then over to where the Morrows were sitting. Madame Finney was looking at them, a smile on her soft, attractive face.
‘So Honoré Gamache was his father? I knew the name was familiar.’
‘Mother, shhhh,’ said Peter, leaning across the table.
‘What? I’m not saying anything.’ Her voice continued to pierce the dining room. ‘Besides, I’m not the one who should be embarrassed.’
Beauvoir looked over at the chief.
Armand Gamache had a curious smile on his face. He looked almost relieved.
TWENTY-ONE
Clara had left the table. She’d heard enough. She’d tried to feel sympathy for Peter’s mother, had tried to be compassionate and patient. But really, damn her, damn them all, thought Clara as she stomped across the lawn.
She could feel her heart racing and her hands trembling as they always did when she was enraged. And of course her brain didn’t work. It had run away with her heart, the cowards, leaving her defenceless and blithering. Proving to the Morrows once again she was an ill-bred idiot. Because leaving the breakfast table early was rude, but apparently insulting other people wasn’t.
The Morrows seemed to believe there was a special code that allowed them to say what they liked about others, deliberately within their hearing, without its being discourteous.
‘Isn’t that the ugliest baby you’ve ever seen?’
‘You shouldn’t wear white if you’re fat.’
‘She’d be prettier if she didn’t scowl all the time.’
That last had been said about her, on her wedding day, as she’d walked down the aisle smiling and joyful on her father’s arm.
The Morrows could be counted on to choose the right fork and the wrong word. Their comments were always casual. And when confronted they’d look hurt, offended, perplexed.
How often had Clara apologized for being insulted?
And what Mrs Morrow had just said about Gamache’s father was about as insulting as Clara had ever heard.
‘It’s all right, Jean Guy,’ said Gamache a few minutes later as they drove down the rough dirt road towards the local cemetery and the man who made Charles Morrow. ‘I’m used to it. Bert Finney told me he’d known my father at the end of the war. I suppose he said something to his wife.’
‘He didn’t have to.’
‘My father isn’t a secret, you know.’ The Chief Inspector turned to look at Beauvoir, who stared straight ahead at the road, not daring to look at the boss.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I know what people think.’
‘It was a long time ago, and I know the truth.’
Still, Beauvoir stared ahead, hearing the man beside him but also hearing the plummy, rounded voice of Madame Finney and the word that stuck in his head, that stuck in everyone’s. That seemed attached forever to the name Honoré Gamache.
Coward.
‘Clara, are you all right?’
Peter walked quickly across the lawn.
‘I suppose you set your mother straight?’ said Clara, staring at him. His hair stuck out in all directions as though he’d run his hands through it over and over. His shirt was untucked and there were croissant crumbs clinging to his slacks. He stood silent. ‘For God’s sake, Peter, when’re you going to stand up to her?’
‘What? She wasn’t talking about you.’
‘No, she was smearing a friend of yours. Gamache heard every word she said. He was supposed to.’
‘You didn’t say anything.’
‘You’re right.’ Clara remembered the tablecloth tucked into her waistband and giving the breakfast china a tug as she’d jerked to her feet.
All eyes were on her. Do it, they seemed to be saying. Humiliate yourself again.
And, of course, she had. She always did. She’d arm herself with the mantras ‘One more day, just one more day’ and ‘It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter’. She’d meditate and surround herself with white, protective light. But eventually it all failed against the Morrow onslaught, and she’d be standing, quaking like an aspen, in front of them. Incensed, appalled and struck dumb.
And it’d happened again this morning, as Mrs Morrow had explained it all to her family.
‘You’ve never heard the story?’
‘What story?’ Thomas had asked, thrilled. Even Peter seemed eager to hear it. It took the heat off him.
‘Tell us,’ said Peter, throwing Gamache into the fire so that he himself could escape.
‘Irene,’ Bert Finney warned. ‘It was a long time ago. History.’
‘This is important, Bert. The children should hear it.’ She turned back to them, and Clara, God help her, was curious herself.
Irene Finney looked down the table at them. She’d spent most of the night begging, praying, bargaining for sleep. For oblivion. For a few hours away from this loss.
And in the morning, when she awoke, her soft, pink, crusty cheek to the pillow, she’d lost her daughter again. Julia. Now gone, but she’d taken disappointment with her. No more birthdays forgotten, no more empty Sundays waiting for phone calls that never came. Julia at least would never hurt her again. Julia was safe. Safe now to love. That was what the void had coughed up. A dead daughter. But a beloved one. Finally. Someone safe to love. Dead, true. But you can’t have everything.
Then Bert had returned from his morning walk with this wonderful gift. Something else to think about.
Honoré Gamache. Somehow the void had coughed him up as well. And his son.
‘It was just before the war. We all knew Hitler had to be stopped. Canada would join with Britain, that was a given. But then this Gamache started giving speeches against the war. He said Canada should stay out of it. Said no good ever came of violence. He was very articulate. Educated.’
She sounded surprised, as though a beluga had graduated from Laval University.
‘Dangerous.’ She appealed to her husband. ‘Am I wrong?’
‘He believed what he was saying,’ said Mr Finney.
‘That only makes him more dangerous. He convinced a lot of others. Soon there were protests in the streets against going to war.’
‘What happened?’ asked Sandra. She looked up. The ceiling was smooth. Swept clean by the Manoir staff without comment. Not a cookie left. Sandra couldn’t help but feel sad fo
r Bean and all that work. But Bean didn’t seem bothered. In fact, Bean was riveted to the story.
‘Canada delayed entering the war.’
‘Only by a week,’ said Finney.
‘Long enough. It was humiliating. Britain in there, Germany brutalizing Europe. It was wrong.’
‘It was wrong,’ agreed Finney sadly.
‘It was that Gamache’s fault. And even when war was declared he convinced a lot of Quebecers to be conscientious objectors. Conscientious.’ She loaded the word with loathing. ‘There was no conscience involved, only cowardice.’
Her voiced lifted, turning the sentence into a weapon and the last word a bayonet. And across the room, the human target.
‘He went to Europe himself,’ said Finney.
‘With the Red Cross. Never in the front lines. He never risked his own life.’
‘There were a lot of heroes in the ambulance corps,’ said Finney. ‘Brave men.’
‘But not Honoré Gamache,’ said Irene Finney.
Clara waited for Finney to contradict her. She looked over at Peter, some jam on his ill-shaven cheek, eyes down. Thomas and Sandra and Mariana, eyes aglow. Like hyenas falling on prey. And Bean? The child sat on the tiny chair, feet planted firmly, gripping Myths Every Child Should Know.
Clara stood up, taking the tablecloth with her. Peter looked embarrassed. Causing a scene was so much worse than causing pain. Her hands trembled as she grabbed at the cloth and jerked it free. Her eyes were watering, with rage. But she could see the satisfaction in Mrs Morrow’s eyes.
As Clara stumbled from the room, past Gamache himself, and out of the squeaking screen doors the words followed her into the wilderness.
‘Honoré Gamache was a coward.’
‘Monsieur Pelletier?’
‘Oui,’ came the shout from the rafters.
‘My name is Armand Gamache. I’m with the Sûreté du Québec. Homicide.’
Beauvoir wished he could see the sculptor’s face. It was his favourite part of any investigation, except for the arrest. He loved to see people’s faces when they realized a couple of homicide officers were there. From the famed Sûreté.
But he was denied the pleasure. Pelletier was invisible, a voice from above.
‘That would be about that statue,’ came the disembodied voice. Another disappointment. Beauvoir loved passing on the gruesome details and seeing people pale.
‘It would. Could you come down please?’
‘I’m very busy. New commission.’
‘Up there?’ asked Gamache, craning his neck to see the man in the wooden rafters.
‘Of course not up here. I’m fixing ropes to tie on to the piece, so it doesn’t fall over.’
Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged glances. So statues did fall over. Could it be that simple?
With a start Beauvoir saw a scrawny man scuttle down the far wall of the old barn, like a spider. Only after the man landed softly did Beauvoir realize there was a makeshift rope ladder there. He turned to Gamache who’d also been watching, his eyes wide at the thought of anyone climbing up and down there.
Yves Pelletier was almost emaciated. He wore loose white shorts and a filthy undershirt, barely concealing his bony chest and ribs. His arms, though, were enormous. He looked like Popeye.
‘Yves Pelletier,’ he said with a broad townships accent, sticking his hand out. It was like shaking a hammer. This man seemed to be made of metal. All thin and hard and shining with perspiration. The barn was stuffy and hot. No air stirred and dust drifted thick in the sunbeams through the barn boards.
It smelled of old hay, concrete and sweat.
Beauvoir stood straighter and tried to look more manly in his soft leather shoes and trim linen shirt.
I have a gun, he told himself. I have a gun and he doesn’t.
Threats came in different forms. He glanced over at the Chief Inspector who seemed completely at ease.
‘What happened to you?’ the sculptor asked Beauvoir, indicating his face.
Had Gamache not been there he’d have described the burning building filled with orphans, or the runaway car he’d stopped just before it ploughed into a pregnant woman, or the murderer he’d disarmed with his bare hands.
He decided to stay quiet and let the man imagine the heroics.
‘Looks like a door hit you, son,’ said Pelletier, turning round and leading them on a tour of his barn and out into the yard. It wasn’t itself a graveyard, though it was right beside a large one.
‘Customers,’ laughed Pelletier, pointing to the headstones on the other side of his wooden fence. Rolling a cigarette he licked it and stuck it into his yellowed mouth. ‘Can’t make a living doing this shit. Wish I could, but being an artist doesn’t pay the bills.’
He took a long drag, coughed and spat.
Someone less like an artist would be hard to find, thought Beauvoir.
‘People hire me for those.’ Pelletier waved towards the monuments and headstones. They wandered through the gate. Here and there a winged angel touched down. They were old, their wings worn.
Gamache stopped and took in the sight.
It was quiet, peaceful. But it also seemed alive. Every now and then a man or woman strolled from behind a tree. Only they weren’t really moving. They were stuck in place, but somehow vibrant. They were statues.
Gamache turned and stared at their guide. The little man was picking a strand of tobacco off his tongue.
‘You did these?’
‘Except the angels. I don’t do angels. Tried, but they never worked. Wings were always too big. People kept complaining about hitting their heads.’
This struck Beauvoir as funny and he laughed. The sculptor joined in and Gamache smiled.
The statues were all different sizes, all different moods. Some seemed filled with calm and gladness, some looked as though they were playing, some looked pained and some bitter. Not overt, just a hint, a hardness.
‘What’re they made of?’ Beauvoir asked. Most were black and smooth and gleaming.
‘Marble. Quarried not far from here.’
‘But Charles Morrow wasn’t made of this,’ said Gamache.
‘No, he was made of something else. I was going to use marble but after listening to people talk about him I changed my mind.’
‘Who’d you talk to?’
‘The missus, and his kids, but the one I spoke to most, who actually came here, was that ugly guy. If I ever did a sculpture of him I’d get complaints.’ He laughed. ‘But you know, I just might anyway, for myself.’
‘Bert Finney?’ asked Gamache, to be certain. Pelletier nodded and flicked his butt onto the grass. Beauvoir stepped on it.
‘I knew you’d probably be coming so I looked up my notes. Wanna see?’
‘S’il vous plaît,’ said Beauvoir, who liked notes. They wandered back into the barn, which seemed gloomy compared to the lively cemetery. While Beauvoir read Gamache and the sculptor sat on a low wooden trough.
‘How do you go about doing a sculpture?’
‘Well, it’s hard if I haven’t met the person. Lots of those people I actually knew.’ He waved casually towards the cemetery. ‘In a small town you do. But Morrow I never met. So like I said, I spoke to his family, looked at pictures. That ugly guy brought a bunch of stuff. Quite interesting. So then I just let it kinda ferment, you know, until I get him. And one day I wake up and I have the guy. Then I get started.’
‘What did you “get” about Charles Morrow?’
Pelletier picked at his calloused fingers and thought.
‘You know those statues out there, the ones in the cemetery?’
Gamache nodded.
‘They’re not all the same size. Some people buy big ones, some smaller. Sometimes it depends on their budget, but mostly it depends on their guilt.’
He smiled. Charles Morrow had been immense.
‘I had the impression he wasn’t missed. That the statue was more for them than him. A kind of replacement for grieving.’
>
There it was. So simple. The words drifted into the air to join the dry dirt in the sunbeams.
What could be worse? Dying, and not being missed.
Was that true of Charles Morrow, Gamache wondered.
‘The family used words like prominent and respected, they even mailed me a list of boards he sat on. I half expected to get his bank balance. But there was no affection. I felt sorry for the guy. I tried asking what kinda man he was, you know? Father, husband, that sorta thing.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘They seemed offended by the question, as though it wasn’t my business. Like I said, it’s very hard to sculpt a man without knowing him. I almost decided to turn down the commission, though the money was so good it woulda killed me. But then this ugly guy shows up. Spoke almost no French and I don’t speak much English. He shoots, he scores. That’s about it. But we got along. That was almost two years ago. I thought about it and decided to sculpt the guy.’
‘But who did you sculpt, monsieur? Charles Morrow or Bert Finney?’
Yves Pelletier laughed. ‘Or maybe I sculpted myself.’
Gamache smiled. ‘There’s some of you in all your works, I’d expect.’
‘True, but more perhaps in that one. It was difficult, troubling. Charles Morrow was a stranger to his family. They knew his outside but not his inside. The ugly man knew his inside. At least, I believe he did. He told me about a man who loved music, who’d wanted to be a hockey player, had played on his school team, but had agreed to go into the family business. Seduced by the money and the position. Ugly man’s words, not mine. The ego. What a tyrant. My words, not his.’ He smiled at Gamache. ‘Happily, being a sculptor keeps my ego in check.’
‘You might try being a police officer.’
‘Have you ever been sculpted?’
Gamache laughed. ‘Never.’
‘If you decide you’d like to, come to me.’
‘I’m not sure there’s enough marble in that quarry,’ said Gamache. ‘What was Charles Morrow made of after all?’
‘Well, now, there’s an interesting question. I needed something special and money wasn’t an issue so I searched and last year I finally found what I’d heard existed but never actually seen.’