by Louise Penny
Across the barn Inspector Beauvoir lowered the notes and listened.
‘It was wood,’ said the scrawny sculptor.
Of all the things Gamache thought he’d hear that wasn’t one of them.
‘Wood?’
Pelletier nodded. Gamache remembered reaching out and stroking Charles Morrow, trying to avoid the mud and grass and blood. He again felt the hard grey surface, undulating. It felt like sagging skin. But hard, like stone.
‘Wood,’ he said again, looking back at the sculptor. ‘Fossilized wood.’
‘All the way from British Columbia. Petrified.’
*
Agent Lacoste got off the phone with the coroner, made her notes then opened the strong box with the evidence. There wasn’t much. Out of the box she pulled the packet of letters, tied with yellow ribbon, and the two crumpled notes on Manoir Bellechasse paper. Smoothing them out she decided to start there.
She found Madame Dubois first, behind her huge desk calling guests and cancelling reservations. After a minute or two the tiny hand replaced the receiver.
‘I’m trying not to tell the truth,’ she explained.
‘What’re you saying?’
‘That there was a fire.’
Seeing Agent Lacoste’s surprise she nodded agreement. ‘It might have been better had I thought about it. Fortunately, it was a small, though inconvenient, fire.’
‘That is lucky.’ She glanced down at the rates card on the desk, and raised her eyebrows. ‘I’d love to come back with my husband, one day. Perhaps for our golden wedding anniversary.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
Agent Lacoste thought perhaps she would. ‘We found these in the grate in Julia Martin’s room.’ She handed over the slips of paper. ‘Who do you think wrote them?’
The two slips sat on the desk between the women.
I enjoyed our conversation. Thank you. It helped.
You are very kind. I know you won’t tell anyone what I said. I could get into trouble!
‘Perhaps one of her family?’
‘Maybe,’ said Lacoste. She’d thought about what the chief had said. About the exclamation mark. She’d spent much of the morning thinking about it. Then she had it.
‘The words, certainly, could have been written by almost anyone,’ Lacoste admitted to Madame Dubois. ‘But this wasn’t.’
She pointed to the exclamation mark. The elderly proprietor looked down then up, polite but unconvinced.
‘Can you see any of the Morrows writing an exclamation mark?’
The question surprised Madame Dubois and she thought about it then shook her head. That left one option.
‘One of the staff,’ she said reluctantly.
‘Possibly. But who?’
‘I’ll call the chambermaid assigned to her room.’ Madamen Dubois spoke into a walkie-talkie and was assured a young woman named Beth was on her way.
‘They’re young, you know, and most have never worked in jobs like these. It takes a while to understand what’s appropriate, especially if the guests themselves aren’t clear. We tell them not to be too familiar with the guests, even if the guests invite it. Especially then.’
After a longish wait a blonde girl, energetic and confident, though momentarily worried, came down.
‘Désolée,’ she said in slightly accented French, ‘but Madame Morrow in the Lake Room stopped to talk to me. I think she might want to speak to you too.’
The proprietor looked weary. ‘Another complaint?’
Beth nodded. ‘Her sister-in-law’s room was cleaned before hers and she wanted to know why. I told her it depended which end of the lodge we started at. She also thinks it’s too hot.’
‘I hope you told her that was Monsieur Patenaude’s department?’
Beth smiled. ‘I will next time.’
‘Bon. Beth, this is Agent Lacoste, she’s investigating the death of Julia Martin. She has a few questions for you.’
The girl looked disconcerted. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
It’s not my fault, thought Lacoste. The cry of the young. And the immature. Still, she felt for the kid. Not more than twenty and being interviewed as a murder suspect. One day it’ll make a great story, but not today.
‘I don’t think you did,’ said Lacoste in good English. The girl relaxed a little, reassured by both the words and the language. ‘But I’d like you to look at these.’
Beth did, then looked up, puzzled.
‘I’m not sure what you want.’
‘Did you write them?’
She looked astonished. ‘No. Why would I?’
‘Did you check the grate in Mrs Martin’s room?’
‘Not closely. Some guests light their fires even in summer. It’s romantic. So I’ve gotten in the habit of just scanning it, making sure I don’t need to lay another fire. Hers hadn’t been lit. None of them have.’
‘Would you notice if something had been put in there?’
‘Depends. I’d notice if it was a Volkswagen or a sofa.’
Lacoste smiled at this unexpected humour. The girl suddenly reminded her of herself at twenty. Just finding her way. Vacillating between being impertinent and being obsequious. ‘How about these, balled up?’ Lacoste pointed to the papers on the desk.
Beth stared at them, considering. ‘I might.’
‘And what would you have done, if you’d seen them?’
‘Cleaned them up.’
She thought Beth was telling the truth. She didn’t think the Manoir kept workers who were lazy. The question was, would Beth have noticed the papers or could they have sat there for days, even weeks, left there by long departed guests?
But she didn’t think they had.
Why did Julia put most garbage into the wastepaper basket, but toss these into the grate? It was a bit like littering and Agent Lacoste suspected the Morrows thought themselves above that. They might murder, but they’d never litter. And Julia Martin was nothing if not courteous, to a fault.
So if she didn’t put them there, somebody else had. But who?
And why?
Gamache, Beauvoir and the sculptor Pelletier sat in the shade of a huge tree, grateful for the few degrees’ relief it gave from the pounding heat. Beauvoir slapped at his neck and his hand came away with a smear of blood and a tiny black leg. He knew he was covered in bug bodies. You’d think, he thought, other bugs would get the message. But there was probably a reason blackflies didn’t rule the world. Torment it, yes, but nothing else.
He slapped at his arm.
A rose bush planted beside a headstone looked in need of watering, its leaves droopy and yellowing. Pelletier followed Gamache’s gaze.
‘Thought that might happen soon. Tried to warn the family when they planted it.’
‘Roses don’t grow well here?’ Gamache asked.
‘Not now. Nothing’ll grow now. It’s twenty-five years, you know.’
Beauvoir wondered whether decades of snorting cement dust hadn’t done something to this man’s brain.
‘What is?’ asked Gamache.
‘This tree. It’s a black walnut.’ The sculptor dragged his hammer hand over the furrowed bark. ‘It’s twenty-five years old.’
‘So?’ asked Beauvoir, hoping to get to the point.
‘Well, nothing grows around a black walnut once it gets that old.’
Gamache reached out and touched the tree too. ‘Why not?’
‘Dunno. Something poisonous drops from its leaves or bark or something. But it’s fine until it’s twenty-five. Only kills things after that.’
Gamache removed his hand from the greyish trunk and returned his gaze to the cemetery, the sun dappling through the leaves of the killer tree.
‘You carved a bird into the shoulder of the statue.’
‘I did.’
‘Pourquoi?’
‘Didn’t you like it?’
‘It was charming, and very discreet. Almost as though it wasn’t meant to be found.’
‘Wh
y would I do that, Chief Inspector?’
‘I can’t imagine, Monsieur Pelletier, unless someone asked you to.’
The two men stared at each other, the air suddenly crackling between them like a tiny summer storm.
‘No one asked me,’ the sculptor finally said. ‘I’d gone through that,’ he pointed to the rumpled dossier in Beauvoir’s hands, ‘and found a drawing of the bird. It was very simple, very beautiful. I etched it into Morrow, discreet as you say, as a little gift.’
He looked down at his hands, one picking at the other.
‘I’d grown quite fond of Charles Morrow. I wanted him to have something to keep him company, so he’d be less alone. Something he’d kept close to him in life.’
‘The footless bird?’ said Beauvoir.
‘The drawing’s in there.’ Again he pointed to the manila folder.
Beauvoir handed the folder to Gamache but said as he did, ‘I didn’t see anything like that in there.’
Gamache closed the folder. He believed him.
Like anything else in life, it’s the things we can’t have we most want, and suddenly Chief Inspector Gamache wanted that drawing of the bird very much indeed.
Beauvoir glanced at his watch. Almost noon. He had to be back for the call from David Martin. And lunch.
He touched his face gingerly and hoped she’d forgive him for swearing. She’d looked so shocked. Surely people swear in kitchens? His wife did.
‘Looking at your sculpture of Charles Morrow I thought of Rodin,’ said Gamache. ‘Can you guess which one?’
‘Not Victor Hugo, that’s for sure. The Gates of Hell, perhaps?’
But the sculptor was clearly not serious. Then he thought about it and after a moment spoke quietly. ‘The Burghers?’
Gamache nodded.
‘Merci, Patron.’ The strappy little man gave Gamache a small bow. ‘But if he was by Rodin, the rest of the family would be by Giacometti.’
Gamache knew the Swiss artist with the long, lean, almost stringy figures, but he couldn’t make out what Pelletier meant.
‘Giacometti always began with a huge piece of stone,’ Pelletier explained. ‘Then he’d work and work. Refining and smoothing and chipping away anything offensive, anything that wasn’t just right. Sometimes he did so much refining there wasn’t anything left. The sculpture disappeared completely. All he had left was dust.’
Gamache smiled, understanding it now.
On the outside the Morrows were healthy, attractive even. But you can’t diminish so many people without diminishing yourself. And the Morrows, inside, had all but disappeared. Empty.
But he wasn’t convinced the sculptor was right. He thought there might be quite a bit of the Burghers in all of them. He saw all the Morrows, trudging along, chained together, weighed down by expectation, disapproval, secrets. Need. Greed. And hate. After years of investigating murders Chief Inspector Gamache knew one thing about hate. It bound you for ever to the person you hated. Murder wasn’t committed out of hate, it was done as a terrible act of freedom. To finally rid yourself of the burden.
The Morrows were burdened.
And one had tried to break free. By killing.
But how had the murderer managed it?
‘How can a statue come off its pedestal?’ he asked Pelletier.
‘I was wondering when you’d ask. Here, come with me.’
They walked further into the cemetery to a sculpture of a child.
‘I did that ten years ago. Antoinette Gagnon. Killed by a car.’
They looked at the gleaming, playing child. Always young, perpetually happy. Gamache wondered whether her parents ever came, and whether their hearts stopped each time they turned the corner and saw this.
‘Try to knock her over,’ Pelletier said to Beauvoir.
The Inspector hesitated. The thought of knocking over a cemetery monument disgusted him. And especially a child.
‘Go on,’ said the sculptor. Still Beauvoir hung back.
‘I’ll try.’ Gamache stepped forward and leaned against the small statue, expecting to feel the child scrape forward, or topple over.
She didn’t budge.
He leaned harder then turned his back and shoved, feeling sweat break out on his body. Still nothing. Eventually he stopped and wiping his brow with his handkerchief he turned back to Pelletier.
‘Is it fixed in place? A rod down the centre into the pedestal?’
‘No. It’s just heavy. Far heavier than it looks. Marble is. And petrified wood is heavier still.’
Gamache stared at the statue, about a quarter the size and weight of Charles Morrow.
‘If one person didn’t move the statue of Charles Morrow, could several?’
‘At a guess I’d say you’d need twenty football players.’
The Morrows weren’t that.
‘There’s one other thing,’ said Gamache as they walked back to the car. ‘The marble pedestal wasn’t marked.’
Pelletier stopped. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I mean there were no marks on it,’ said Gamache, watching the man’s face. He looked genuinely upset for the first time. ‘It was perfect, polished even.’
‘The sides, you mean.’
‘No, I mean the top. Where Charles Morrow stood.’
‘But that’s not possible. Just placing the statue on top of the marble would mark it.’ He was about to suggest Gamache hadn’t looked closely enough, but decided this commanding, quiet man would have. Instead he shook his head.
‘So how could the statue fall?’ Beauvoir repeated.
Pelletier tilted his palms towards the blue sky.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Beauvoir, suddenly annoyed. ‘God murdered Julia Martin?’
‘He is a serial killer,’ said Pelletier, without humour. After a moment’s thought he spoke again. ‘When I heard about what happened I asked myself the same question. The only way I know to get a statue that size off its pedestal is with ropes and a winch. Even in the time of Rodin that’s how they did it. Are you sure that wasn’t used to bring him down?’
He looked at Gamache who shook his head. Pelletier nodded.
‘That leaves us with God.’
As they got in the car Beauvoir whispered to Gamache, ‘You make the arrest.’
Pelletier walked back to the barn and Beauvoir put the car in gear.
‘Wait, wait.’
They looked in their rearview mirror. The sculptor was running after them waving a piece of paper.
‘I found this.’ He shoved it through the window at Gamache. ‘It was pinned to my board. I’d forgotten I’d put it there.’
Gamache and Beauvoir stared at the yellow, crinkled piece of paper. On it was a simple pencil drawing of a bird, without feet.
It was signed Peter Morrow.
TWENTY-TWO
Glad I found you.’ Mariana stumbled to catch up with her brother. ‘I wanted to talk. It wasn’t me, you know, who told Mother what you said to that cop. It was Sandra.’
Peter looked at her. She’d always been a crybaby, the tattle-tale.
‘Fucking Sandra,’ said Mariana, falling into step beside him. ‘Always going behind people’s backs. And Thomas, what a piece of work he’s turned into. Snot. What’re we going to do?’ She stopped and whispered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, someone killed Julia. It wasn’t me, and I don’t think it was you. That leaves one of them. If they’d kill Julia, they’ll kill us.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being.’ She sounded petulant. ‘I’m tired of all this crap. Tired of these reunions. Each is worse than the last, and this is the worst yet.’
‘Let’s hope.’
‘I’m not coming back,’ she said, yanking a flower from its bush. ‘No power on earth’ll get me back to one of these. I’m tired of it all. All this pretending, yes Mother, no Mother, can I get you anything Mother? Who cares what the old bitch thinks anyway? She’s proba
bly disinherited us long ago. That Finney got her to do it, Thomas thinks. So why’re we even bothering?’
‘Because she’s our mother?’
Mariana gave him a look and continued to shred the flower.
‘I’d have thought,’ said Peter, ‘having a child of your own would make you more sympathetic to your own mother.’
‘It has. It’s shown me just how horrible our home life was.’
‘Well, she was better than Father.’
‘You think?’ asked Mariana. ‘At least he listened to us.’
‘Right. And did fuck all. He knew what we wanted and ignored us. Remember that year we all asked for new skis for Christmas? He gave us mittens. He could’ve bought the ski hill and he gave us mittens. Why would he do that?’
Mariana nodded. She remembered. ‘But at least Dad smelled the milk before he gave it to us. Mom never did.’
He smelled the milk and felt the bathwater, he blew on their hot food. They all thought it was disgusting. But a strange new thought started to form in a part of her brain that hadn’t had a new thought in decades.
‘Did you know, when I left home I found a note in my suitcase from him?’ she said, another old memory staggering back.
Peter looked at her, amazed, and afraid. Afraid he was about to lose the one tiny scrap that was his alone. The cipher, the puzzle. The special code from his father.
Never use the first stall in a public washroom.
‘Is Bean a boy or a girl?’ he asked, knowing that would take Mariana off course.
She hesitated then went after the bait. ‘Why should I tell you? Besides, you’ll tell Mother.’
Her mother had stopped harping at Mariana about it years ago. Now there was silence, as though she no longer cared if she had a grandson or a granddaughter. But Mariana knew her mother, and she knew not knowing was killing her. If only it would hurry up.
‘Of course I won’t tell Mother. Come on, tell me.’
Mariana sure as hell knew enough not to tell Peter. Spot.
Peter watched Mariana think. Frankly, he didn’t care whether Bean was animal, vegetable or mineral. He just wanted his sister to shut up, to not steal the only thing his father had given him alone.
But Peter knew it was too late. Knew that Father must have written the same note to all his children, and once again Peter felt a fool. For forty years he’d lugged that sentence around, thinking he was special. Secretly selected by their father because he loved and trusted Peter the most. Never use the first stall in a public washroom. All the magic had gone from it now. It sounded just stupid. Well, he could finally let it go.