The Murder Stone

by Louise Penny

  ‘Can I help?’ Little Madame Dubois, dwarfed by the sequoia-like RCMP officers, stepped forward.

  ‘You can help me, madame,’ said Gamache. ‘Carry on.’ He nodded to Beauvoir, and to everyone’s astonishment the Chief Inspector took Madame Dubois’s arm and they left the Great Room.

  ‘Coward.’ The whispered word in the Morrow voice slid off Gamache’s back and to the floor, where it evaporated.

  ‘What can I do, monsieur?’ she asked when they arrived in the outer office.

  ‘You can find me Elliot’s employment application and whatever information you have about him. And you can place these phone calls.’

  He jotted down a list.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, perplexed by the list, but seeing his face she didn’t wait for an answer.

  He walked into the library and closed the door. In the hallway he heard the trooping of heavy feet as the searchers prepared to go out into the rain. Not a storm, but the rain and wind would make the ground sodden and slippery. It was going to be miserable.

  After making a few more notes he looked up and stared out of the window. Then he quickly walked out of the French doors and through the rain across the lawn, towards a group of searchers just entering the woods. They were wearing bright orange coats, supplied by the local hunt and game society, who were also volunteering. Each team would have a police officer and a local hunter. The last thing they needed was to lose the searchers. It happened. How often had the lost reappeared and the searchers disappeared, only to be found as bones years later. The Canadian wilderness didn’t give up her territory or her dead easily.

  The rain was coming down in torrents, hitting them sideways. Everyone was anonymous in the orange covers, slick with rain.

  ‘Colleen?’ he shouted, knowing with their hoods up all they’d hear was the din of the rain pelting their heads. ‘Colleen!’

  He grabbed a promising shoulder. A young man Gamache recognized as a porter turned round. He looked frightened and uncertain. Water dribbled down Gamache’s face, into his eyes and down his cheeks. He smiled reassuringly at the young man.

  ‘You’ll do fine,’ he shouted. ‘Just stick close to them.’ Gamache pointed to two large orange coats with bold duct tape X’s on their backs. ‘And if you get tired, tell them. You’re not to hurt yourself, d’accord?’

  The young man nodded. ‘Are you coming with us, sir?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m needed somewhere else.’

  ‘I understand.’

  But Gamache saw the disappointment. And he saw fear lick the boy. And he felt horrible. But he was needed elsewhere, though he needed to find the young gardener first. ‘Is Colleen in your group?’

  The young man shook his head then ran off to catch up with the others.

  ‘Sacré,’ whispered Gamache, standing alone now on the soaked lawn, his own clothes unprotected and wet through. ‘Idiot.’

  He spent the next few minutes striding into the woods, asking each group he found whether the gardener was with them. He knew the standard search pattern, had co-ordinated enough searches himself not to be worried about losing the searchers. He was worried about something else. About Elliot, missing. About Elliot, whose clothing was still in his modest wooden cupboard in the small bunkroom.

  ‘Colleen?’ He touched another orange shoulder and saw another little leap as some poor kid’s movie nightmare came momentarily true. As they turned he knew they expected to see Freddy Krueger or Hannibal Lecter or the Blair Witch. Huge, terrified eyes met his.

  ‘Colleen?’

  She nodded, relieved.

  ‘Come with me.’ He shouted to the team leader he was taking the young gardener from the search, and while the others trudged deeper into the woods Gamache and Colleen emerged onto the lawn and jogged towards the refuge of the lodge.

  Once inside with towels to dry off Gamache spoke.

  ‘I need to know a few things, and I need you to be honest.’

  Colleen looked well beyond being able to lie.

  ‘Who do you have the crush on?’

  ‘Elliot.’

  ‘And who do you believe he had feelings for?’

  ‘Her. The woman who was killed.’

  ‘Julia Martin? Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because he was always hovering around her, asking questions.’

  She brought the soft towel to her wet face and gave a good scrub.

  ‘Like what, Colleen? What did he want to know?’

  ‘Stupid things. Things like what her husband did and where they lived and whether she sailed or hiked. Whether she knew Stanley Park and the yacht club. He’d worked there once.’

  ‘Did he know her, do you think, from Vancouver?’

  ‘I heard them laughing once that he probably served her a martini there, just as he was serving her one in Quebec.’

  Colleen clearly didn’t see the humour.

  ‘You talked about ants,’ he said more gently. ‘The ones that gave you nightmares. Where were they?’

  ‘All over.’ She shivered at the memory of ants crawling all over her.

  ‘No, I mean in real life, not your dream. Where did you see the ants?’ He tried not to let his anxiety show, and deliberately kept his voice even and calm.

  ‘They were all over the statue. When I was trying to transplant the sick flowers I looked up and the statue was covered with ants.’

  ‘Now, think carefully.’ He smiled and took his time, even though he knew time was fleeing before him, racing away. ‘Were they really all over the statue?’

  She thought.

  After what seemed hours she spoke. ‘No, they were at the bottom, all over his feet, and the white block. Right where my head was.’

  And he could see the young gardener kneeling down, trying to save the dying plants, and coming face to face with a colony of scampering, frenzied ants.

  ‘Was there anything else there?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Think, Colleen, just think.’ He was dying to tell her, to quickly lead her to it, but he knew he couldn’t. Instead he waited.

  ‘Wasps,’ she said finally. And Gamache exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. ‘Which was funny because there wasn’t a nest. Just wasps. That kid, Bean, said it was a bee sting, but I’m sure it was a wasp.’

  ‘Actually, it was a bee,’ said Gamache. ‘A honey bee.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous. Why would a honey bee be there? Their hive’s all the way across the property. Besides, all the flowers around there were sick. A bee wouldn’t be attracted to them.’

  ‘One last question. Agent Lacoste says you kept saying it wasn’t your fault.’ He quickly held up a steady hand to reassure her. ‘We know it wasn’t. But I need to know why you said it.’

  ‘Elliot and Mrs Martin were talking on the other side of the statue. Laughing and kinda flirting. I was so angry. It was horrible to have to see them every day. I was working there and they obviously hadn’t seen me, or didn’t notice. Anyway, I stood up and put my hand on the statue. It moved.’

  She lowered her eyes and waited for the inevitable laughter. He’d never believe her. Who would? What she’d said was laughable, which was why she hadn’t said anything about it before. How could a statue move? Yet it had. She could feel it grinding forward even now. She waited for him to laugh, to dismiss what she’d just said as ridiculous. She raised her eyes and saw him nodding.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said softly, though she wasn’t convinced he was talking to her. ‘It’s too late to join the others on the search. Perhaps you could help me.’

  She smiled, relieved.

  While Gamache took a couple of calls Madame Dubois put through he asked Colleen to call the Correctional Centre in Nanaimo, BC. ‘Tell them Chief Inspector Gamache needs to speak to David Martin, urgently.’

  Gamache spoke to the Musée Rodin in Paris, the Royal Academy in London and the Côte des Neiges cemetery in Montreal. He’d just hung up when Colleen handed him her phone.

  �
�Mr Martin’s on the line.’

  ‘David Martin?’ Gamache asked.

  ‘It is. Is this Chief Inspector Gamache?’

  ‘Oui, c’est moi-même.’ He continued in rapid French, and received answers in equally rapid French. Very quickly Gamache found out about Martin’s early life and career, his early bankruptcies, his investors.

  ‘I need the names of all your early investors.’

  ‘That’s easy. There weren’t that many.’

  Gamache scribbled the names as Martin dictated them.

  ‘And they lost everything they’d invested with you?’

  ‘We all did, Chief Inspector. No need to shed huge cow tears for them. Make no mistake, they were out for the main chance as well. It wasn’t charity. If the companies had hit big they’d have made a fortune. It’s business. I went bankrupt, and some of them did too. But I picked myself up.’

  ‘You were young and without responsibilities. Some of them were older with families. They didn’t have the time or energy to start again.’

  ‘Then they shouldn’t have invested.’

  Gamache rang off and looked up. Irene Finney and Madame Dubois were standing in the room, side by side, with the same expression on their faces now. Behind them Colleen, like a ‘before’ version of these elderly women, stood fresh and plump but with the same look on her face.

  Fear.

  ‘What is it?’ He stood.

  ‘Bean,’ said Mrs Finney. ‘We can’t find Bean.’

  Gamache paled.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Bean?’

  ‘Lunch,’ said Mrs Finney, and they all checked their watches. Three hours. ‘Where’s my grandchild?’

  She looked at Gamache as though he was responsible. And he knew he was. He’d been slow, allowed himself to be misdirected by his own prejudices. He’d accused Beauvoir of being blinded by emotion, but he had been too.

  ‘You sit here, safe and warm with the old women and children,’ hissed Mrs Finney. ‘Hiding here while others do the difficult work.’

  She was shaking with rage, as though the fault line had finally spread too wide and she’d tumbled in herself.

  ‘Why?’ Gamache whispered to himself. ‘Why Bean?’

  ‘Do something, man,’ Mrs Finney shouted.

  ‘I need to think,’ he said.

  He placed his hands behind his back and started to walk with a measured pace, around the library. In disbelief they watched. Then finally he stopped and turned, reaching into his pocket.

  ‘Here, take my Volvo and park it across the drive. Are there other ways in and out of the property?’ He tossed his keys to Colleen and walked rapidly to the door, Mesdames Dubois and Finney following and Colleen dashing into the rain.

  ‘There’s a service road,’ said Madame Dubois. ‘Little more than a track, at the back. We use it for heavier equipment.’

  ‘But it puts out onto the main road?’ asked Gamache. Madame Dubois nodded. ‘Where is it?’

  She pointed and he dashed into the rain and climbed into the huge RCMP pickup, finding the keys in the ignition, as he expected. Soon he was clear of the lodge, heading down the service road. He had to find a narrowing of the woods where he could leave the truck and seal off the property.

  The murderer was still with them, he knew. As was Bean. He needed to keep them there.

  He parked the truck across the track and was just jumping out when another vehicle rounded the corner in his wake and skidded to a stop. Gamache couldn’t see the driver’s face. The bright orange hood put it in shadow. It looked as though a spectre was driving the car. But Gamache knew it was no spirit, but flesh and blood behind the wheel.

  Spinning tyres spewed mud and dead leaves as the car strained to back up. But it was sunk into the mud. Gamache raced forward just as the door opened and the murderer leapt out and began running, the orange raincoat flapping madly.

  Gamache skidded to a halt and thrust his head into the car. ‘Bean?’ he shouted. But the car was empty. His heart, thudding, stopped for a moment. He turned and raced after the orange figure, just disappearing into the lodge.

  Within a moment Gamache also plunged through the door, pausing only long enough to tell the women to lock themselves in the inner office and to get on the walkie-talkie to tell the others to return.

  ‘What about Elliot?’ Colleen shouted after him.

  ‘He’s not in the woods,’ said Gamache, not looking back. He was looking down, following the line of drips, like transparent blood.

  Up the polished old stairs they went, along the hall, and puddled in front of one of the bookcases.

  The door to the attic.

  He yanked it open and took the stairs two at a time. In the dim light he followed the drops to an opening. He knew what he’d find.

  ‘Bean?’ he whispered. ‘Are you here?’ He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

  Stuffed cougars, hunted almost to extinction, stared glassy eyed at him. Little hunted hares, moose and delicate deer and otters. All dead, for sport. Staring.

  But no Bean.

  Downstairs he heard boots and masculine voices, raised. But in this room there was only a hush, as though a breath had been held for hundreds of years. Waiting.

  And then he heard it. A slight thumping. And he knew what it was.

  Ahead of him a square of light and water hit the floor. The grimy skylight was open. He scrambled towards it, and stuck his head out. And there they were.

  Bean, and the murderer, on the roof.

  Gamache had seen terror many times. On the faces of men and women newly dead, and those about to die, or believing they were. He saw that look now, in Bean’s face. Mouth covered with tape, book clutched in little tied hands, feet dangling. Gamache had seen terror, but never like this. Bean was literally in the clutches of the murderer, standing on the very peak of the rain-slick metal roof.

  Without thinking Gamache clutched the sides of the skylight and hoisted himself through, his feet immediately slipping on the wet metal. He fell on one knee, feeling the jar.

  And then the world started to spin and he grabbed hold of the edge of the open skylight. He could barely see, blinded by the rain in his eyes and the sheer panic in his head. It shrieked at him to get off the roof. Either through the hole into the attic, or over the edge.

  Do it, shove yourself off, his howling head pleaded. Do it.

  Down below people were yelling and waving and he dragged his eyes up.

  To Bean.

  And Bean too looked into the face of terror. The two of them stared at each other, and slowly, with wet, trembling hands, Gamache dragged himself to his feet. He took a tentative step along the peak of the steep roof, one unhappy foot on either side. His head spinning, he kept himself low, so that he could grab hold. Then he shifted his eyes, from Bean, to the murderer.

  ‘Get away from me, Monsieur Gamache. Get away or I’ll throw the kid over.’

  ‘I don’t think you will.’

  ‘Going to risk it? I’ve killed already. I have nothing to lose. I’m at the end of the world. Why’d you block the roads out? I could’ve gotten away. By the time you found the child tied up in the attic I’d have been halfway to …’

  The voice faltered.

  ‘To where?’ Gamache called, over the moaning wind. ‘There was nowhere to go, was there? Don’t do this. It’s over. Bring Bean to me.’

  He held out unsteady arms, but the murderer didn’t budge.

  ‘I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I’d come here to forget it all, to get away. I thought I had. But seeing her again—’

  ‘I understand, I do.’ Gamache tried to sound reassuring, reasonable. Tried to keep the tremble from his voice. ‘You don’t want to harm a child. I know you. I know—’

  ‘You know nothing.’

  Far from being frightened, the murderer seemed almost calm. A panicked, cornered murderer was a terrible thing, and the only thing worse was a calm one.

  ‘Bean,’ Gamache said, his voice steady. �
��Bean, look at me.’ He caught the child’s panicked eyes, but could tell Bean wasn’t seeing anything any more.

  ‘What’re you doing? No! Get down!’ The murderer suddenly grew agitated, and looked beyond Gamache.

  The Chief Inspector turned carefully and saw Beauvoir climbing through the skylight. His thumping heart calmed, for an instant. Beauvoir was there. He wasn’t alone.

  ‘Tell him to get down.’

  Beauvoir saw the horrific scene. The murderer standing like a lightning rod in the storm, holding the horrified child. But the most horrifying was the chief, who was looking at him with eyes so grave. Frightened, his fate sealed, and knowing it. A Burgher of Calais.

  Gamache lifted his hand and gave Beauvoir the signal to withdraw.

  ‘No, please,’ Beauvoir rasped. ‘Let me come too.’

  ‘Not this time, Jean Guy,’ said Gamache.

  ‘Get away. I’ll toss the kid over.’ Bean was suddenly thrust into space, the murderer barely holding on. Even with tape over the child’s mouth Beauvoir could hear the scream.

  With one last look, Beauvoir disappeared, and Gamache was alone again, with a dangling Bean and the murderer and the wind and rain that buffeted them all.

  Bean struggled in the murderer’s arms, twisting to break free and letting out a high-pitched, strangled shriek, muffled by the tape.

  ‘Bean, look at me.’ Gamache stared at Bean, willing himself to forget where he was, trying to trick his traitor brain into believing they were on the ground. He wiped the fear from his own face. ‘Look at me.’

  ‘What’re you doing?’ the murderer repeated, staring at Gamache with suspicion and clutching the squirming child.

  ‘I’m trying to calm the child. I’m afraid Bean’ll knock you off balance.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ The murderer hoisted the child higher. And Gamache knew then the murderer was going to do it. To throw the child over.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Gamache pleaded. ‘Don’t do it.’

  But the murderer was beyond listening to reason. For reason had nothing to do with what was happening. The murderer now heard only a very old howl.