The Murder Stone (17 page)

‘Well, I always have Bean’s name to torture her with.’

‘Her?’

‘My mother.’

Beauvoir could barely look at this woman, who’d given birth to a biological weapon aimed at her mother. He was beginning to think the wrong Morrow was murdered.

‘Why would someone want to kill your sister?’

‘By someone you mean one of us, don’t you?’

It wasn’t actually a question and now Beauvoir chose to stay quiet.

‘Don’t look at me. I didn’t know her enough to kill her. She’d been gone for thirty years or more. But I can tell you one thing, Inspector. She could put as much distance between herself and us as she wanted, but she was still a Morrow. Morrows lie, and Morrows keep secrets. It’s our currency. Don’t trust them, Inspector. Don’t trust a word they say.’

It was the first thing she’d said he’d no trouble believing.

‘Julia had a falling out with Father,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t know what it was about.’

‘Weren’t you curious?’ asked Gamache. The two tall men had walked down the wet lawn of the Bellechasse and stopped at the shoreline. They looked onto the slate-grey lake and the mist that obscured the far shore. The birds were out, looking for insects, and every now and then a haunting loon called across the lake.

Peter smiled tightly. ‘Curiosity wasn’t something rewarded in our home. It was considered rude. It was rude to ask questions, rude to laugh too loud or too long, rude to cry, rude to contradict. So, no, I wasn’t curious.’

‘So she left home when she was in her early twenties. Thomas would have been a couple of years older and you were?’

‘Eighteen,’ said Peter.

‘That’s precise.’

‘I’m a precise man, as you know,’ said Peter, this time with a genuine smile. He was beginning to breathe again, feel himself again. He looked down and was surprised to see crumbs on his shirt. He batted them off. Then he picked up a handful of pebbles. ‘Julia would have loved today,’ he said, skimming the stones.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Gamache.

‘It’s a Vancouver day. She used to tell me how moody it was. Said it suited her.’

‘Was she moody?’

Peter watched as his pebble took four skips before sinking. ‘She was. But then I always think of her as twenty-one. I didn’t see much of her after she left.’

‘Why not?’ Gamache watched his friend closely. There was a definite disadvantage to investigating a friend for murder. But there were advantages too. Like knowing when they were hiding something.

‘We’re not a close family. I sometimes wonder what’ll happen after Mother goes. She’s the one we come to see, the others are just there.’

‘Maybe it’ll bring you together.’

‘Maybe. It might be a blessing. But I don’t think so. I didn’t choose to see Julia, but she didn’t choose to see us either. She was happy in Vancouver with David and she forgot all about us. And frankly, months, years, would go by before I thought about her.’

‘What would remind you?’

‘Pardon?’

‘What would bring her to mind? You say years could go by, but what would make her come back into your head?’

‘Nothing much.’

‘You do know I’m not just making conversation. These questions are important, even if they don’t seem it.’

Gamache had spoken uncharacteristically sternly and it was true that Peter had forgotten he was speaking with the head of homicide for the Surete du Quebec.

‘I’m sorry. Why would I think of her?’ He thought about it, then felt a pinch when he realized what the answer was. ‘Because she’d call or write. We’d get postcards from all over. She and David travelled a lot.’

‘She reached out to you,’ said Gamache.

‘Only when she wanted something. My sister might have appeared nice and kind but she was very canny. She almost always got what she wanted.’

‘And what would she want? Not money, surely.’

‘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-Pres. 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.