The Murder Stone (18 page)

‘I’ll worry less if you’re not here,’ he said.

‘I understand,’ and she did. She’d feel the same way, if roles were reversed. ‘But do you mind if I don’t go far?’

‘A pup tent on the edge of the property?’

‘You are intuitive,’ she’d said. ‘But I was thinking of Three Pines.’

‘What a good idea. I’ll just ring Gabri and get you into his B&B.’

‘No, you find out who murdered Julia and I’ll call the B&B.’

And now she was ready to go. Ready but not happy. She’d felt a pain in her chest as she’d watched him negotiating the first steps of the investigation. His people so respectful, the officers from the local detachment so deferential and even frightened of him, until he’d put them at ease. But not too much at ease. She’d watched her husband take command of the situation, naturally. She knew, and he knew, that someone needed to be in charge. And he was by temperament more than rank the natural leader.

She’d never actually witnessed it before, and she’d watched with surprise as a man she knew intimately exposed a whole new side of himself. He commanded with ease because he commanded respect. Except from the Morrows, who seemed to think he’d tricked them. They’d seemed more upset by that than by the death of Julia.

But Armand always said people react differently to death, and it was folly to judge anyone and double folly to judge what people do when faced with sudden, violent death. Murder. They weren’t themselves.

But privately Reine-Marie wondered. Wondered whether what people did in a crisis was, in fact, their real selves. Stripped of artifice and social training. It was easy enough to be decent when all was going your way. It was another matter to be decent when all hell was breaking loose.

Her husband stepped deliberately into all hell every day, and maintained his decency. She doubted the same could be said for the Morrows.

She’d interrupted him. She could see he was on the phone and began to leave the room. Then she heard the word Roslyn.

He was speaking to Daniel and asking after their daughter-in-law. Reine-Marie had tried to speak to Armand about Daniel, but it had never seemed the right time and now it was too late. Standing on the threshold she listened, her heart pounding.

‘I know Mom told you about the names we’ve chosen. Genevieve if it’s a girl—’

‘Beautiful name,’ said Gamache.

‘We think so. But we also think the boy’s name is beautiful. Honore.’

Gamache had promised himself there’d be no awkward silence when the name was said. There was an awkward silence.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead

Who never to himself hath said,

‘This is my own, my native land!’

The words of the old poem, spoken as always in the deep, calm voice in his head, filled the void. His large hand clasped gently shut as though holding on to something.

Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,

As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?

Daniel was in Paris, so far away, but he also felt Daniel was in danger of making a very serious mistake that could propel him further still.

‘I think that might not be the best choice.’

‘Why?’ Daniel sounded curious, not defensive.

‘You know the history.’

‘You told me, but it is history, Dad. And Honore Gamache is a good name, for a good man. You more than anyone know that.’

‘It’s true.’ Gamache felt a twinge of anxiety. Daniel wasn’t backing down. ‘But more than anyone I also know what can happen in a world not always kind.’

‘You’ve taught us we make our own world. What was that Milton quote we were raised with?

‘The mind is its own place, and in it self

Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.

‘It’s what you believe, Dad, and so do I. Remember those walks in the park? You’d take Annie and me and recite poetry all the way there. That was one of your favourites. And mine.’

Gamache felt a fizzing in his throat as he remembered walks, tiny, pudgy fingers in what seemed a massive hand. Not so much holding as being held.

‘One day soon it’ll be my turn. I’ll be taking Florence and Honore to Parc Mont Royal blabbing poetry all the way.’

‘Blabbing? Don’t you mean reciting in a strong yet musical voice?’

‘Of course. Breathes there the man with soul so dead. Re member that one?’

‘I do.’

‘All the ones you taught me, I’ll teach them, including Milton, including that the mind is its own place and we make our own reality, our own world. Don’t worry,’ Daniel continued, his voice full of reason and patience. ‘Honore will know the world starts between his ears and is his for the making. And he’ll be taught as I was what a beautiful name that is.’

‘No, Daniel, you’re making a mistake.’ There, he’d said it. The one thing he’d promised himself not to say. Still, Daniel had to be made to see it, had to be stopped from making this well-intentioned but tragic mistake.

In his peripheral vision he saw a movement. Reine-Marie had taken a step into the room. He looked at her. Her body was composed but her eyes were filled with surprise and anxiety. Still, it had to be done. Sometimes parenting was standing up and doing what was unpopular. Risking censure. Daniel must not be allowed to name his son Honore.

‘I’d hoped you’d feel differently, Dad.’

‘But why would I? Nothing’s changed.’

‘Time has changed. That was years ago. Decades. You need to let it go.’

‘I’ve seen things. I’ve seen what wilful parents can do to a child. I’ve seen kids so deeply wounded—’ they can’t even jump, he almost said. Their feet never leave the ground. No leap for joy, no skipping rope, no jumping from the dock, no dangling in the arms of a loving and trusted parent.

‘Are you accusing me of hurting our child?’ Daniel’s voice was no longer full of reason and patience. ‘Are you really suggesting I’d hurt my son? He isn’t even born yet and you’re already accusing me? You still see me as a screw-up, don’t you?’

‘Daniel, calm down. I never saw you as a screw-up, you know that.’

Across the room he could hear Reine-Marie inhale.

‘You’re right. Always right. You get to win because you know things I don’t, you’ve seen things I haven’t. And you seem to know I’m so wilful I’d give our child a name that will ruin him.’

‘Life can be hard enough without giving a child a name that will lead to abuse, to bullying.’

‘Yes, it could lead to that, but it could also lead to pride, to self-worth—’

‘He’ll find his own self-worth no matter what name you give him. Don’t handicap him.’

‘You’d consider Honore a birth defect?’ Daniel’s voice was dangerously distant.

‘I didn’t say that.’ Gamache tried to pull back but knew it had gone too far. ‘Look, we should talk about this in person. I’m sorry if I seemed to say you’d deliberately hurt your child. I know you wouldn’t. You’re a wonderful parent—’

‘Glad you think so.’

‘Any child would be fortunate to be born to you. But you asked how I feel, and it’s possible I’m wrong but I think it would be unfair to name your son Honore.’

‘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 maitre 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 Surete.’

‘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. Veronique Langlois.’

Veronique 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 maitre 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 maitre 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 maitre 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 maitre 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 maitre 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.