‘Like a knife you went in. I barely even knew you dived.’
‘There, breakfast time,’ said Reine-Marie ten minutes later as they hauled themselves up the ladder back onto the dock.
Gamache handed her a sun-warmed towel. ‘What’ll you have?’
They walked back describing for each other impossible amounts of food they’d eat. At the Manoir he stopped and took her off to the side.
‘I want to show you something.’
She smiled. ‘I’ve already seen it.’
‘Not this,’ he chuckled and then stopped. They were no longer alone. There, at the side of the Manoir, someone was hunched over, digging. The movement stopped and slowly the figure turned to face them.
It was a young woman, covered in dirt.
‘Oh, hello.’ She seemed more startled than they. So startled she spoke in English rather than the traditional French of the Manoir.
‘Hello.’ Reine-Marie smiled reassuringly, speaking English back.
‘Desolee,’ the young woman said, smearing more dirt onto her perspiring face. It turned to mud instantly, so that she looked a little like a clay sculpture, animated. ‘I didn’t think anyone was up yet. It’s the best time to work. I’m one of the gardeners.’
She’d switched to French and she spoke easily with only a slight accent. A whiff of something sweet, chemical, and familiar came their way. Bug spray. Their companion was doused in it. The scents of a Quebec summer. Cut grass and bug repellent.
Gamache and Reine-Marie looked down and noticed holes in the ground. She followed their gaze.
‘I’m trying to transplant all those before it gets too hot.’ She waved to a few drooping plants. ‘For some reason all the flowers in this bed’re dying.’
‘What’s that?’ Reine-Marie was no longer looking at the holes.
‘That’s what I wanted to show you,’ said Gamache.
There, off to the side and slightly hidden by the woods, was the huge marble cube. At least now there was someone to ask.
‘Not a clue,’ was the gardener’s answer to his question. ‘A huge truck dropped it here a couple of days ago.’
‘What is it?’ Reine-Marie touched it.
‘It’s marble,’ said the gardener, joining them as they stared.
‘Well here we are,’ said Reine-Marie eventually, ‘at the Manoir Bellechasse, surrounded by woods and lakes and gardens and you and I,’ she took her husband’s hand, ‘are staring at the one unnatural thing for miles around.’
He laughed. ‘What are the chances?’
They nodded to the gardener and returned to the Manoir to change for breakfast. But Gamache found it interesting that Reine-Marie had the same reaction to the marble cube he’d had the night before. Whatever it was, it was unnatural.
The terrasse was mottled with shade and not yet scorching hot, though by noon the stones would be like coals. Both Reine-Marie and Gamache wore their floppy sun hats.
Elliot brought their cafe au lait and breakfasts. Reine-Marie poured Eastern Townships maple syrup onto her wild blueberry crepe and Gamache speared his eggs Benedict, watching the yolk mix with the hollandaise sauce. By now the terrasse was filling with Finneys.
‘It doesn’t really matter,’ they heard a woman’s voice behind them, ‘but if we could have the nice table under the maple tree that would be great.’
‘I believe it’s already taken, madame,’ said Pierre.
‘Oh really? Well, it doesn’t matter.’
Bert Finney was already down, as was Bean. They both read the paper. He had the comics while Bean read the obituaries.
‘You look worried, Bean,’ the old man said, lowering the comics.
‘Have you noticed that more people seem to be dying than are being born?’ Bean asked, handing the section to Finney, who took it and nodded solemnly.
‘That means there’s more for those of us still here.’ He handed the section back.
‘I don’t want more,’ said Bean.
‘You will.’ And Finney raised the cartoons.
‘Armand.’ Reine-Marie laid a soft hand on his arm. She lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. ‘Is Bean a boy or girl?’
Gamache, who’d been mildly wondering the same thing, looked again. The child wore what looked like drugstore glasses and had shoulder-length blond hair around a lovely tanned face.
He shook his head.
‘Reminds me of Florence,’ he said. ‘I took her up and down boulevard Laurier last time they visited and almost everyone commented on our handsome grandson.’
‘Was she wearing her sun bonnet?’
‘She was.’
‘And did they comment on the resemblance?’
‘They did, as a matter of fact.’ Gamache looked at her as though she was a genius, his brown eyes wide with admiration.
‘Imagine that,’ she said. ‘But Florence is just over a year. How old would you say Bean is?’
‘Hard to say. Nine, ten? Any child reading the obituaries looks older.’
‘Obituaries are ageing. I’ll have to remember that.’
‘More jam?’ Pierre replaced their near empty containers with fresh jars of homemade wild strawberry, raspberry and blueberry confitures. ‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked.
‘Well, I do have a question,’ said Gamache and tilted his croissant towards the corner of the Manoir. ‘There’s a block of marble over there, Pierre. What’s it for?’
‘Ah, you noticed.’
‘Astronauts would notice.’
Pierre nodded. ‘Madame Dubois didn’t say anything when you checked in?’
Reine-Marie and Gamache exchanged glances and shook their heads.
‘Oh well.’ The maitre d’ looked a little embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her. It’s a surprise.’
‘A nice surprise?’ asked Reine-Marie.
Pierre thought about it. ‘We’re not really sure. But we’ll know soon.’
FIVE
After breakfast Gamache placed a call to his son in Paris and left a message with the number for the Manoir. Cell phones didn’t work this deep into the woods.
The day meandered along pleasantly, the temperature slowly and inexorably climbing until before they realized it it was very hot indeed. Workers dragged Adirondack chairs and chaises longues about the lawns and gardens, seeking shade for their baking guests.
‘Spot!’
The shout cut through the humid noon hour and into Armand Gamache’s repose.
‘Spot!’
‘Strange,’ said Reine-Marie, taking off her sunglasses to look at her husband, ‘it’s said with the same inflection you’d yell “Fire!”.’
Gamache stuck his finger in his book and looked in the direction of the shout. He was curious to see what a ‘Spot’ looked like. Did he have floppy ears? Was he actually spotted?
Thomas was calling ‘Spot!’ and walking swiftly across the lawn towards a well-dressed tall man with grey hair. Gamache took his sunglasses off and stared more closely.
‘This is the end of our peace and quiet, I imagine,’ said Reine-Marie, with regret. ‘The odious Spot and his even more wretched wife Claire have materialized.’
Gamache put his glasses back on and squinted through them, not really believing what he was seeing.
‘What is it?’ Reine-Marie asked.
‘You’ll never guess.’
Two tall figures were converging on the lawn of the Manoir Bellechasse. Distinguished Thomas and his younger brother Spot.
Reine-Marie looked over. ‘But that’s—’
‘I think it is,’ he said.
‘So where’s—’ Reine-Marie was flabbergasted.
‘I don’t know. Oh, there she comes.’
A rumpled figure appeared round the corner of the Manoir, a sun hat imperfectly screwed to her flyaway hair.
‘Clara?’ whispered Reine-Marie to Gamache. ‘My God, Armand, Spot and Claire Finney are Peter and Clara Morrow. It’s like a miracle.’ She was delighted. The blight that had appeared imminent and unstoppable had turned into their friends.
Now Sandra was greeting Peter and Thomas embraced Clara. She was tiny in his arms and almost disappeared and when she pulled back she was even more dishevelled.