‘You’re not calling for advice again, are you, Chief? Eventually you’re going to have to figure things out on your own.’
‘Harrowing as that thought is, I do need your help.’
Jean Guy Beauvoir recognized this wasn’t a social call from his long-time boss. His voice sharpened and Gamache could almost hear his chair fall back to the ground as his feet whisked off the desk.
‘What is it?’
Gamache succinctly passed on the details.
‘At the Manoir Bellechasse? Mais, c’est incroyable. That’s the top auberge in Quebec.’
It always amazed Gamache that people, even professionals, thought Frette sheets and a superb wine list guarded against death.
‘Was she murdered?’
And there was the other question. The two questions that had gotten up from the crime site and started to shadow Armand Gamache as soon as he’d seen Julia Martin’s body: how had the statue tumbled down, and was it murder?
‘I don’t know.’
‘We’ll soon find out. I’m on my way.’
Gamache looked at his watch. Ten to eleven. Beauvoir and the rest of the team should arrive from Montreal by twelve thirty. The Manoir Bellechasse was buried south of Montreal, in an area known as the Eastern Townships, close to the American border. So close that some of the mountains he’d contemplated that misty morning were in Vermont.
‘Armand? I think I hear a car.’
That would be the local Surete, he thought, grateful for the maitre d’s help.
‘Merci.‘ He smiled at Reine-Marie and made for the hallway, but she stopped him.
‘What about the family?’
She looked worried and for good reason. The thought that Mrs Finney would find out about her daughter from a waiter, or, worse, by perhaps wandering outside, was terrible.
‘I’ll just give the officers their instructions and go right in.’
‘I’ll go in and make sure they’re all right.’
He watched her go, her step resolute, walking into a room filled with people whose lives were about to change forever. She could have sat quietly in the library and no one would have faulted her, but instead Reine-Marie Gamache chose to sit in a room soon to be overwhelmed with grief. Not many would make that choice.
Walking quickly outside he introduced himself to the officers, who were surprised to meet this renowned Surete investigator in the middle of the woods. He gave them directions, then motioning to one of them to follow he went inside to tell the Morrows.
‘Something has happened. I have bad news.’
Armand Gamache knew it was never a kindness to prolong bad news.
But he knew something else.
If it was murder, someone in this room almost certainly did it. He never let that overwhelm his compassion, but neither did he let his compassion blind him. He watched closely as he spoke.
‘Madame.’ He turned to Mrs Finney, sitting composed in a wing chair, that day’s Montreal Gazette folded on her lap. He saw her stiffen. Her eyes darted quickly about the room. He could read her nimble mind. Who was there, and who was missing?
‘There’s been a death.’ He said it quietly, clearly. He was under no illusions about what his words would do to this woman. They were statue words, heavy and crushing.
‘Julia,’ she exhaled the name. The missing child. The one not there.
‘Yes.’
Her lips parted and her eyes searched his, looking for some escape, some back door, some hint this might not be true. But he didn’t blink. His brown eyes were steady, calm and certain.
‘What?’
Thomas Morrow was on his feet. The word wasn’t yelled. It was expelled across the room at him.
What. Soon someone would ask how and when and where. And finally the key question. Why.
‘Julia?’ Peter Morrow asked, standing. Beside him Clara had taken his hand. ‘Dead?’
‘I have to go to her.’ Mrs Finney stood, the Gazette slipping to the floor, unattended. It was the equivalent of a scream. Mr Finney rose unsteadily to his full height. He reached for her hand then pulled back.
‘Irene,’ he said. Again he reached out, and Gamache willed with all his might that Bert Finney could go the distance. But once again the old twig hand stopped short and finally fell to the side of his grey slacks.
‘How do you know?’ snapped Mariana, also on her feet now. ‘You’re not a doctor, are you? Maybe she’s not dead.’
She approached Gamache, her face red and her fists clenched.
‘Mariana.’ The voice was still commanding and it stopped the charging woman in her tracks.
‘But Mommy—’
‘He’s telling the truth.’ Mrs Finney turned back to the large, certain man in front of her. ‘What happened?’
‘How could she be dead?’ Peter asked.
The shock was lifting, Gamache could see. They were beginning to realize a woman in her late fifties, apparently healthy, doesn’t normally just die.
‘An aneurysm?’ asked Mariana.
‘An accident?’ asked Thomas. ‘Did she fall down the stairs?’
‘The statue fell,’ said Gamache, watching them closely. ‘It hit her.’
The Morrows did what they did best. They fell silent.
‘Father?’ asked Thomas, finally.
‘I’m sorry.’ Gamache looked at Mrs Finney, who stared as though stuffed. ‘The police are with her now. She isn’t alone.’
‘I need to go to her.’
‘The police aren’t letting anyone close. Not yet,’ he said.
‘I don’t care, they’ll let me.’
Gamache stood in front of her and held her eyes. ‘No, madame. Not even you, I’m afraid.’
She looked at him with loathing. It was a look he’d received often enough, and understood. And he knew it would get worse.
Gamache left them to their sorrow, taking Reine-Marie with him, but he quietly motioned the Surete officer into a corner.
Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir stepped out of the car and looked at the sky. Unremitting grey. It would rain for a while yet. He looked down at his shoes. Leather. His slacks designer. His shirt. Casual linen. Perfect. Fucking middle of nowhere murder. In the rain. And mud. He slapped his cheek. And bugs. Flattened to his palm were the remains of a mosquito and some blood.
Fucking perfect.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste opened an umbrella and offered him one. He declined. Bad enough to be here, he didn’t need to look like Mary Poppins.
Chief Inspector Armand Gamache came out of the auberge and waved. Beauvoir waved back then slapped his forehead. Gamache hoped it was a bug. Beside Beauvoir Agent Lacoste walked with an umbrella. In her late twenties, she was married and already a mother of two. Like most Quebecoises, she was dark and petite with a comfortable flair and confidence. She wore a blouse and slacks that managed to be both sensible and soignee, even with rubber boots.
‘Salut, Patron,’ she said. ‘How’d you manage to find the body?’
‘I’m staying here.’ He fell into step between them. ‘The victim is a guest at the Manoir.’
‘Hope she gets a discount,’ said Beauvoir. They turned the corner of the lodge and Gamache introduced the local Surete officers.
‘Anyone come out?’ he asked. Beside him Beauvoir was staring over at the scene, anxious to get there.
‘Some older woman,’ said a young female agent.
‘English?’ asked Gamache.
‘No, sir. Francophone. Offered us tea.’
‘Tall, with a deep voice?’
‘Yes, that’s her. Looked a little familiar, actually,’ said one of the men. ‘Suppose I’ve seen her in Sherbrooke.’
Gamache nodded. Sherbrooke was the nearest town, where the detachment was based.
‘That would be the chef here, Veronique Langlois. Did she seem interested in the scene?’ Gamache looked over to where the agents had encircled the site in yellow tape.
‘Who wouldn’t be?’ The young woman laughed.
‘You’re right,’ he said quietly. He turned sombre, kindly eyes on her. ‘There’s a woman over there who was alive hours ago. It might be an accident, it might be murder, but either way, this isn’t the time or place for laughter. Not yet.’