‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re too young to be hardened and cynical. So am I.’ He smiled. ‘It’s no shame to be sensitive. In fact, it’s our greatest advantage.’
‘Yes sir.’ The young agent could have kicked herself. She was naturally sensitive but had thought she should hide it, that a certain cavalier attitude would impress this famous head of homicide. She was wrong.
Gamache turned to the scene. He could almost feel Beauvoir vibrating beside him. Inspector Beauvoir was the alpha dog, the whip-smart, tightly wound second in command who believed in the triumph of facts over feelings. He missed almost nothing. Except, perhaps, things that couldn’t be seen.
Agent Lacoste also stared at the scene. But unlike Beauvoir she could become very still. She was the hunter of their team. Stealthy, quiet, observant.
And Gamache? He knew he was neither the hound nor the hunter. Armand Gamache was the explorer. He went ahead of all the rest, into territory unknown and uncharted. He was drawn to the edge of things. To the places old mariners knew, and warned, ‘Beyond here be monsters.’
That’s where Chief Inspector Gamache could be found.
He stepped into the beyond, and found the monsters hidden deep inside all the reasonable, gentle, laughing people. He went where even they were afraid to go. Armand Gamache followed slimy trails, deep into a person’s psyche, and there, huddled and barely human, he found the murderer.
His team had a near perfect record, and they did it by sorting facts from fancy from wishful thinking. They did it by collecting clues and evidence. And emotions.
Armand Gamache knew something most other investigators at the famed Surete du Quebec never quite grasped. Murder was deeply human. A person was killed and a person killed. And what powered the final thrust wasn’t a whim, wasn’t an event. It was an emotion. Something once healthy and human had become wretched and bloated and finally buried. But not put to rest. It lay there, often for decades, feeding on itself, growing and gnawing, grim and full of grievance. Until it finally broke free of all human restraint. Not conscience, not fear, not social convention could contain it. When that happened, all hell broke loose. And a man became a murderer.
And Armand Gamache and his team spent their days finding murderers.
But was this a murder at the Manoir Bellechasse? Gamache didn’t know. But he did know that something unnatural had happened here.
‘Take this in to them, s’il vous plait.’ Chef Veronique’s large ruddy hand trembled slightly as she motioned to the trays. ‘And bring out the pots already there. They’ll want fresh tea.’
She knew this was a lie. What the family wanted they could never have again. But tea was all she could give them. So she made it. Over and over.
Elliot tried not to make eye contact with anyone. He tried to pretend he heard nothing, which was actually possible given the sniffles and snorts coming from Colleen. It was as though her head contained only snot. And too much of it.
‘It’s not my fault,’ she sputtered for the hundredth time.
‘Of course it’s not,’ said Clementine Dubois, hugging her to her huge bosom and readjusting the Hudson’s Bay blanket she’d put on the young gardener for comfort. ‘No one’s blaming you.’
Colleen subsided into the soft chest.
‘There were ants everywhere,’ she hiccuped, pulling back but leaving a thin trail of mucus on the shoulder of Madame Dubois’s floral dress.
‘You and you,’ said Chef Veronique, pointing to Elliot and Louise, not unkindly. The tea would be too strong if they waited much longer. The waiters were young, she knew, and had no experience with death. Unlike herself. Sending them in to wait on the Morrows was bad enough at the best of times, and this was far from the best of times. A room full of grief was even worse than a room full of anger. Anger a person got used to, met most days, learned to absorb or ignore. Or walk away from. But there was no hiding from grief. It would find you, eventually. It was the thing we most feared. Not loss, not sorrow. But what happened when you rendered those things down. They gave us grief.
All around the staff sat in easy chairs, perched on counters, leaned against walls, sipping strong coffee or tea, comforting each other. Murmured guesses, theories, excited speculation, filled the air. The maitre d’ had brought Colleen in, delivered her into their arms for comfort and dry clothing, then rounded up the rest of the staff. Once the family had been told he’d broken the news to the employees.
Madame Martin was dead. Crushed by that statue.
Everyone had gasped, some had exclaimed, but only one cried out. Pierre scanned the room, but didn’t know who. But he did know the sound had surprised him.
Inspector Beauvoir finally stared into the hole. Only it wasn’t a hole. It was filled with a human. A woman, wide eyed, surprised, and dead, a statue imbedded in her chest.
‘Jesus.’ He shook his head and slapped his arm, squishing a blackfly. In his peripheral vision he saw Agent Lacoste leaning in and putting her latex gloves on.
This was their new office.
Over the next few minutes more trucks and team members arrived and the Scene of Crime work got into full swing. Armand Gamache took it all in, as Beauvoir led the forensics.
‘What do you think, Chief?’ Lacoste removed her gloves and joined him under his umbrella. ‘Was she murdered?’
Gamache shook his head. He was stumped. Just then the young Surete officer he’d placed in the Great Room with the Morrows appeared, excited.
‘Good news, sir,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible. I think we have a suspect.’
‘Well done. Who?’
‘The family was quiet at first, but after a while two of them started whispering. Not the artist fellow, but the other brother and sister. They seem pretty confident if it was murder she could only have been killed by one of two people.’
‘Really?’ Beauvoir asked. They might be able to get back to civilization sooner than he’d thought.
‘Oui.‘ She consulted her notebook. ‘The shopkeeper and his cleaning woman wife. Their names are Armand and Reine-Marie something. They’re guests.’
Beauvoir grinned and Lacoste turned away briefly.
‘My suspicions confirmed,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Will you come quietly?’
‘I’ll miss you,’ said Agent Lacoste.
Gamache smiled slightly and shook his head. Seven mad Morrows.
Six.
ELEVEN
‘Peter,’ Clara whispered.
She’d watched as he’d taken the Manoir notepaper and a pencil and then, grey head bowed, become lost as the pencil drew lines within ordered lines. It was mesmerizing and comforting, in the way the third martini was comforting. It felt good, but only because it numbed. Even Clara felt drawn in. Anything to escape the room filled with silent and solemn sorrow.
Across the Great Room Thomas’s grey head was also bowed. Over the piano. The notes had been slow, tentative, but after a few moments Clara recognized them. Not Bach, for once. But Beethoven. ‘Fur Elise’. It was a spry and chipper tune. And relatively easy to play. She’d even managed to peck out the first few notes herself.
But Thomas Morrow played it as a dirge. Each note hunted for as though the tune was hiding. It filled the grieving room with an ache that finally brought tears to Clara’s eyes. They burned with the effort of concealment, but the tears were out and obvious.
Sandra cried shortbread, scarfing the cookies one after another while Mariana sat beside Bean, a shawled arm round the child’s shoulder as Bean read. They were silent now, though a few minutes earlier Thomas, Sandra and Mariana had been huddled together, whispering. Clara had approached, to offer her condolences, but they’d fallen silent and eyed her suspiciously. So she’d left.
Not everyone makes the boat, she thought. But HMCS Morrow was sinking. Even Clara could see that. It was a steamboat in the age of jets. They were old money in a meritocracy. The alarms were sounding. But even Peter, her lovely and thoughtful husband, clung to the wreckage.