‘Good. That was a pretty awful thing to see. Shook me too.’
She smiled, grateful he’d said it loud enough for everyone to hear.
Gamache turned to the room.
‘I’m Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, head of homicide for the Surete du Quebec.’
‘Voyons,’ he heard a loud whisper, ‘I told you it was him.’
A scattering of ‘Holy shit’ was also heard.
‘As you know, there’s been a death. The statue in the garden fell and struck Madame Martin.’
Young, attentive, and excited faces looked at him.
He spoke with natural authority, trying to reassure, even as he broke the frightening news. ‘We believe Madame Martin was murdered.’
There was stunned silence. He’d seen that transition almost every day of his working life. He often felt like a ferryman, taking men and women from one shore to another. From the rugged, though familiar, terrain of grief and shock into a netherworld visited by a blessed few. To a shore where men killed each other on purpose.
They’d all seen it from a safe distance, on television, in the papers. They’d all known it existed, this other world. Now they were in it.
Gamache watched as the young, fresh faces closed slightly, as fear and suspicion entered this room where just moments ago they’d known they were safe. And now these young men and women knew something even their parents probably didn’t fully appreciate.
No place was safe.
‘She was killed last night, just before the storm. Did any of you see Madame Martin after the coffee service? That would’ve been about ten thirty.’
There was a movement off to his left. He glanced over and saw Colleen and Madame Dubois sitting at the table. The young waiter Elliot was standing beside them and behind him was someone else. Given her age and costume it could only be the head chef, the famous Chef Veronique.
One of them had moved. Not a crime, but while everyone else was too stunned to budge, one of them wasn’t. Who?
‘You’ll all be interviewed, of course, and I want to make something clear. You need to be honest. If you saw something, anything, you must tell us.’
The silence continued.
‘Every day I look for murderers, and most of the time we find them. It’s what we do, my team and I. It’s our job. Your job is to tell us everything you know, even if you think it’s not important.’
‘You’re wrong.’ Elliot stepped forward.
‘Elliot,’ the maitre d’ warned, also coming forward, but Gamache stopped him with a raised hand and turned to the young man.
‘Our job is to wait tables and make beds and serve drinks. To smile at people who insult us, who treat us like furniture. Our job isn’t to help you find a murderer, and I sure as hell am not being paid enough to keep waiting on these people. I mean,’ he appealed to the rest of the staff, ‘one of them killed her. Do you want to stay and serve them? Did you ever?’
‘Elliot,’ said the maitre d’ again, ‘that’s enough. I know you’re upset, son, we all are—’
‘Don’t call me son.’ Elliot rounded on him. ‘You’re pathetic. These people won’t thank you. They never do. They don’t even know who you are. They’ve been coming here for years and has any of them even asked your last name? Do you think if you left and someone else took over they’d even notice? You’re nothing to them. And now you’d risk your life to keep feeding them cucumber sandwiches? And you’d have us do the same?’
His face was bright red as though burned.
‘It’s our job,’ repeated the maitre d’.
‘Ours is but to do and die, is that it?’ Elliot offered a mocking salute.
‘Pierre Patenaude’s a remarkable man,’ Chef Veronique said, speaking to Elliot but heard by all. ‘You’d do well to learn from him, Elliot. And the first lesson could be knowing who’s on your side. And who isn’t.’
‘You’re right,’ said the maitre d’ to Elliot. ‘I will stay to feed them cucumber sandwiches or whatever they want and Chef Veronique makes. And I do it happily. Sometimes people are rude and insensitive and insulting. That’s their problem, not mine. Everyone who comes here is treated with respect. Not because they’ve earned it, but because it’s our job. And I do my job well. They’re our guests, true. But they’re not our superiors. One more outburst like that and you won’t have to worry about staying on.’ He turned to the rest of the room. ‘If any of you want to leave I’ll understand. I for one am staying.’
‘So am I,’ said Chef Veronique.
Gamache noticed Colleen’s furtive glances at Elliot, then over to the maitre d’.
‘They’re welcome to quit, Patron,’ said Gamache, who’d found this exchange interesting, ‘but they’re not welcome to leave. You need to stay at the Manoir at least for the next few days.’ He let this sink in then smiled reassuringly. ‘If you have to stay, you might as well be paid.’
There were nods of agreement. Chef Veronique moved to the cutting board and handed bunches of herbs to a couple of the kitchen staff and soon the air was ripe with the scent of rosemary. A small murmur of conversation picked up. A few of the guys shoved Elliot playfully. But the young man wasn’t ready to be jollied out of his rage.
Chief Inspector Gamache left the kitchen wondering about the scene he’d witnessed. He knew that behind rage was fear. That young waiter was very afraid, of something.
‘So it was murder, Armand,’ said Reine-Marie, shaking her head in disbelief. They were alone in the library and he’d just brought her up to speed. ‘But how could someone push that statue over with their bare hands?’
‘The family wants to know the same thing,’ said Beauvoir, entering the room with Lacoste. ‘I just told them we think it’s murder.’
‘And?’ Gamache asked.
‘You know what it’s like. One moment they believe it, the next they don’t,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Can’t say I blame them. I’ve told them they can leave the Great Room, but not the grounds. And of course the crime site itself is out of bounds. Peter and Clara Morrow have asked to see you,’ he said to the Chief Inspector.
‘Good. I want to speak to them as well. Tell me what you know.’
Agent Lacoste sat in the wing chair across from Reine-Marie while the two men sat together on the leather sofa, heads almost touching as Beauvoir bent over his notebook and Gamache bent over him. They looked, Reine-Marie thought, a bit like Russian matrioshka dolls, nesting. Large powerful Armand hovering almost protectively over smaller, younger Beauvoir.
She’d spoken to their son Daniel while Armand had been supervising the crime site. He was anxious to speak to his father about the name they’d chosen for their child. He knew, as she did, what Honore meant to his father. And while he’d never hurt his father, he was determined to use that name. But how did Armand feel about another Honore Gamache? And his own grandson at that?
‘How did the Morrows account for themselves last night?’ asked Gamache.
Beauvoir consulted his notebook. ‘The family was together all through dinner, sharing a table. After dinner they split up. Peter and Clara came in here and had drinks. They said you were with them.’
‘Most of the time,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘We were on the terrasse. But we could see them through the window.’
Beauvoir nodded. He liked clarity.
‘Monsieur and Madame Finney stayed at the table for their coffee.’ Isabelle Lacoste picked up the story. ‘Thomas and Sandra Morrow went into the Great Room. Thomas played the piano and Mariana took her child upstairs.’
‘Bean,’ said Reine-Marie.
‘Been?’ asked Beauvoir. ‘Been what?’
‘Bean Morrow, I suppose.’
They looked at each other, confused, then Reine-Marie smiled.
‘Bean is the child’s name,’ she explained, spelling it for him.
‘As in coffee?’ he asked.
‘If you wish,’ said Reine-Marie.
He didn’t. What he wished was that this would all go away. Jean Guy Beauvoir already suspected most Anglos were nuts. And now a Bean to prove it. Who called their child after a legume?