She nodded briskly and left, followed silently by Pierre.
Gamache watched the door close. He knew the same thing.
THIRTEEN
‘Mrs Morrow, would you like some lunch?’
‘No, Claire, thank you.’
The elderly woman sat on the sofa next to her husband, as though her spine had fused. Clara held out a small plate with a bit of poached salmon, delicate mayonnaise and paper-thin cucumbers and onion in vinegar. One of Peter’s mother’s favourite lunches, she knew, from the times she’d asked for it at their place when all they had to offer was a simple sandwich. Two struggling artists rarely ran to salmon.
Normally when Mrs Morrow called her Claire, Clara was livid. For the first decade she’d presumed Peter’s mother simply didn’t hear well and genuinely thought her name was Claire. Sometime in the second decade of her marriage to Peter, Clara realized her mother-in-law knew perfectly well what her name was. And what her profession was, though she continued to ask about her job at some mythical shoe store. It was, of course, possible Peter had actually told his mother Clara worked in a shoe store. Anything, she knew, was possible with the Morrows. Especially if it meant keeping the truth from each other.
‘A drink, perhaps?’ she asked.
‘My husband will look after me, thank you.’
Clara was dismissed. She glanced at her watch. Past noon. Could they leave soon? She hated herself for the thought, but she hated staying even more. And another thought she hated still more. That Julia’s death was a massive inconvenience. More than that, it was a pain in the ass. There. She’d said it.
She wanted to go home. To be surrounded by her own things, her own friends. To work on her solo show. In peace.
She felt like shit.
Turning to look back she saw Bert Finney with his eyes closed.
Sleeping.
He’s fucking sleeping. The rest of us are trying to deal with this tragedy and he’s napping. She opened her mouth to invite Peter onto the terrasse. She longed for some fresh air, maybe a little walk through the mist. Anything to escape this stifling atmosphere.
But Peter had gone again. Into his own world. He was focused only on the movement of his pencil. Art had been his sanity growing up. The only place where nothing happened unless he made it happen. Lines appeared and disappeared according to his will alone.
But when does the lifeboat become the prison ship? When does the drug start working against you? Had her beloved, gentle, wounded husband escaped too far?
What was that called? She tried to remember conversations with her friend Myrna in Three Pines. The former psychologist sometimes talked about that. People who were delusional, disconnected.
Insane.
No, she shoved the shard of a word away. Peter was wounded, hurt, brilliant for having found a coping mechanism that soothed as well as provided an income. He was one of the most respected artists in Canada. Respected by everyone, except his own family.
Mrs Morrow was rolling in money and yet she’d never once bought a painting by her own son, even when they were all but starving. She’d offered to give them money, but Peter had side-stepped that mine.
Clara watched as Mariana Morrow wandered to the piano. Thomas had abandoned it and was now reading a newspaper. Mariana sat, swept her shawl over her shoulder and held her hands over the keys.
This should be good, thought Clara, awaiting the clunks and bangs. Anything to break the crackling silence. Mariana’s hands hovered, bouncing slightly, as though playing airpiano. For God’s sake, shouted Clara’s mind. Can’t they do anything for real?
Clara glanced around and saw Bean alone.
‘What’re you reading?’ she asked, joining the serious child on the window seat.
Bean showed Clara the book. Myths Every Child Should Know.
‘Wonderful. Did you find it in the library?’
‘No, Mommy gave it to me. It was hers. See.’ Bean showed Clara the first page, inscribed, For Mariana on her birthday, from Mother and Father.
Clara felt tears sting her eyes again. Bean stared at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Clara, dabbing her eye with a cushion. ‘I’m being silly.’
But Clara knew why she wept. Not for Julia, not for Mrs Morrow. She wept for all the Morrows, but mostly for parents who gave gifts and wrote ‘from’. For parents who never lost children because they never had them.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Bean.
It had been Clara’s intention to comfort Bean.
‘It’s just very sad,’ said Clara. ‘I’m sorry about your aunt. How about you? Are you all right?’
Bean’s mouth opened and music came out. Or so it seemed for an instant.
Turning round Clara stared at the piano. Mariana had dropped her hands to the keys, and they were doing the most remarkable thing. They were finding the notes. In the right order. The music was astonishing. Fluid and passionate and natural.
It was gorgeous, but it was also typical. She should have known. The untalented brother was a brilliant painter. The mess of a sister was a virtuoso pianist. And Thomas? She’d always presumed he was as he seemed. A successful executive in Toronto. But this family was fuelled by deceit. What was he, really?
Clara glanced around and saw Chief Inspector Gamache standing at the door, staring at Mariana.
The music stopped.
‘I’m going to ask you all to stay at the Manoir for at least another day, perhaps longer.’
‘Of course,’ said Thomas.
‘Thank you,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘We’re collecting evidence now and sometime today one of my agents will interview each of you. Until then feel free to wander the grounds. I’d like to speak with you. Will you walk with me?’
He gestured to Peter, who rose.
‘We’d like to go first,’ said Sandra, her eyes anxiously flitting from Peter to Gamache and back.
‘Why?’
This seemed to surprise her. ‘Do I need a reason?’
‘It would help. If there’s a pressing need then I’ll ask the Inspector to get to you first. Is there one?’
Sandra, deflated and compressed by far too many pressing needs all her life, was silent.
‘We don’t want to speak to the Inspector,’ said Thomas. ‘We want to speak to you.’
‘Flattering as that is, I’m afraid it’ll be Inspector Beauvoir who’ll interview you. Unless you’d prefer Agent Lacoste.’
‘Then why does he get you?’ Thomas jerked his head towards Peter.
‘This isn’t a competition.’
Thomas Morrow stared at Gamache with a look designed to wither. A look practised and perfected on secretaries who’d traded self-respect for a salary and trainees too young to know a bully from a boss.
As he headed out of the screen door Gamache looked back at the Morrows, staring after him like a tableau vivant. Out of that tableau, Gamache knew, a murderer would one day walk. And Gamache would be waiting for him.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste organized the officers from the local Surete detachment and handed out assignments. One team would search the staff rooms and outbuildings, another would search the Manoir and her team would handle the guest rooms.
She’d warned them to be careful. They were looking for evidence, but they were also looking for a murderer. It was possible he was hiding on the grounds. Unlikely, but possible. Agent Lacoste was a cautious woman, by nature and by training. And now she conducted the search, always with the expectation that the monster was indeed under the bed or waiting in the wardrobe.
‘Mariana Morrow?’
Inspector Beauvoir stepped into the Great Room, feeling a bit like a dental assistant. Time for your filling. And they looked at him with those same dental-patient eyes. Fear for those chosen, annoyance for those left to wait.
‘What about us?’ asked Sandra, standing up. ‘We were told we could go first.’