His grey-blue eyes slid over to Beauvoir, to make sure he’d understood. Beauvoir already knew about David Martin but was interested in Morrow’s manner. He’d spoken with both malicious pleasure and pride. Pleasure that his little sister had screwed up and married a felon, and pride that the felon was one of the wealthiest men in Canada, even after paying back all that money.
‘Who would want your sister dead?’
‘Nobody. This was a family reunion, a happy time. No one wanted her dead.’
Beauvoir slowly turned his head to look into the misty day and was silent but even a Morrow couldn’t miss his meaning. A hole in the ground outside those windows put the lie to Thomas Morrow’s words.
Don’t believe a thing they say, Mariana Morrow had said. And Beauvoir didn’t.
‘Did Julia have any children?’ Gamache asked as he and Peter emerged from the woods and headed slowly back to the Manoir.
‘None. Don’t even know if they tried. We’re not a big family for kids,’ said Peter. ‘We eat our young.’
Gamache let that join the mist around them. ‘What did you think of the statue of your father?’
Peter didn’t seem fazed by the non sequitur. ‘I didn’t give it any thought. I had no reaction at all.’
‘That’s not possible. Even as an artist you must’ve had an opinion.’
‘Oh, well, as an artist, yes. I can see the merit. Obviously the person who did it has some technique. It wasn’t bad. But he’d never met Father.’
Gamache just kept walking, his large hands clasped behind his back, his gaze alternately on his soaking feet and on the ever growing Manoir.
‘My father never looked like that. Never looked sad or whatever that was on his face. He only ever scowled. And he never, ever stooped. He was huge and, and …’ Peter gestured with his arms, as though sketching the world. ‘Huge. He killed Julia.’
‘His statue killed Julia.’
‘No, I mean before she left, he killed her. He took her spirit and he crushed her. He crushed us all. That’s what you’ve been dying for me to say, isn’t it? Why do you think we have no children, any of us? Look at our role models. Would you?’
‘There is one child. Bean.’
Peter harrumphed.
Again, Gamache was quiet.
‘Bean doesn’t jump.’
Gamache stopped, arrested by this unlikely string of words from his companion.
Bean doesn’t jump.
‘Pardon?’ he asked.
‘Bean doesn’t jump,’ Peter repeated.
He might as well have said, ‘Toaster picture bicycle,’ for all the sense he made.
‘What do you mean?’ Gamache asked, suddenly feeling very stupid.
‘Bean can’t leave the ground.’
Armand Gamache felt the damp seep into his bones.
‘Bean’s feet never leave the ground, at least not together. The child can’t or won’t jump.’
Bean can’t jump, thought Armand Gamache. What family produces a child so earthbound? Mired. How does Bean express excitement? Joy? But thinking about the child, and the family, he had his answer. So far, in ten years, that hadn’t been an issue.
Armand Gamache decided to call his son as soon as he was back at the Manoir.
FOURTEEN
‘Daniel?’
Hi, Dad, enfin. I was beginning to think I’d imagined you.’
Gamache laughed. ‘Mom and I are at the Manoir Bellechasse, not exactly a telecommunications hub.’
As he spoke he looked out of the French doors of the library, across the mint-green wet grass and to the misty lake beyond. A low cloud clung softly to the forest. He could hear birds and insects, and sometimes a splash as a feeding trout or bass jumped. And he could hear the wah-wah of a siren and the irritated honking of a horn.
Paris.
The City of Light mingling with the wilderness. What a world we live in, he thought.
‘It’s nine p.m. here. What time is it there?’ Daniel asked.
‘Almost three. Is Florence in bed?’
‘We’re all in bed, I’m embarrassed to admit. Ah, Paris.’ Daniel laughed his deep, easy rumble. ‘But I’m glad we finally connected. Here, wait, let me just get to another room.’
Gamache could see him in their tiny flat in Saint-Germaindes-Pres. Moving to another room wouldn’t guarantee either privacy for him or peace for his wife and child.
‘Armand?’ Reine-Marie stood at the door of the library. She’d packed her bags and a porter was just taking them out to the car. They’d talked about it, and Armand had asked her to leave the Bellechasse.
‘I will, of course, if that’s what you want,’ she’d said. But she searched his face. She’d never seen him on a case before, though he talked about his work all the time and often asked her opinion. Unlike most of his colleagues, Gamache hid nothing from his wife. He didn’t think he could keep so much of his life from her and not have it come between them. And she was more important than any career.
‘I’ll worry less if you’re not here,’ he said.
‘I understand,’ and she did. She’d feel the same way, if roles were reversed. ‘But do you mind if I don’t go far?’
‘A pup tent on the edge of the property?’
‘You are intuitive,’ she’d said. ‘But I was thinking of Three Pines.’
‘What a good idea. I’ll just ring Gabri and get you into his B&B.’
‘No, you find out who murdered Julia and I’ll call the B&B.’
And now she was ready to go. Ready but not happy. She’d felt a pain in her chest as she’d watched him negotiating the first steps of the investigation. His people so respectful, the officers from the local detachment so deferential and even frightened of him, until he’d put them at ease. But not too much at ease. She’d watched her husband take command of the situation, naturally. She knew, and he knew, that someone needed to be in charge. And he was by temperament more than rank the natural leader.
She’d never actually witnessed it before, and she’d watched with surprise as a man she knew intimately exposed a whole new side of himself. He commanded with ease because he commanded respect. Except from the Morrows, who seemed to think he’d tricked them. They’d seemed more upset by that than by the death of Julia.
But Armand always said people react differently to death, and it was folly to judge anyone and double folly to judge what people do when faced with sudden, violent death. Murder. They weren’t themselves.
But privately Reine-Marie wondered. Wondered whether what people did in a crisis was, in fact, their real selves. Stripped of artifice and social training. It was easy enough to be decent when all was going your way. It was another matter to be decent when all hell was breaking loose.
Her husband stepped deliberately into all hell every day, and maintained his decency. She doubted the same could be said for the Morrows.
She’d interrupted him. She could see he was on the phone and began to leave the room. Then she heard the word Roslyn.
He was speaking to Daniel and asking after their daughter-in-law. Reine-Marie had tried to speak to Armand about Daniel, but it had never seemed the right time and now it was too late. Standing on the threshold she listened, her heart pounding.
‘I know Mom told you about the names we’ve chosen. Genevieve if it’s a girl—’
‘Beautiful name,’ said Gamache.
‘We think so. But we also think the boy’s name is beautiful. Honore.’
Gamache had promised himself there’d be no awkward silence when the name was said. There was an awkward silence.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
‘This is my own, my native land!’
The words of the old poem, spoken as always in the deep, calm voice in his head, filled the void. His large hand clasped gently shut as though holding on to something.