Back in the car they drove slowly down rue du Moulin and came to a stop at Gabri’s B&B. The large, rumpled man in his mid-thirties stood on the wide porch, as though waiting for them.
‘Salut, mes amis.‘ He walked down the wooden stairs and grabbed Reine-Marie’s case from Gamache after giving them all, even Beauvoir, an affectionate hug and kiss on both cheeks. ‘Welcome back.’
‘Merci, Patron.‘ Gamache smiled, enjoying being back in the little village.
‘Olivier and I were so sorry to hear about Peter’s sister,’ Gabri said as he showed Reine-Marie to her room in the inn. It was warm and inviting, the bed a dark, rich wood, the bedding in clean, luxurious white. ‘How’re they doing?’
‘It’s a shock,’ said Gamache, ‘but they’re coping.’ What else could he say?
‘Terrible.’ The large man shook his head. ‘Clara called and asked me to pack a bag for them. She sounded a bit stressed. Do you clog?’ he asked Reine-Marie, mimicking the old dance, a rustic cross between tap and Celtic.
It wasn’t the next obvious question and she stared.
‘I’ve never tried,’ she said.
‘Well, Mary Queen of the World, you’re in for a treat. In a few days we have the Canada Day celebrations on the village green and we’re putting together a clogging demonstration. I’ve signed you up.’
‘Please take me back to the place with the murderer,’ Reine-Marie whispered in her husband’s ear as she kissed him goodbye at the car minutes later, smelling his slight rosewater and sandalwood scent. As he drove away she waved, still in the world of his scent, a world of comfort and kindliness and calm, and no clogging.
Chief Inspector Armand Gamache walked into the Surete offices in Sherbrooke and introduced himself. ‘Perhaps you can direct us to your evidence area.’
The agent behind the desk leapt to his feet. ‘Yessir. The statue’s through here.’
They followed the agent to the back of the station and into a large garage. Charles Morrow was leaning against a wall as though ordering a huge drink. An agent sat in a chair in front of the statue, guarding it.
‘I thought it best to be sure no one interfered with it. I know you took blood and soil samples. We’ve sent them to the lab by courier, but I took some more, to be sure.’
‘You’re very thorough,’ said Gamache. Their feet echoed across the concrete floor of the garage. Gamache had the impression Charles Morrow was waiting for them.
He nodded to the agent guarding the statue and dismissed him, then reached out a hand and touched the stone torso. He held it there, not really sure what he expected to feel. A distant pulse, perhaps.
And Gamache indeed felt something unexpected. He moved his hand to another position, this time on Morrow’s arm, and rubbed up and down.
‘Jean Guy, look at this.’
Beauvoir leaned closer. ‘What?’
‘Feel it.’
Beauvoir put his hand where the chief’s had been. He’d expected to feel it cool to the touch, but it was warm as though Charles Morrow, the miser, had sucked the warmth from the chief.
But he felt something else. Drawing his brows together he moved his hand to Morrow’s torso and stroked. Then he leaned even closer so that his nose was almost touching the statue.
‘But this isn’t stone,’ he said at last.
‘I don’t think so either,’ said Gamache, stepping back.
Charles Morrow was grey. A deep grey in some places, a lighter grey in others. And his surface undulated slightly. At first Gamache thought it was an effect somehow achieved by the sculptor, but touching the statue and looking more closely he realized it was ingrained. The waves, like sagging skin, were part of whatever Charles Morrow had been sculpted from. It was as though this was a real man, a giant. And the giant had petrified.
‘What is it? What’s it made of?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gamache. He was saying that a lot in this case. He looked up into the face of Charles Morrow. Then he took another step back.
The face had bits of earth and grass still clinging to it. He looked like a dead man dug up. But the face, beneath its layer of earth, looked determined, resolved. Alive. The arms, held loosely at the waist, palms up, looked as though he had lost something. Traces of blood, now dried, coloured Charles Morrow’s head and hands. His slight stride looked hesitant.
Taken in parts he gave the impression of a sullen, impatient, greedy, certainly needy, man.
But taken as a whole Gamache had an entirely different impression. The sum of his parts spoke of longing, of sadness, of resignation mixed with resolve. It was the same feeling he’d had about Charles Morrow the moment the canvas caul had been whisked away at the unveiling. And now Gamache had the impression he was back in a familiar garden in Paris.
Where most visitors went to the Louvre, the Tuileries, the Tour Eiffel, Armand Gamache went to a quiet courtyard garden behind a tiny museum.
And there he paid his respects to men long dead.
For that was the musee of Auguste Rodin. And Armand Gamache went to visit the Burghers of Calais.
‘Does the statue remind you of anything?’
‘Horror movies. He looks as though he’s about to come alive,’ said Beauvoir.
Gamache smiled. There was something otherworldly about the statue. And it had killed once, after all.
‘Have you ever heard of Les Bourgeois de Calais? The Burghers of Calais?’
Beauvoir pretended to think.
‘Non.‘ He had the feeling he was about to. At least the chief wasn’t quoting poetry. Yet.
‘He reminds me of them.’ Gamache stepped back again. ‘Auguste Rodin sculpted them. They’re in the Musee Rodin, in Paris, but there’s also one outside the Musee des Beaux Arts in Montreal, if you want to see it.’
Beauvoir took that as a joke.
‘Rodin lived about a hundred years ago, but the story goes back much further, to 1347.’
He had Beauvoir’s attention. The chief’s deep, thoughtful voice spoke as though reciting a tale and Beauvoir could see the events unfold.
The port of Calais almost seven hundred years ago. Bustling, rich, strategic. In the middle of the Hundred Years War between the French and the English, though of course they didn’t call it that then. Just war. Calais was an important French port and it found itself under siege by the mighty army of Edward III of England. Expecting to be relieved by Philip VI of France the townspeople settled in, unconcerned. But days stretched to weeks stretched to months and hope stretched to breaking. And beyond. Eventually starvation was at the door, through the gate and in their homes. Still they held on, trusting relief would come. That surely they wouldn’t be forgotten, forsaken.
Eventually Edward III made an offer. He’d spare Calais, if six of its most prominent citizens would surrender. To be executed. He ordered that these men present themselves at the gate, stripped of their finery, with ropes round their necks and holding the key to the city.
Jean Guy Beauvoir paled, imagining what he’d do. Would he step forward? Would he step back, look away? He imagined the horror of the town, and the choice. Listening to the chief he felt his heart pounding in his chest. This was far worse than any horror film. This was real.
‘What happened?’ Beauvoir whispered.
‘A man, Eustache de Saint-Pierre, one of the wealthiest men in Calais, volunteered. Five others joined him. They took off all their clothes, down to their undergarments, put nooses round their own necks, and walked out of the gates.’
‘Bon Dieu,’ whispered Beauvoir.
Dear God, agreed Gamache, looking again at Charles Morrow.
‘Rodin did a sculpture of that moment, when they stood at the gate, surrendering.’
Beauvoir tried to imagine what it would look like. He’d seen a lot of official French art, commemorating the storming of the Bastille, the wars, the victories. Winged angels, buxom cheering women, strong determined men. But if this statue reminded the chief of those men, it couldn’t be like anything he’d seen before.