‘There are strange things done ‘neath the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold.‘
They looked at Gamache. Rarely when the chief spouted poetry did it clarify a situation for Beauvoir.
‘Moil?’ said Lacoste, who generally loved listening to the chief recite.
‘I was agreeing with you.’ Gamache smiled. ‘So would Robert Service. Strange things are done on the shores of isolated lakes. Strange things were done here, last night.’
‘By the men who moil for gold?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘Almost always,’ said Gamache and nodded to Lacoste to continue.
‘I think Veronique Langlois has developed feelings for someone. Strong feelings.’
Gamache leaned forward again.
What killed people wasn’t a bullet, a blade, a fist to the face. What killed people was a feeling. Left too long. Sometimes in the cold, frozen. Sometimes buried and fetid. And sometimes on the shores of a lake, isolated. Left to grow old, and odd.
‘Really?’ Beauvoir leaned forward himself.
‘Don’t laugh. There’s a big age gap.’
Neither man looked likely to laugh.
‘I think she’s in love with the maitre d’,’ Lacoste said.
Clara thought the Morrows were Olympian in their ability to avoid unpleasantness, while being very unpleasant themselves. But never would she have believed them capable of ignoring the murder of their own sister and daughter.
But so far they’d whizzed through the soup course and no mention of Julia. Though Clara had to admit she wasn’t anxious to bring it up herself.
‘More bread? Too bad about Julia.’
How do you say it?
‘More wine?’ Thomas tilted the bottle down the table. Clara declined but Peter accepted. Finally Clara couldn’t take it any more. Across the table Mrs Morrow straightened her fish fork. She’d joined in the conversation, but without interest and only to correct a misinterpretation, a mispronunciation or a flat-out mistake.
‘How are you feeling?’ Clara asked.
It fell into a lull in the conversation and now all faces turned to her, except Bert Finney and Bean. Both were looking out of the window.
‘Are you speaking to me?’ her mother-in-law asked.
Clara was pretty sure her skin had just been sliced, by the look if not the tone.
‘It’s been a terrible day,’ said Clara, wondering where this suicidal instinct had sprung from. Maybe the Morrows were right. Maybe talking about it made it worse. She suddenly felt like a sadist, whipping this tiny, elderly grieving woman. Forcing her to confront the horrible death of her daughter. Forcing her to talk about it. Over vichyssoise.
Who was unreasonable now?
But it was too late. Her question was out there. She stared at Peter’s mother, who looked at her as though seeing her daughter’s murderer. Clara lowered her gaze.
‘I was remembering Julia,’ said Mrs Morrow. ‘How beautiful she was. How kind and loving. Thank you for asking, Claire. I wish one of my own children had thought to ask. But they seem to prefer to talk about American politics and the latest show at the National Gallery. Do you care about those things more than your sister?’
Clara had gone from feeling like crap to feeling like a hero to feeling like crap again. She looked across the table at Peter. His hair was standing straight out at the sides and he’d dropped a small dribble of soup, like pabulum, onto his shirt.
‘But then Julia was always the most sensitive of you. I understand you told the Chief Inspector Julia was greedy and cruel.’
Her gentle Wedgwood eyes focused on Peter. There was no movement now. Even the waiters seemed afraid to approach.
‘I didn’t say that,’ he stammered, reddening. ‘Who told you that?’
‘And you told him my own death might be for the best.’
Now there was an audible gasp and Clara realized they’d all inhaled in shock, including herself. She was finally in the boat. Great timing.
Mrs Morrow fiddled with the stem of her wine glass.
‘Did you say that, Peter?’
‘No, I didn’t, Mother. I’d never say such a thing.’
‘Because I know when you’re lying. I always know.’
This wasn’t difficult, Clara knew, since in her company they always lied. She’d taught them that. Their mother knew where all their buttons were, and why not. She’d installed them.
Peter was lying now. Clara knew it, his mother knew it. The maitre d’ knew it. The chipmunk Bert Finney was staring at probably knew it.
‘I would never say that,’ repeated Peter. His mother glared.
‘You never disappoint me, you know. I always knew you’d come to nothing. Even Claire is more successful than you. A solo show with Denis Fortin. Have you ever had one?’
‘Mrs Morrow,’ said Clara. Enough was enough. ‘That’s not fair. Your son’s a fine man, a gifted artist, a loving husband. He has lots of friends and a beautiful home. And a wife who loves him. And my name is Clara.’ She stared along the table to the elderly woman. ‘Not Claire.’
‘And my name is Mrs Finney. You’ve called me Mrs Morrow for fifteen years, long after my marriage. Do you know how insulting that is?’
Clara was stunned into silence. She was right. It’d never occurred to her that Peter’s mother was now Mrs Finney. She’d always just been Mrs Morrow.
How had it come to this? Here she was yelling at Peter’s mother when she meant to comfort her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’
And then she saw something almost as horrifying as what the young gardener must have witnessed that morning. But instead of a crushed middle-aged woman, Clara saw a crushed elderly woman. In front of her, in front of them all, Peter’s mother put her head in her hands and started to cry.
Mariana shrieked and jumped up, just as the ceiling collapsed. Or at least, something landed on her from above, and bounced.
It was a cookie.
The sky was made of marshmallow, and it was falling.
Over coffee Chief Inspector Gamache put on his half-moon glasses and read the bundle of letters, handing each to Beauvoir as he finished. After a few minutes he lowered his glasses and stared out the window.
He was beginning to know Julia Martin. To know her facts, her history. He felt the rich, thick notepaper in his hands.
It was almost nine in the evening and still bright. They’d only just passed the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. The mist was disappearing, though some hovered lightly over the calm lake. The clouds were breaking up and a hint of red and purple was in the sky. It was going to be a magnificent sunset.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, tapping his glasses on the stack of letters.
‘They’re the strangest collection of love letters I’ve ever seen,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Why’d she keep them?’
Agent Lacoste picked up the letters and the velvet ribbon.
‘They were important to her, for some reason. More than important, they were crucial. So much so she kept them with her. But …’
She seemed lost for words and Gamache knew how she felt. The notes spanned more than thirty years and seemed simply a collection of thank yous for parties, or dances or gifts. Various people telling Julia Martin she was kind.
None an actual love letter. Her father had written to thank her for a tie. There was an old one from her husband before they married, asking her to meet him for dinner. It was pleasant, complimentary. All of them were. Affectionate, grateful, polite. But no more.
‘Why did she keep them?’ Gamache mumbled, almost to himself. Then he picked up the more recent notes, the ones crumpled and found in the grate. ‘And why did she throw these away?’
As he read them again something struck him.
‘Do you notice something unusual about this note?’ He pointed to one.
You are very kind. I know you won’t tell anyone what I said. I could get into trouble!