The door suddenly swung open, knocking Beauvoir square in the face.
He fell back, swallowing with a massive effort the swear words that sprang to mind and tongue, in case it was Veronique who’d done it. For some reason, around her, he couldn’t bring himself to swear. He shut his eyes against the pain and his hand flashed up and held his nose, feeling something trickle between his fingers.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry.’
It was the maitre d’.
Beauvoir opened his eyes and his mouth at the same time. ‘Chalice, look at this.’ He stared down at his hand, covered in blood. Suddenly he felt a little lightheaded.
‘Here, let me help.’ The maitre d’ took Beauvoir’s arm, but he shook it away.
‘Tabernac! Leave me alone,’ he shouted, nasally, haemorrhag ing swear words and blood.
‘It wasn’t his fault.’
Beauvoir stood still, not wanting this to be happening.
‘You shouldn’t be standing right in front of a kitchen door at mealtime. Monsieur Patenaude was simply doing his job.’
The foghorn voice was unmistakable, as was the tone. A woman defending someone she cared about. More concerned about the attack on the maitre d’ than the bleeding policeman. That hurt more, far more, than the hard door to the soft nose. Beauvoir turned and saw Chef Veronique towering behind him, sheaves of paper in her beefy hand. Her voice had been hard, censorious, like his teachers at Catholic school when he’d done something particularly stupid.
Chalice, had he said chalice? And tabernac? Now he felt really nauseous.
‘Desole,’ he said, cupping the blood as it poured off his chin. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What’s happened?’
Beauvoir turned and saw Gamache walk through the door. He felt relief, as he always did when Gamache was in the room.
‘It was my fault,’ said Pierre. ‘I opened the door and hit him.’
‘What’s going on?’ Madame Dubois waddled over, concern on her face.
‘Are you all right?’ Gamache looked into Beauvoir’s eyes. The younger man nodded. Gamache gave the Inspector his handkerchief and asked for more towels. After a moment he examined the damage, his large, sure fingers prodding Beauvoir’s nose and forehead and chin.
‘Right, nothing too bad. Your nose isn’t broken, just bruised.’
Beauvoir shot a look of loathing at the maitre d’. Somehow, Beauvoir knew, the man had done it on purpose. Somehow.
He went off and cleaned himself up, hoping to see in the mirror a heroic hockey player or a boxer wounded in the ring. What he saw was an idiot. A bloody idiot. After he’d changed he met the others for breakfast in the dining room. The Morrows were off in one corner, the police in another.
‘Better?’ asked Gamache.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Beauvoir, catching Lacoste’s amused look and wondering if everyone knew. Their cafe au lait arrived and they ordered.
‘What have you found out?’ Gamache asked Lacoste first.
‘You were wondering, Chief, why Julia Martin exploded at the mention of a public washroom? I asked Mariana Morrow last night. Seems Julia had a huge blow-up with her father about that.’
‘About a toilet?’
‘Uh huh. It was the reason she went to BC. Seems someone wrote on the men’s room wall in the Ritz that Julia Morrow gave good head. They even wrote the phone number. The family number.’
Beauvoir grimaced. He could just imagine how Mama and Papa Morrow would react to that. Men calling at all hours asking how much for a blow job.
‘Apparently Charles Morrow saw it himself. Whoever did it knew exactly where to put it. You know the Oyster Bar?’
Gamache nodded. It was closed now but it’d been the favourite cocktail lounge for generations of Montreal Anglos. It was in the basement of the Ritz.
‘Well, Julia Morrow gives good head was written in the men’s washroom of the Oyster Bar. According to Mariana her father saw it then heard a bunch of his friends laughing about it. He went ballistic.’
‘Who put it there?’ Gamache asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Lacoste. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask Mariana.
Their breakfasts arrived. Scrambled eggs with spinach and Brie for the Chief Inspector. A few maple-cured rashers of bacon lay over the eggs and a small fruit salad garnished the plate. Lacoste had ordered eggs Benedict and Beauvoir had the largest dish on the menu. A platter heaped with crepes, eggs, sausages and back bacon sat in front of him.
A waiter left a basket of croissants along with a tray of homemade wild strawberry and blueberry confitures, and honey.
‘Someone had it in for her,’ said Lacoste, the hollandaise sauce dripping from her fork. ‘Girls who don’t give out are often labelled sluts by disappointed boys.’
‘It’s a terrible thing to do to a girl,’ said Gamache, thinking of wispy Julia. ‘How old would she have been? Twenty?’
‘Twenty-two,’ said Lacoste.
‘I wonder if Thomas could have written it,’ said Gamache.
‘Why him?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘It would need to be someone who knew the phone number, knew Charles Morrow’s habits, and knew Julia. And it would need to be someone cruel.’
‘According to Mariana they’re all cruel,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Could’ve been Thomas,’ said Lacoste. She reached for a croissant, still warm from the oven, and cracking it open she spread golden honey on it. ‘But that’s thirty-five years ago. We can’t judge the man by what the boy did.’
‘True, but Thomas lied and told Julia we were talking about men’s toilets when we weren’t,’ said Gamache. ‘We were talking about washrooms in general. He wanted her to react. He wanted to hurt her, I know that now. And he did. He’s still cruel.’
‘Maybe it’s a joke to him. Families have lots of in jokes,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Jokes are funny,’ said Gamache. ‘This was meant to hurt.’
‘It’s a form of abuse,’ said Lacoste and beside her Beauvoir groaned. She turned to him. ‘You think only a fist in a woman’s face is abuse?’
‘Look, I know all about verbal and emotional abuse, and I understand,’ he said and meant it. ‘But where does it end? The guy teased his sister about an event from years ago, and it’s supposed to be abuse?’
‘Some families have long memories,’ said Gamache, ‘especially for slights.’
He dipped a spoon into the honey and drizzled it on a warm croissant. He tasted it and smiled.
It tasted of fragrant summer flowers.
‘According to Mariana their father wasn’t so worried about whether Julia gave good head, but that everyone believed it,’ said Lacoste.
‘And Julia left because of that?’ said Gamache. ‘It’s not trivial, I know, but was it actually enough to send her across the continent?’
‘Hurt feelings,’ said Lacoste. ‘I’d rather have a bruise any day.’
Beauvoir felt his nose throbbing, and knew she was right.
Gamache nodded, trying to imagine the scene. Julia, who’d probably never put a foot wrong her whole life, is suddenly humiliated in front of all Montreal Anglo society. It might not be large, it might not be as powerful as it pretended, but it was where the Morrows lived. And suddenly Julia Morrow was branded a slut. Humiliated.
But the worst was to come. Instead of defending her, Charles Morrow, upright and upstanding and as immovable then as now, had attacked her as well, or at least failed to defend her. She’d loved him, and he’d stepped aside and let the hyenas have at her.
Julia Morrow had left. Gone as far from her family as she could. To British Columbia. Married David Martin, a man her father disapproved of. Divorced. Then come home. And been murdered.
‘I spoke to Peter last night,’ said Gamache and told them about his conversation.
‘So he thinks Bert Finney killed Julia,’ said Lacoste, ‘for the insurance?’
‘OK, suppose he did it,’ said Beauvoir, after swallowing a piece of savoury sausage, dripping maple syrup. ‘Again, he’s like, a hundred and fifty. He’s older than he weighs. How could he shove that huge statue off the pedestal? You might as well say that kid did it.’