‘Canada delayed entering the war.’
‘Only by a week,’ said Finney.
‘Long enough. It was humiliating. Britain in there, Germany brutalizing Europe. It was wrong.’
‘It was wrong,’ agreed Finney sadly.
‘It was that Gamache’s fault. And even when war was declared he convinced a lot of Quebecers to be conscientious objectors. Conscientious.’ She loaded the word with loathing. ‘There was no conscience involved, only cowardice.’
Her voiced lifted, turning the sentence into a weapon and the last word a bayonet. And across the room, the human target.
‘He went to Europe himself,’ said Finney.
‘With the Red Cross. Never in the front lines. He never risked his own life.’
‘There were a lot of heroes in the ambulance corps,’ said Finney. ‘Brave men.’
‘But not Honore Gamache,’ said Irene Finney.
Clara waited for Finney to contradict her. She looked over at Peter, some jam on his ill-shaven cheek, eyes down. Thomas and Sandra and Mariana, eyes aglow. Like hyenas falling on prey. And Bean? The child sat on the tiny chair, feet planted firmly, gripping Myths Every Child Should Know.
Clara stood up, taking the tablecloth with her. Peter looked embarrassed. Causing a scene was so much worse than causing pain. Her hands trembled as she grabbed at the cloth and jerked it free. Her eyes were watering, with rage. But she could see the satisfaction in Mrs Morrow’s eyes.
As Clara stumbled from the room, past Gamache himself, and out of the squeaking screen doors the words followed her into the wilderness.
‘Honore Gamache was a coward.’
‘Monsieur Pelletier?’
‘Oui,’ came the shout from the rafters.
‘My name is Armand Gamache. I’m with the Surete du Quebec. Homicide.’
Beauvoir wished he could see the sculptor’s face. It was his favourite part of any investigation, except for the arrest. He loved to see people’s faces when they realized a couple of homicide officers were there. From the famed Surete.
But he was denied the pleasure. Pelletier was invisible, a voice from above.
‘That would be about that statue,’ came the disembodied voice. Another disappointment. Beauvoir loved passing on the gruesome details and seeing people pale.
‘It would. Could you come down please?’
‘I’m very busy. New commission.’
‘Up there?’ asked Gamache, craning his neck to see the man in the wooden rafters.
‘Of course not up here. I’m fixing ropes to tie on to the piece, so it doesn’t fall over.’
Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged glances. So statues did fall over. Could it be that simple?
With a start Beauvoir saw a scrawny man scuttle down the far wall of the old barn, like a spider. Only after the man landed softly did Beauvoir realize there was a makeshift rope ladder there. He turned to Gamache who’d also been watching, his eyes wide at the thought of anyone climbing up and down there.
Yves Pelletier was almost emaciated. He wore loose white shorts and a filthy undershirt, barely concealing his bony chest and ribs. His arms, though, were enormous. He looked like Popeye.
‘Yves Pelletier,’ he said with a broad townships accent, sticking his hand out. It was like shaking a hammer. This man seemed to be made of metal. All thin and hard and shining with perspiration. The barn was stuffy and hot. No air stirred and dust drifted thick in the sunbeams through the barn boards.
It smelled of old hay, concrete and sweat.
Beauvoir stood straighter and tried to look more manly in his soft leather shoes and trim linen shirt.
I have a gun, he told himself. I have a gun and he doesn’t.
Threats came in different forms. He glanced over at the Chief Inspector who seemed completely at ease.
‘What happened to you?’ the sculptor asked Beauvoir, indicating his face.
Had Gamache not been there he’d have described the burning building filled with orphans, or the runaway car he’d stopped just before it ploughed into a pregnant woman, or the murderer he’d disarmed with his bare hands.
He decided to stay quiet and let the man imagine the heroics.
‘Looks like a door hit you, son,’ said Pelletier, turning round and leading them on a tour of his barn and out into the yard. It wasn’t itself a graveyard, though it was right beside a large one.
‘Customers,’ laughed Pelletier, pointing to the headstones on the other side of his wooden fence. Rolling a cigarette he licked it and stuck it into his yellowed mouth. ‘Can’t make a living doing this shit. Wish I could, but being an artist doesn’t pay the bills.’
He took a long drag, coughed and spat.
Someone less like an artist would be hard to find, thought Beauvoir.
‘People hire me for those.’ Pelletier waved towards the monuments and headstones. They wandered through the gate. Here and there a winged angel touched down. They were old, their wings worn.
Gamache stopped and took in the sight.
It was quiet, peaceful. But it also seemed alive. Every now and then a man or woman strolled from behind a tree. Only they weren’t really moving. They were stuck in place, but somehow vibrant. They were statues.
Gamache turned and stared at their guide. The little man was picking a strand of tobacco off his tongue.
‘You did these?’
‘Except the angels. I don’t do angels. Tried, but they never worked. Wings were always too big. People kept complaining about hitting their heads.’
This struck Beauvoir as funny and he laughed. The sculptor joined in and Gamache smiled.
The statues were all different sizes, all different moods. Some seemed filled with calm and gladness, some looked as though they were playing, some looked pained and some bitter. Not overt, just a hint, a hardness.
‘What’re they made of?’ Beauvoir asked. Most were black and smooth and gleaming.
‘Marble. Quarried not far from here.’
‘But Charles Morrow wasn’t made of this,’ said Gamache.
‘No, he was made of something else. I was going to use marble but after listening to people talk about him I changed my mind.’
‘Who’d you talk to?’
‘The missus, and his kids, but the one I spoke to most, who actually came here, was that ugly guy. If I ever did a sculpture of him I’d get complaints.’ He laughed. ‘But you know, I just might anyway, for myself.’
‘Bert Finney?’ asked Gamache, to be certain. Pelletier nodded and flicked his butt onto the grass. Beauvoir stepped on it.
‘I knew you’d probably be coming so I looked up my notes. Wanna see?’
‘S’il vous plait,’ said Beauvoir, who liked notes. They wandered back into the barn, which seemed gloomy compared to the lively cemetery. While Beauvoir read Gamache and the sculptor sat on a low wooden trough.
‘How do you go about doing a sculpture?’
‘Well, it’s hard if I haven’t met the person. Lots of those people I actually knew.’ He waved casually towards the cemetery. ‘In a small town you do. But Morrow I never met. So like I said, I spoke to his family, looked at pictures. That ugly guy brought a bunch of stuff. Quite interesting. So then I just let it kinda ferment, you know, until I get him. And one day I wake up and I have the guy. Then I get started.’
‘What did you “get” about Charles Morrow?’
Pelletier picked at his calloused fingers and thought.
‘You know those statues out there, the ones in the cemetery?’
Gamache nodded.
‘They’re not all the same size. Some people buy big ones, some smaller. Sometimes it depends on their budget, but mostly it depends on their guilt.’
He smiled. Charles Morrow had been immense.
‘I had the impression he wasn’t missed. That the statue was more for them than him. A kind of replacement for grieving.’
There it was. So simple. The words drifted into the air to join the dry dirt in the sunbeams.