‘Pardon?’
‘Over there, that thing disappearing into the woods.’
‘The devil?’
Madame Dubois seemed to find this extremely amusing. ‘I like that, but no. Quite the opposite, really. That was Chef Veronique.’
‘Hell of a sun screen.’
‘Bee screen. She’s our beekeeper. Off to get honey for tea.’
‘And beeswax for the furniture,’ said Gamache with a smile.
That was why the Manoir Bellechasse smelled of decades of coffee and woodsmoke, and honeysuckle.
TWENTY-FIVE
Mariana Morrow plunked at the piano keys in the Great Room, glad of the peace.
Rich, she was going to be rich one day. As long as Mommy didn’t leave everything to that Finney, and he didn’t leave everything to some cats’ home. Well, she’d done the best she could. She at least had produced a child. She looked over at Bean.
She regretted naming the child Bean, now. What had she been thinking? River would have been better. Or Salmon. Or Salmon River. No, too normal.
Bean had definitely been a mistake. Mariana’s mother had been appalled at first, her only grandchild named after a vegetable. The only reason Mariana had had Bean baptized was to force her mother to listen to the minister declare, in front of the entire congregation, not to mention God, the name of Bean Morrow.
A glorious moment.
But her mother had proved more resilient than Mariana had thought, like a new strain of superbug. She’d become immune to the name.
Aorta, maybe. Aorta Morrow. Or Burp.
Damn, that would’ve been perfect.
‘And now, in the presence of this congregation, and before God, I give you Burp Morrow.’
Another opportunity missed. Perhaps it wasn’t too late.
‘Bean, dear, come to Mommy.’
Mariana patted the piano bench and the child walked over and leaned against it. Mariana thumped the bench with more force, but Bean didn’t budge.
‘Come on, Bean. Up you get. Sit beside Mommy.’
Bean ignored the thumping, glancing down at the everpresent book instead. ‘Mommy, have you ever seen a flying horse?’
‘Only once, dear. In Morocco after a particularly good party. I’ve also seen a few fairies.’
‘You mean Uncle Scott and Uncle Derek?’
‘I do. They fly sometimes, you know, but I don’t think either could be called a stud.’
Bean nodded.
‘Bean, do you like your name? I mean, wouldn’t you like Mommy to change it for you?’ She looked at the serious child. ‘Why don’t you jump?’
Bean, used to Mommy’s verbal veers, followed easily. ‘Why should I?’
‘Well, people do. That’s why we have knees, and arches on our feet. And ankles. Ankles are little wings, you know.’
She made fluttering actions with her fingers, but Bean looked sceptical.
‘They don’t look like wings, they look like bones.’
‘Well, yours have probably fallen off. Disuse. It happens.’
‘I think you jump enough for both of us. I like it here. On the ground.’
‘You know what would make Mommy happy? If I could change your name. What do you think about that?’
Bean shrugged. ‘Suppose. But you won’t make it stranger than Bean, will you?’
The little eyes narrowed.
Chlamydia Morrow.
Very pretty. Too pretty, perhaps. Not quite right. Soon everyone would know if Bean was a boy or a girl and that little secret would be blown. The best way to infuriate Mother would be to give her only grandchild a really ridiculous name.
Mariana looked at the child, strange by even her family’s standards.
Syphilis.
Mariana smiled. Perfect.
Syphilis Morrow. Leads to madness.
Jean Guy Beauvoir leaned back in his chair in the library and looked around. Not really taking in his surroundings, but feeling at ease. Normally he’d be making notes on his computer, checking messages, sending messages, surfing the web. Googling.
But there was no computer. Just a pen and paper. He chewed the pen and stared ahead, using his brain to make connections.
He’d spent much of the afternoon going over writing samples, trying to find out who’d written those notes to Julia. Someone had reached out to her, and from what little they were gathering about the lonely woman, she’d be almost incapable of not reaching back.
Had it killed her? Had she been murdered by her needs?
Beauvoir had had a need of his own. For the first hour and a half he’d concentrated on one suspect. The man he knew had done it. Pierre Patenaude. Far from being difficult to find, samples of his writing were everywhere. Notes on menus, staff rotation lists, evaluation forms and even French tests he’d given the young staff, trying to teach them that the night wasn’t a strawberry and that flaming mice wasn’t a menu option. It seemed the only thing the maitre d’ hadn’t written were the notes to Julia Martin.
But after another hour of digging and comparing, of leaning over an old-fashioned magnifying glass taken from a display of butterflies, Beauvoir had his answer. He knew beyond doubt who’d written to Julia.
Bert Finney drew the curtains to block out the sun and watched as his wife undressed for her nap. Not a moment of any day went by when he wasn’t astonished by his good fortune. He was rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
He was patient, but then he’d learned that years ago. And it had paid off. He was even willing to pick up after her, since it got him what he wanted. He gathered the clothes from the floor where she dropped them, trying not to notice the little gasps of pain coming from this tiny woman. Who felt so much, but mostly felt she couldn’t show it. The only argument they’d ever had, and that only once, had been when he’d tried to persuade her to explain all this to the children. She’d refused.
And now Irene Finney stood naked in the centre of the dim room, tears streaming down her cheeks. He knew they would end soon. They always did. But lately they’d been going on longer.
‘What is it?’ he asked, and knew immediately how ridiculous it sounded.
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me.’ He picked up her slip and bra and underwear and looked up into her face.
‘It’s the smell.’
And that might be true, but he thought it was more than that.
Irene Morrow stood at the Manoir Bellechasse sink, her young, pink hands ladling lukewarm water over Julia. Tiny Julia, so much more petite than Thomas, who was already bathed and in a huge white towel in Charles’s arms. Now it was his baby sister’s turn. Their room at the Manoir hadn’t changed since she’d been going there as a girl herself. The same taps, the same black rubber stopper, the same buoyant Ivory soap.
Now her hands supported her baby in the sink, protecting her from the hard taps, holding her secure so she didn’t slip. Making certain even the mild soap didn’t get into the trusting eyes.
It would be perfect, if it hadn’t been for the pain. Neuralgia they’d later diagnose, a women’s problem her doctors had told Charles at the time. He’d believed them. So had she. After Thomas. But the pain had grown after Julia until she could barely stand to be touched, though she’d never admit that to Charles. Her Victorian parents had made clear two things: the husband must be obeyed, and she must never show weakness, especially to that husband.
And so she’d bathed her beautiful baby, and cried. And Charles had mistaken those tears as a sign of joy. And she’d let him.
And now Julia was gone, and Charles was gone and even the ruse of joy was gone, not even pretended to any more.
And all that was left was pain and a sink and old taps and the scent of Ivory soap.
‘Bonjour, is this the clogging queen?’
‘Oui, c’est la reine du clogging,’ sang the cheery voice down the phone line. She sounded so far away and yet she was just over the line of mountains on the other side of the lake. In the next valley.
‘Is that the stable boy?’ Reine-Marie asked.
‘Oui, mademoiselle.‘ Gamache could feel the laughter start. ‘I understand your handsome husband has been called away on very important state business.’