‘The waiter?’ asked Lacoste, amazed.
Beauvoir nodded and showed them the samples of Elliot’s writing next to the notes. Gamache put on his half-moon reading glasses and bent over. Then he sat up.
‘Well done.’
‘Should I speak to him?’
Gamache thought about it for a moment then shook his head. ‘No, I’d like to put a few more things together first, but this is interesting.’
‘There’s more,’ said Beauvoir. ‘He’s not only from Vancouver, but he lived in the same neighbourhood as Julia and David Martin. His parents might have known them.’
‘Find out,’ said Gamache, rising and heading for the door to pick up his wife.
Elliot Byrne seemed to have breached the boundary set out by Madame Dubois. Had young Elliot conquered lonely and defenceless Julia Martin? What had he wanted? An older lover? Attention? Perhaps he’d wanted to finally and absolutely infuriate his boss, the maitre d’.
Or was it simpler than that, as it often was? Did he want money? Was he tired of waiting tables for a pittance? And when he got money from Julia, did he kill her?
At the door to the library Gamache paused and looked back at the sheet of foolscap hanging up and the large red letters at the top.
WHO BENEFITS?
Who didn’t benefit from Julia’s death, he was beginning to wonder.
TWENTY-SIX
Reine-Marie laid down her fork and leaned back in the comfortable chair. Pierre whisked away the plate, which had the smallest dusting of strawberry shortcake crumbs left, and asked if there was anything else.
‘Perhaps a cup of tea,’ she said and when he’d left she reached out and squeezed her husband’s hand. It was a rare treat to see him in the middle of one of his cases. When she’d arrived she’d said hello to Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste, both of whom were eating and working in the library. Then they’d wandered into the dining room, made up with crisp white linen and fresh flowers and gleaming silver and crystal.
A waiter placed an espresso in front of Gamache and a teapot in front of Reine-Marie.
‘Did you know the Manoir makes its own honey?’ Armand asked, noticing the amber liquid in a pot beside her teacup.
‘Really? How extraordinary.’
Reine-Marie didn’t normally take honey but decided to try some with her Thunderbolt Darjeeling, dipping her little finger into the honey before stirring it in.
‘C’est beau. It has a familiar taste. Here, try.’
He dipped as well.
Her eyes narrowed as she tried to figure it out. He knew, of course, what she was tasting but wanted to see if she’d get it.
‘Give up?’ he asked. When she nodded he told her.
‘Honeysuckle?’ She smiled. ‘How wonderful. Will you show me the glade sometime?’
‘With pleasure. They even polish the furniture with the beeswax.’
As they talked Gamache noticed the Morrows were at their table, though Peter and Clara weren’t in their regular seats. They were relegated to the far end, with Bean.
‘Hello,’ said Reine-Marie, as they left the dining room for a stroll, ‘how are you both?’
But she could see. Peter was wan and strained, his clothes dishevelled and his hair awry. Clara was immaculate, buttoned down and impeccable. Reine-Marie didn’t know which was more disconcerting.
‘You know.’ Clara shrugged. ‘How’s Three Pines?’ She sounded wistful, as though asking after a mythical kingdom. ‘All ready for Canada Day?’
‘Yes, it’s tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ Peter looked up. They’d lost all sense of time.
‘I’m going over tomorrow,’ said Gamache. ‘Would you like to come? You’ll be in my custody.’
He thought Peter would burst into tears, he looked so relieved and grateful.
‘That’s right, it’s your anniversary,’ said Clara. ‘And I hear there’s a major new talent being unveiled at the clogging competition.’
Gamache turned to his wife. ‘So Gabri wasn’t kidding?’
‘Sadly not.’
They made the arrangements and the Gamaches turned to go into the garden.
‘Wait, Armand.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Do you think we could pop in and compliment the chef? I’m dying to meet her. Would she mind?’
Gamache thought about it. ‘Perhaps we should ask Pierre. I don’t think it’d be a problem, but you never know. Wouldn’t want to have to dodge cleavers.’
‘Sounds like our clog-dancing training. Ruth’s the coach,’ she explained.
Gamache tried to catch Pierre’s eye but the maitre d’ was busy explaining, or apologizing, to the Morrows.
‘Come on, we’ll just look in.’ He took her hand and they pushed through the revolving door.
The place was chaos, though after a moment, shoved to the wall and clinging to it as waiters whizzed by balancing trays of glasses and dishes, Gamache could see the ballet. It wasn’t chaos at all, but more like a river in full flood. There was a near frantic movement to it, but there was also a natural flow.
‘Is that her?’ Reine-Marie asked, nodding across the crowded room. She didn’t dare point.
‘That’s her.’
Chef Veronique wore a white chef’s hat and a full apron, and wielded a huge knife. Her back was to them. Then she turned and saw them. She paused.
‘She doesn’t look pleased to see us,’ whispered Reine-Marie, smiling and trying to signal to the clearly annoyed chef that it was her husband’s fault.
‘Let’s get out of here. Me first,’ he said and the two scampered out.
‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ Reine-Marie laughed once they got outside. ‘I’d watch your food from now on.’
‘I’ll get Inspector Beauvoir to taste it first,’ he smiled. The reaction of Chef Veronique had surprised him. In the past she’d seemed in command and not particularly stressed. Tonight she seemed upset.
‘Do you know, I think I’ve met her before after all,’ said Reine-Marie, slipping her arm through her husband’s, feeling his reassuring strength. ‘Probably around here somewhere.’
‘She’s the one who tends the beehives, so maybe you have seen her.’
‘Still,’ said Reine-Marie, straightening up after sniffing the sweet perfume of a peony, ‘she’s quite singular. Hard to forget.’
The garden smelled of fresh-turned earth and roses. Every now and then she caught a slight scent of herbs wafting from the kitchen garden. But the scent she longed for, and caught as she leaned into her husband, was sandalwood. It was more than his cologne, he seemed to exude it. It was how every season smelled. It was how love and stability and belonging smelled. It was the perfume of friendship and ease and peace.
‘Look.’ He pointed into the night sky. ‘It’s Babar.’
He swirled his fingers around, trying to get her to see the elephant shape in the stars.
‘Are you sure? It looks more like Tintin.’
‘With a trunk?’
‘What’re you pointing at?’
The little voice came out of the darkness. The Gamaches squinted and then Bean appeared, carrying the book.
‘Hello, Bean.’ Reine-Marie bent down and hugged the child. ‘We were just looking at the stars, seeing shapes.’
‘Oh.’ The child seemed disappointed.
‘What did you think we’d seen?’ Gamache knelt down too.
‘Nothing.’
The Gamaches paused, then Reine-Marie pointed to the book. ‘What’re you reading?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I used to read about pirates,’ said Gamache. ‘I’d put a patch over my eye, a teddy bear on my shoulder’ - Bean smiled - ‘and find a stick for a sword. I’d play for hours.’
The large, commanding man swept his arm back and forth in front of him, fighting off the enemy.
‘Boys,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I was National Velvet, riding my horse in the Grand National race.’
She grabbed imaginary reins, tucked her head down, leaned forward and urged her steed over the very highest of fences. Gamache smiled in the darkness, then he nodded.