It was said softly, without rancour, but the reprimand was clear.
‘I was merely quoting the sculptor.’
Together they watched the dragonflies flitter and buzz around the dock.
‘There was one other quality of the martlet,’ said Gamache.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you know why it’s always drawn without feet?’
Finney remained silent.
‘Because it’s on its way to heaven. According to legend a martlet never touches the earth, it flies all the time. I believe Charles Morrow wanted to give that to his children. He wanted them to soar. To find, if not heaven, then at least happiness. Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,’ said Gamache. ‘You quoted the poem “High Flight” when we first talked.’
‘Charles’s favourite. He was a naval aviator in the war. And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings. Beautiful.’
Finney looked around, at the lake, the forest, the mountains. He opened his mouth then closed it. Gamache waited. Finally he spoke.
‘You’re very like your father, you know.’
The words went out into the world and joined the golden sunshine streaming through the gathering clouds and onto the water and the dock and warming their faces. The words joined the glittering waves and the bobbing insects and butterflies and birds and shimmering leaves.
Armand Gamache closed his eyes and walked deep into the shadows, deep into the longhouse where all his experiences and memories lived, where everyone he’d ever met and everything he’d ever done or thought or said waited. He walked right to the very back and there he found a room, closed but not locked. A room he’d never dared enter. From under the door there came not a stench, not darkness, not a moan of a terrible threat. But something much more frightening.
Light glowed from under that door.
Inside were his parents, he knew. Where young Armand had placed them. To be safe and sound. And perfect. Away from the accusations, the taunts, the knowing smiles.
All Armand’s life Honore had lived in light. Unchallenged.
The rest of the world might whisper ‘Coward’, ‘Traitor’, and his son could smile. His father was safe, locked away.
Armand put out his hand, and touched the door.
The last room, the last door. The last territory to explore didn’t hold monstrous hate or bitterness or rancid resentments. It held love. Blinding, beautiful love.
Armand Gamache gave it the tiniest of pushes and the door swung open.
‘What was my father like?’
Finney paused before speaking.
‘He was a coward, but then you knew that. He really was, you know. It’s not just the ravings of a mad Anglo population.’
‘I know he was,’ said Gamache, his voice stronger than he felt.
‘And you know what happened later?’
Gamache nodded. ‘I know the facts.’
He raced back down the longhouse, past the staring and astonished memories, desperate to get to the room and the door he’d been foolish enough to open. But it was too late. The door was open, the light had escaped.
He stared now into the most unsightly face in the world.
‘Honore Gamache and I had very different lives. We were on opposite sides very often. But he did the most extraordinary thing. Something I’ve never forgotten, something that I take with me even today. Do you know what your father did?’
Bert Finney didn’t look at the Chief Inspector as he spoke, but Gamache had the impression of immense scrutiny.
‘He changed his mind,’ said Finney.
He struggled to his feet, wiping his balding head with a handkerchief and replacing the floppy hat Gamache had given him. He brought himself erect, achieving every inch of the height he still had, then turned and faced Gamache, who’d also risen and now towered over him. Finney said nothing, simply stared. Then his ugly, ravaged face broke into a smile and he put out his hand, touching Gamache on the arm. It was a contact like many Gamache had had in his life, both given and received. But there was an intimacy about this that felt almost like a violation. Finney locked eyes with Gamache, then turned and made his slow progress along the dock to the shore.
‘You lied to me, monsieur,’ Gamache called after him.
The elderly man stopped, paused, then turned, squinting into the shafts of sun, made brighter by the shadows. He brought a quivering hand to his brow, to stare back at Gamache.
‘You seem surprised, Chief Inspector. Surely people lie to you all the time.’
‘It’s true. It’s not the lying that surprised me, but what you chose to lie about.’
‘Really? And what was that?’
‘Yesterday I asked my team to look into the backgrounds of everyone involved in this case—’
‘Very wise.’
‘Merci. They found that you were exactly as you claimed. Modest upbringing in Notre-Dame-de-Grace in Montreal. An accountant. Worked here and there after the war but jobs were scarce, so many men suddenly looking. Your old friend Charles hired you and you stayed on. Very loyal.’
‘It was a good job with a good friend.’
‘But you told me you’d never been a prisoner.’
‘And I haven’t.’
‘But you have, monsieur. Your war record states you were in Burma when the Japanese invaded. You were captured.’
He was speaking to a survivor of the Burma campaign, of the brutal fighting and atrocious, inhumane captivity. Almost none survived. But this man had. He’d lived to be almost ninety, as though he was taking all the years stolen from the rest. He’d lived to marry, to have stepchildren and to stand peacefully on a dock on a summer’s morning, discussing murder.
‘You’re so close, Chief Inspector. I wonder if you know how close you are. But you still have some things to figure out.’
And with that Bert Finney turned and walked onto the grass, heading off slowly to wherever men like him go.
Armand Gamache watched, still feeling the touch of the withered old hand on his arm. Then he closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky, his right hand just lifting a little to take a larger hand.
Oh, I have slipped, he murmured to the lake, the surly bonds of earth.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Gamache had a light breakfast of homemade granola and watched Jean Guy Beauvoir eat almost an entire hive of honey.
‘Did you know honey bees actually flap their wings over the honeycomb and that evaporates water?’ said Beauvoir, chewing on a mouthful of honeycomb and trying to look as though it didn’t taste like wax. ‘That’s why honey is so sweet and thick.’
Isabelle Lacoste dabbed fresh raspberry jam on a buttery croissant and looked at Beauvoir as though he was a bear of very little brain.
‘My daughter did a project on honey for her grade one class,’ she said. ‘Did you know bees eat honey and then throw it up again? Over and over. That’s how honey’s made. Bees’ barf she called it.’
The spoon with a bit of honeycomb and dripping golden liquid paused. But adoration won out and it went into Beauvoir’s mouth. Anything Chef Veronique touched was fine with him. Even bees’ barf. Eating the thick, almost amber liquid gave him comfort. He felt cared for and safe near the large, ungainly woman. He wondered if that was love. And he wondered why he didn’t feel this way with his wife, Enid. But he retreated from the thought before it could take hold.
‘I’ll be back mid-afternoon,’ Gamache said at the door a few minutes later. ‘Don’t burn down the house.’
‘Give our best to Madame Gamache,’ said Lacoste.
‘Happy anniversary,’ said Beauvoir, holding out his hand to shake the chief’s. Gamache took it and held it a moment longer than necessary. A tiny fleck of wax was hanging from Beauvoir’s lip.
Gamache dropped the sticky hand.
‘Come with me, please,’ he said and the two men walked over the hard dirt drive to the car. Gamache turned and spoke to his second in command.
‘Be careful.’
‘What do you mean?’ Beauvoir felt his defences swiftly rise.