‘Why do you think she left the order?’ he asked Reine-Marie, as they strolled down the lawn.
She paused to think about that. ‘Depends what you believe,’ she said.
‘What do you believe?’
‘I believe this is where she belongs. For some, I suppose, this would be the wilderness. You walk ten feet into the woods and you’re lost. But for others this is heaven. Why look for the divine in a cold and cramped nunnery when you could be here? You can’t tell me God doesn’t have a home on this lake.’ She smiled at Beauvoir. ‘Not a very original answer. But the simplest one.’
‘The blancmange of answers?’ he asked and she looked at him, surprised, and laughed.
‘Like Quebec itself. Just keep stirring until everything smooths out.’
Paradise regained.
On the other side of the gardens Bean and Mariana were playing. They’d packed up and were preparing to leave, after one more flight through the gardens.
‘Mom, Mom, you’re Pegasus. Run. Fly.’
‘Pegasus is resting, dear. Grazing. See.’ Mariana pawed the ground with a weary hoof.
She’d placed all of Bean’s clocks in the suitcase, then gone into the washroom to pack her toiletries. When she’d returned she saw, to her dismay, the clocks scattered once again around the room.
‘What’s all this, Beano?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.
Bean zipped up the small, nearly empty valise. ‘Don’t think I need them any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ll make sure I wake up. Won’t you?’
‘Always, my dearest,’ said Mariana. And now she watched her strange little child prance around the sweet garden.
‘I guess even Pegasus needs to rest,’ said Bean, hands in front, gripping the reins and leaning back and forward, steadying a mighty steed.
The Morrows and Gamaches sat but Beauvoir remained on his feet.
‘I need to get home. Will you be all right?’ he asked the chief.
Gamache stood up and nodded. ‘Will you?’
‘Better than ever,’ said Beauvoir, scratching the bites on his neck.
‘Let me walk you to your car.’ Gamache touched Beauvoir on the arm and the two walked back across the lawn. Side by side.
‘One thing still bothers me, and I know it bothers Agent Lacoste,’ said Beauvoir as they approached his car. Lacoste had accompanied Patenaude into the Surete headquarters in Montreal, but had asked the Inspector to clear up one question that even Patenaude couldn’t answer.
‘Why did Julia open her arms, as the statue fell?’
Gamache opened the car door for his junior.
‘I don’t know.’
‘No, really, sir. Why would she? I know you can’t possibly know for sure, but what do you think? Just a guess.’
Gamache shook his head. How many times, he wondered, had Julia imagined her father with her once again? Her father embracing her. How often, in the quietest moments, had she indulged the fantasy of strong arms around her? Of his scent, the rub of his suit? Had she longed for it? Was she standing beside his statue imagining it once again, forgiving and forgiven meeting at last? And as he moved towards her, had she failed in that last moment to distinguish real life from longing?
‘I don’t know,’ he repeated, and walked slowly back across the moist, fragrant lawn, his right hand clasped almost closed.
‘May I join you?’ Mariana plopped into an Adirondack chair. ‘This playing Pegasus is exhausting. At least Magilla lived in a cage. Much more restful.’
Bean joined them and a waiter, sent by Elliot, came to ask if they wanted anything. Bean and Mariana ordered soup while the others asked for pots of tea and sandwiches.
Reine-Marie reached into her purse. ‘I have something for you,’ she said to the child. Bean’s eyes grew wider.
‘A present?’
Reine-Marie handed Bean the gift and soon the wrapping was off and Bean looked at Reine-Marie, amazed.
‘How’d you find it?’
Bean opened Myths Every Child Should Know and eagerly turned to the chapter on the flying horse.
‘Myrna?’ Clara asked, thinking of their friend who ran the new and used bookstore in Three Pines. Reine-Marie nodded.
‘What are the chances she’d have that book?’ asked Clara.
‘Oh, she has everything,’ said Peter.
Clara nodded, but also suspected what she’d find in the front of the book in round, childish letters. A little boy’s name and maybe a drawing. Of a footless bird.
‘Tell me about Pegasus,’ said Reine-Marie. Bean leaned against her, opened the book and starting reading. Across the table Mariana blew softly on her child’s hot soup.
‘Why did you say you weren’t a prisoner?’
Gamache had seen Beauvoir off then made his way back to the others. His body ached and he longed for home, a hot bath, and to crawl into bed beside Reine-Marie. But as he slowly walked back he paused, and changed course. To the dock. There he took his place beside the old man. It seemed natural now to stand side by side.
‘I wasn’t a prisoner,’ Finney said. ‘You were right, I was in a Japanese prison camp, but I wasn’t a prisoner. It’s not semantics, you know. It’s an important distinction. Crucial.’
‘I believe you.’
‘I saw a lot of men die there. Most men. Do you know what killed them?’
Starvation, Gamache thought to say. Dysentery. Cruelty.
‘Despair,’ said Finney. ‘They believed themselves to be prisoners. I lived with those men, ate the same maggot-infested food, slept in the same beds, did the same backbreaking work. But they died and I lived. Do you know why?’
‘You were free.’
‘I was free. Milton was right, you know. The mind is its own place. I was never a prisoner. Not then, not now.’
‘What sums do you do, when you come here? You don’t count birds, and I don’t think you count money.’
Finney smiled. ‘You know what money buys?’
Gamache shook his head.
‘I’m an accountant and I’ve spent a lifetime counting money and watching the people who have it. Do you know what I’ve decided? The only thing money really buys?’
Gamache waited.
‘Space.’
‘Space?’ Gamache repeated.
‘A bigger house, a bigger car, a larger hotel room. First class plane tickets. But it doesn’t even buy comfort. No one complains more than the rich and entitled. Comfort, security, ease. None of that comes with money.’
He walked slowly off the wharf, his feet echoing slightly.
‘Your father was a hero, you know. He had the courage to admit he was wrong. And to change. He hated violence, hated killing. It’s interesting that his son would have a career bringing killers to justice. But be careful, young Armand. His cross isn’t yours. You don’t need to avenge every death.’
‘It’s not death that angers me,’ said Gamache. ‘It’s suffering. It angered my father too. I don’t consider it a cross, never a burden. Perhaps it’s a family trait.’
Finney looked at him closely.
‘You asked what I count each evening and each morning. What I counted each day in prison while better men withered and died. Do you know the sums that I do?’
Gamache stood still, in case moving would scare this man off and he’d never have his answer. But he knew he needn’t worry. This man was afraid of nothing.
‘I count my blessings.’
He turned and saw Irene on the terrasse, as though he’d sensed her there.
‘We’re all blessed and we’re all blighted, Chief Inspector,’ said Finney. ‘Every day each of us does our sums. The question is, what do we count?’
The old man brought his hand to his head and removed his hat, offering it to Gamache.
‘No, please, keep it,’ said Gamache.
‘I’m an old man. I won’t need it again, but you will. For protection.’
Finney handed him back his hat, the hat he’d bought at the same time he’d bought one for Reine-Marie, after her skin cancer scare. So that she wouldn’t feel foolish in her huge, protective hat. They’d be foolish together. And safe together.
Gamache accepted the hat.