The Murder Stone (19 page)

They left the maitre d’ and the technicians to sort out the electrical problems while Gamache, Reine-Marie and Beauvoir headed to Three Pines. Beauvoir sat in the back seat. Behind Mom and Dad. He quite liked the thought. Ever since his encounter with the chef he’d felt strangely relaxed.

‘Do you know the chef at the Manoir?’ he asked casually.

‘I don’t think I’ve met him,’ said Reine-Marie.

‘Her,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Veronique Langlois.’ Just saying her name calmed him. It was the oddest sensation.

Reine-Marie shook her head. ‘Armand?’

‘I met her for the first time this morning.’

‘Strange that we haven’t met her,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I thought chefs loved to take bows. Maybe we met her and forgot.’

‘Believe me, she’s not easily forgotten,’ said Gamache, remembering the massive, confident woman. ‘Agent Lacoste will have interviewed the staff by the time we get back. She’ll know more about her then. You know, I had the feeling I knew her.’

‘Me too.’ Beauvoir sat forward between the two front seats. ‘Have you ever been walking down the street and smelled something, and suddenly you’re someplace else? It’s as if the smell transports you.’

With anyone other than the Chief Inspector he’d feel foolish saying that.

‘I do. But it’s more than that,’ said Gamache. ‘A feeling goes with it. I’ll suddenly feel melancholy or at ease or calm. For no reason, except the scent.’

‘Oui, c’est ca. Especially an emotion. That’s what I felt when I walked into the kitchen.’

‘Was it just the smells of the kitchen, do you think?’ Reine-Marie asked.

Beauvoir considered. ‘No. I didn’t have that feeling until I saw the chef. It was her. It’s frustrating. It’s as if it’s just beyond my grasp. But I know her.’

‘And how did you feel?’ asked Madame Gamache.

‘I felt safe.’

He’d also felt an almost overwhelming desire to laugh. A sort of joy had bubbled up in his chest.

He thought about that as the Volvo splashed along the muddy roads towards the village of Three Pines.

FIFTEEN

The Volvo came to rest on the crest of the hill. All three got out and walked to the edge, looking down on the tiny village. It sat in a gentle valley, surrounded by forested hills and mountains.

Gamache had never seen Three Pines in summer. The leaves of the maple, apple and oak trees obscured slightly the old homes round the village green. But that made them all the more magical, as though half hiding their beauty only added to it. Three Pines revealed itself slowly, and only to people with the patience to wait, to sit quietly in one of the faded armchairs in the bistro, sipping Cinzano or cafe au lait, and watch the changing face of the venerable village.

To their right the white spire of the chapel rose, and the Riviere Bella Bella tumbled down from the millpond then meandered behind the homes and businesses.

In a semicircle at the far end of the village green the shops sat in a small brick embrace. Myrna’s new and used bookstore, Olivier’s Bistro, with its bold blue and white umbrellas protecting the assortment of chairs and tables on the sidewalk. Next to that Sarah’s Boulangerie. An elderly, erect woman was just leaving, limping and carrying a sagging net bag. She was followed by a duck.

‘Ruth.’ Gamache nodded. Rosa the duck was a dead giveaway. They watched as the embittered old poet went into the general store. Rosa waited outside.

‘If we hurry we can miss her,’ said Beauvoir, turning for the car.

‘But I don’t want to miss her,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I called her from the Manoir. We’re having tea together this afternoon.’

Beauvoir stared at Madame Gamache, as though for the last time. She was about to be devoured by Ruth Zardo, who ground up good people and turned them into poetry.

Villagers walked dogs and ran errands or, more precisely, strolled errands. Some could be seen with their floppy gardening hats and gloves and rubber boots kneeling in the moist gardens, snipping roses for bouquets. Each home had an abundant perennial bed. Nothing designed, no new species, none of the latest horticultural offerings. Nothing that wouldn’t have been found in gardens by soldiers returning home from the Great War. Three Pines changed, but it changed slowly.

Back in the car they drove slowly down rue du Moulin and came to a stop at Gabri’s B&B. The large, rumpled man in his mid-thirties stood on the wide porch, as though waiting for them.

‘Salut, mes amis.‘ He walked down the wooden stairs and grabbed Reine-Marie’s case from Gamache after giving them all, even Beauvoir, an affectionate hug and kiss on both cheeks. ‘Welcome back.’

‘Merci, Patron.‘ Gamache smiled, enjoying being back in the little village.

‘Olivier and I were so sorry to hear about Peter’s sister,’ Gabri said as he showed Reine-Marie to her room in the inn. It was warm and inviting, the bed a dark, rich wood, the bedding in clean, luxurious white. ‘How’re they doing?’

‘It’s a shock,’ said Gamache, ‘but they’re coping.’ What else could he say?

‘Terrible.’ The large man shook his head. ‘Clara called and asked me to pack a bag for them. She sounded a bit stressed. Do you clog?’ he asked Reine-Marie, mimicking the old dance, a rustic cross between tap and Celtic.

It wasn’t the next obvious question and she stared.

‘I’ve never tried,’ she said.

‘Well, Mary Queen of the World, you’re in for a treat. In a few days we have the Canada Day celebrations on the village green and we’re putting together a clogging demonstration. I’ve signed you up.’

‘Please take me back to the place with the murderer,’ Reine-Marie whispered in her husband’s ear as she kissed him goodbye at the car minutes later, smelling his slight rosewater and sandalwood scent. As he drove away she waved, still in the world of his scent, a world of comfort and kindliness and calm, and no clogging.

Chief Inspector Armand Gamache walked into the Surete offices in Sherbrooke and introduced himself. ‘Perhaps you can direct us to your evidence area.’

The agent behind the desk leapt to his feet. ‘Yessir. The statue’s through here.’

They followed the agent to the back of the station and into a large garage. Charles Morrow was leaning against a wall as though ordering a huge drink. An agent sat in a chair in front of the statue, guarding it.

‘I thought it best to be sure no one interfered with it. I know you took blood and soil samples. We’ve sent them to the lab by courier, but I took some more, to be sure.’

‘You’re very thorough,’ said Gamache. Their feet echoed across the concrete floor of the garage. Gamache had the impression Charles Morrow was waiting for them.

He nodded to the agent guarding the statue and dismissed him, then reached out a hand and touched the stone torso. He held it there, not really sure what he expected to feel. A distant pulse, perhaps.

And Gamache indeed felt something unexpected. He moved his hand to another position, this time on Morrow’s arm, and rubbed up and down.

‘Jean Guy, look at this.’

Beauvoir leaned closer. ‘What?’

‘Feel it.’

Beauvoir put his hand where the chief’s had been. He’d expected to feel it cool to the touch, but it was warm as though Charles Morrow, the miser, had sucked the warmth from the chief.

But he felt something else. Drawing his brows together he moved his hand to Morrow’s torso and stroked. Then he leaned even closer so that his nose was almost touching the statue.

‘But this isn’t stone,’ he said at last.

‘I don’t think so either,’ said Gamache, stepping back.

Charles Morrow was grey. A deep grey in some places, a lighter grey in others. And his surface undulated slightly. At first Gamache thought it was an effect somehow achieved by the sculptor, but touching the statue and looking more closely he realized it was ingrained. The waves, like sagging skin, were part of whatever Charles Morrow had been sculpted from. It was as though this was a real man, a giant. And the giant had petrified.

‘What is it? What’s it made of?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Gamache. He was saying that a lot in this case. He looked up into the face of Charles Morrow. Then he took another step back.

The face had bits of earth and grass still clinging to it. He looked like a dead man dug up. But the face, beneath its layer of earth, looked determined, resolved. Alive. The arms, held loosely at the waist, palms up, looked as though he had lost something. Traces of blood, now dried, coloured Charles Morrow’s head and hands. His slight stride looked hesitant.

Taken in parts he gave the impression of a sullen, impatient, greedy, certainly needy, man.

But taken as a whole Gamache had an entirely different impression. The sum of his parts spoke of longing, of sadness, of resignation mixed with resolve. It was the same feeling he’d had about Charles Morrow the moment the canvas caul had been whisked away at the unveiling. And now Gamache had the impression he was back in a familiar garden in Paris.

Where most visitors went to the Louvre, the Tuileries, the Tour Eiffel, Armand Gamache went to a quiet courtyard garden behind a tiny museum.

And there he paid his respects to men long dead.

For that was the musee of Auguste Rodin. And Armand Gamache went to visit the Burghers of Calais.

‘Does the statue remind you of anything?’

‘Horror movies. He looks as though he’s about to come alive,’ said Beauvoir.

Gamache smiled. There was something otherworldly about the statue. And it had killed once, after all.

‘Have you ever heard of Les Bourgeois de Calais? The Burghers of Calais?’

Beauvoir pretended to think.

‘Non.‘ He had the feeling he was about to. At least the chief wasn’t quoting poetry. Yet.

‘He reminds me of them.’ Gamache stepped back again. ‘Auguste Rodin sculpted them. They’re in the Musee Rodin, in Paris, but there’s also one outside the Musee des Beaux Arts in Montreal, if you want to see it.’

Beauvoir took that as a joke.

‘Rodin lived about a hundred years ago, but the story goes back much further, to 1347.’

He had Beauvoir’s attention. The chief’s deep, thoughtful voice spoke as though reciting a tale and Beauvoir could see the events unfold.

The port of Calais almost seven hundred years ago. Bustling, rich, strategic. In the middle of the Hundred Years War between the French and the English, though of course they didn’t call it that then. Just war. Calais was an important French port and it found itself under siege by the mighty army of Edward
III
of England. Expecting to be relieved by Philip VI of France the townspeople settled in, unconcerned. But days stretched to weeks stretched to months and hope stretched to breaking. And beyond. Eventually starvation was at the door, through the gate and in their homes. Still they held on, trusting relief would come. That surely they wouldn’t be forgotten, forsaken.

Eventually Edward
III
made an offer. He’d spare Calais, if six of its most prominent citizens would surrender. To be executed. He ordered that these men present themselves at the gate, stripped of their finery, with ropes round their necks and holding the key to the city.

Jean Guy Beauvoir paled, imagining what he’d do. Would he step forward? Would he step back, look away? He imagined the horror of the town, and the choice. Listening to the chief he felt his heart pounding in his chest. This was far worse than any horror film. This was real.

‘What happened?’ Beauvoir whispered.

‘A man, Eustache de Saint-Pierre, one of the wealthiest men in Calais, volunteered. Five others joined him. They took off all their clothes, down to their undergarments, put nooses round their own necks, and walked out of the gates.’

‘Bon Dieu,’ whispered Beauvoir.

Dear God, agreed Gamache, looking again at Charles Morrow.

‘Rodin did a sculpture of that moment, when they stood at the gate, surrendering.’

Beauvoir tried to imagine what it would look like. He’d seen a lot of official French art, commemorating the storming of the Bastille, the wars, the victories. Winged angels, buxom cheering women, strong determined men. But if this statue reminded the chief of those men, it couldn’t be like anything he’d seen before.

‘It’s not a regular statue, is it?’ said Beauvoir, and thought maybe he’d find out where the Musee des Beaux Arts was in Montreal.

‘No, it’s like no other war statue you’re likely to see. The men aren’t heroic. They’re resigned, frightened even.’

Beauvoir could imagine. ‘But wouldn’t that make them even more heroic?’ he asked.

‘I think so,’ said Gamache, turning back to Charles Morrow. Who wore clothing, who had no chains or ropes or noose. At least, not visible. But Armand Gamache knew Charles Morrow was bound as surely as those men. Roped and chained and tied to something.

What was Charles Morrow seeing with those sorrowful eyes?

The owner of the crane company was waiting for them at the reception desk. He was small and square and looked like a pedestal. His steel-grey hair was short and stood on end. A red ridge cut across his forehead where a hard hat had sat, that day and every working day for the past thirty years.

‘It wasn’t my fault, you know,’ he said as he stuck his square hand out to shake.

‘I know,’ said Gamache, taking it and introducing himself and Beauvoir. ‘We think it was murder.’

‘Tabernacle,’ the man exhaled and wiped his beading brow. ‘For real? Wait till the boys hear that.’

‘Did your worker tell you what happened?’ Beauvoir asked, as they took the man into the garage.

‘He’s a horse’s ass. Said the block had shifted and the statue fell off. I told him that was bullshit. The base was solid. They’d poured a concrete foundation with sona tubes sunk six feet into the ground, below frost level, so it doesn’t shift. Ya know what I’m talking about?’

‘Tell us,’ said Gamache.

‘You have to dig down at least six feet around here when you do construction, below the frost line. If you don’t, whatever you build will heave when the ground thaws in the spring. Get it?’

Gamache understood what the worker had meant about his boss. The man was a natural lecturer, though not a natural teacher.