The Murder Stone (23 page)

The men stopped and stared.

‘That was a lovely image of your family gathered around your mother as she read.’

‘You’re mistaken,’ said Peter. ‘We weren’t gathered around her. We were on the sofa, all four of us. She was across the room in her wing chair.’

Suddenly the image that had been so natural, heartwarming even, that had finally allowed him to see the Morrows as a family, disappeared. Like the sunset, it shifted into something else. Something darker.

Four small children by themselves staring across the straits to their mother, upright and proper and reading about terrible choices. And death.

‘You said Ulysses was Thomas’s favourite. What was yours?’

Peter had been thinking of the square of white marble looming over the place where Julia died. Four corners, four walls.

‘Pandora’s box,’ he said.

Gamache turned away from the sunset and looked at Peter. ‘Is something bothering you?’

‘You mean beyond the murder of my sister?’

‘I do mean that. You can tell me.’

‘Oh really? Well someone told my mother what I said to you this afternoon. Yes, look surprised, but can you imagine how I felt? You demand I tell you the truth, I tell it, and get practically kicked out of the family for it. I bet it’s always been easy for you. So sure of yourself. Always fitting in. Well try being an artist in a family of intellectuals. Try being tone deaf in a family of musicians. Try being taunted all the way to class, not by other kids, but by your own brother, yelling “Spot, Spot”.’

Peter felt the last restraints tear apart. He wanted to warn Gamache, to tell him to run, to flee from him, to hide in the forest until this riot had passed. Until the writhing, stinking, armed escapees had burned and violated everything in sight and moved on to another target. But it was too late, and he knew the man in front of him would never run.

Morrows ran and hid in smiling cynicism and dark sarcasm.

This man stood his ground.

‘And your father?’ Gamache asked, as though Peter hadn’t sprayed his face with spittle. ‘What did he say to you?’

‘My father? But you already know what he said. Never use the first stall in a public washroom. Who fucking says that to a ten year old? You know the other lesson we were taught? Beware the third generation.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The first generation makes the money, the second appreciates it, having witnessed the sacrifice, and the third squanders it. We’re the third generation. The four of us. Our father hated us, thought we’d steal his money, ruin the family. He was so afraid of spoiling us he never gave us anything, except stupid advice. Words. That was all.’

Was that the burden Gamache had seen etched in that stone face? Not sacrifice, but fear? Was Charles Morrow afraid his own children would betray him? Had he created the very thing he was so afraid of? Unhappy, unloving, ungrateful children? Children capable of stealing from their father, and killing each other?

‘Who do you think killed your sister?’

It took Peter a minute to be able to speak again, to change direction.

‘I think it was Bert Finney.’

‘Why would he kill Julia?’ It was almost dark now.

‘For money, always for money. I’m sure my mother’s the beneficiary of her insurance. He married my mother for money and now he’ll get more than he dreamed.’

They continued their walk down to the dock and the two Adirondack chairs reclining on the grey, weathered wood. Peter was drained. Their feet echoed on the slats and water gently lapped against the wharf.

As they approached one of the chairs moved. The men stopped.

The wooden chair grew before their eyes, outlined against the last of the light.

‘Monsieur Gamache?’ the chair said.

‘Oui.‘ Gamache took a step forward though Peter reached out to grab him back.

‘Armand Gamache? That is your name, didn’t you say?’

‘Oui.‘

‘I knew your father,’ said Bert Finney. ‘His name was Honore. Honore Gamache.’

NINETEEN

After dropping his bombshell Bert Finney had simply departed, jerking past the two men without another word.

‘What did he mean by that?’ Peter asked. ‘He knew your father?’

‘They’d be of an age,’ said Gamache, his mind hurrying. He’d picked it, and his heart, up from the dock and shoved them back into his body.

‘Has your father ever mentioned him? Bert Finney?’ As though Gamache didn’t know who’d spoken.

‘My father died when I was a child.’

‘Murdered?’ Peter asked.

Gamache turned to him. ‘Murdered? Why would you say that?’

Peter, who’d bunched up into Gamache’s personal space in an effort to hide, took a step back. ‘Well, you’re in homicide, I thought maybe …’ Peter’s voice tailed off. There was silence then, except the gentle lap of the water. ‘He must have been young,’ Peter finally said.

‘He was thirty-eight.’ And five months, and fourteen days.

Peter nodded, and though he longed to leave he stayed with Gamache while the large man stared out into the lake.

And seven hours. And twenty-three minutes.

And once all the light had gone, the two men walked back to the Manoir, in silence.

Gamache’s alarm went off at five thirty the next morning and after a refreshing shower he dressed, picked up his notebook and left. The summer sun was just up and wandering in the lace-curtained windows. Nothing stirred, except a loon calling across the lake.

As he descended the wide stairs he heard a noise in the kitchen. Poking his head in he saw a young woman and the waiter Elliot going about their work. The young man was arranging plates and she was putting bread in the oven. There was a smell of strong coffee.

‘Bonjour, monsieur l’inspecteur,’ said the girl in French with a thick English accent. She must have been fairly new, Gamache thought. ‘You’re up early.’

‘And so are you. Hard at work already. I wonder if I might have some coffee?’ he said slowly and clearly in French.

‘Avec plaisir.’ The girl poured him an orange juice and he took it.

‘Merci,’ he said, and left.

‘Monsieur Gamache,’ he heard behind him as he walked out of the swinging screen door and into the new day. ‘I believe you wanted this.’

Gamache stopped and Elliot walked up to him, a bodum of coffee with cream and rock sugar on a tray with a couple of cups. He’d also placed some warm croissants in a basket with preserves.

‘She’s from Saskatchewan. Just arrived. Very nice, but you know.’ Elliot, a man of the world, shrugged. He seemed to have recovered his equanimity, or at least his charm, and had resigned himself to continue working despite his flare-up with the maitre d’. Gamache wondered, though, how much was genuine acceptance and how much was an act.

A hummingbird zoomed past and stopped at a foxglove. ‘Merci.‘ The Chief Inspector smiled and reached out for the tray.

‘S’il vous plait,’ said Elliot, ‘I’ll carry it. Where would you like to sit?’ He looked around the deserted terrasse.

‘Well, actually, I was going to the dock.’

The two walked across the lawn, their feet making a path through the light morning dew. The world was waking up, hungry. Chipmunks raced and yipped under the trees, birds hopped and called and insects buzzed quietly in the background. Elliot placed the tray on the arm of the second Adirondack chair, poured a delicate bone china cup of coffee and turned to leave.

‘There is one thing I’ve wanted to ask you.’

Did the lithe back tighten in the trim white jacket? Elliot paused for a moment then turned back, an expectant smile on his handsome face.

‘What did you think of Madame Martin?’

‘Think? All I do here is wait tables and clean up. I don’t think.’

Still the smile, but Gamache had the answer to his earlier question. Anger seethed under the charming exterior.

‘Stop playing the fool with me, son.’ Gamache’s voice was steady but full of warning.

‘She was a guest, I’m an employee. She was polite.’

‘You talked?’

Now Elliot really did hesitate and colour slightly. With time, Gamache knew, his blush would disappear. He’d be confident instead of cocky. He’d be beyond embarrassment. And he’d be far less attractive.

‘She was polite,’ he repeated, then seemed to hear how lame he sounded. ‘She wanted to know if I liked working here, what I planned to do after the summer. That sort of thing. Most guests don’t see the staff, and we’re taught to be discreet. But Madame Martin noticed.’

Was there an invisible world, Gamache wondered. A place where diminished people met, where they recognized each other? Because if he knew one thing about Julia Martin it was that she too was invisible. The sort others cut off in conversation, cut in front of in grocery lines, overlook for jobs though their hand might be raised and waving.

Julia Martin might be all that, but this young man was anything but invisible. No, if they had something in common it wasn’t that. Then he remembered.

‘You and Madame Martin had something in common,’ he said.

Elliot stood on the dock, silent.

‘You’re both from British Columbia.’

‘Is that right? We didn’t talk about that.’

He was lying. He did it well, a skill that came with practice. But his eyes instead of shifting met Gamache’s and held them, too long, too hard.

‘Thank you for the coffee,’ said Gamache, breaking the moment. Elliot was perplexed, then smiled and left. Gamache watched his retreat and thought of what Elliot had said. Madame Martin noticed. And he thought that was probably true.

Is that what killed her? Not something buried in the past, but something fresh and vigorous? And deadly. Something she’d seen or heard here at the Manoir?

Settling into the chair on the wooden dock Gamache sipped coffee and stared at the lake and the forested mountains all around. He cradled the delicate cup in his large hands and let his mind wander. Instead of forcing himself to focus on the case he tried to open his mind, to empty it. And see what came to him.

What came to him was a bird, a footless bird. Then Ulysses and the whirlpool, and Scylla, the monster. The white pedestal.

He saw young Bean, earthbound and trapped among the stuffed heads in the attic. They might have been Morrows, meant more as trophies than children. All head, all stuffed and staring.

But mostly he saw Charles Morrow, looming over this case. Hard, burdened, bound.

‘Am I disturbing you?’

Gamache twisted in the chair. Bert Finney was standing on the shore, at the foot of the dock. Gamache struggled out of the chair and lifted the tray, indicating the seat next to him. Monsieur Finney hobbled forward, all gangling arms and legs like a puppeteer’s poor first attempt. And yet he stood erect. It looked an effort.

‘Please.’ Gamache pointed to the chair.

‘I’d rather stand.’

The old man was shorter than the Chief Inspector, though not by much and Gamache thought he’d probably have been taller before age and gravity got him. Now Bert Finney pulled himself even more erect and faced Gamache. His eyes were less wilful this morning, and his nose less red. Or perhaps, Gamache thought, I’ve grown accustomed to him as one grows accustomed to chipping paint or a dent in a car. For the first time Gamache noticed there was a pair of binoculars hanging like an anchor round Finney’s bony neck.

‘I’m afraid I shocked you last night. I didn’t mean to.’ Finney looked directly at Gamache, or at least his wandering eyes paused on him.

‘You surprised me, it’s true.’

‘I’m sorry.’

It was said with such dignity, such simplicity, it left Gamache speechless for a moment.

‘It’s been a while since I’ve heard people talk about my father. Did you know him personally?’ Gamache again indicated the chair and this time Finney bent into it.

‘Coffee?’

‘Please. Black.’

Gamache poured a cup for Monsieur Finney and refreshed his own, then brought over the basket with croissants and rested it on the generous arm of his chair, offering one to his unexpected guest.

‘I met him at the end of the war.’

‘You were a prisoner?’

Finney’s mouth twisted into what Gamache thought was a smile. Finney stared across the water for a moment then closed his eyes. Gamache waited.

‘No, Chief Inspector, I’ve never been a prisoner. I wouldn’t allow it.’

‘Some people have no choice, monsieur.’

‘You think not?’

‘How did you know my father?’

‘I’d just returned to Montreal and your father was giving speeches. I heard one of them. Very passionate. I spoke to him afterwards and we struck up an acquaintance. I was so sorry to hear he’d been killed. Car accident, was it?’

‘With my mother.’

Armand Gamache had trained his voice to sound neutral, as though delivering news. Just facts. It was a long time ago. More than forty years. His father was now dead longer than he’d lived. His mother as well.

But Gamache’s right hand lifted slightly off the warming wood and curled upward, as though lightly holding another, a larger, hand.

‘Terrible,’ said Finney. They sat quietly, each in his own thoughts. The mist was slowly burning off the lake and every now and then a bird skimmed the surface, hungry for insects. Gamache was surprised how companionable it felt, to be alone with this quiet man. This man who knew his father, and hadn’t yet said what most people did. This man, Gamache realized, who would be almost exactly his father’s age, had he lived.

‘It feels like our own world, doesn’t it?’ Finney said. ‘I love this time of day. So pleasant to sit and think.’

‘Or not,’ said Gamache and both men smiled. ‘You came here last night too. You have a lot to think about?’

‘I do. I come here to do my sums. It’s a natural place for it.’

It seemed an unnatural place for counting to Gamache. And Finney didn’t seem to have a notebook or ledger. What had Peter said the night before? The old accountant had married his mother for the money, and killed Julia for money as well. And now the elderly man was sitting on a dock in a remote lake, counting. Greed didn’t lessen with age, Gamache knew. If anything it grew, fuelled by fear of not having enough, of things left undone. Of dying destitute. Though it might not be money he was counting. It might be birds.