The Murder Stone (38 page)

But he saw a murder.

He saw ants and bees, the statue, the black walnut, Canada Day and its counterpart Saint-Jean-Baptiste. He saw summer jobs and greed and the wickedness that would wait decades to crush Julia Morrow.

And he finally had something to write in that last column.

How.

How a father had walked off his pedestal and crushed his daughter.

TWENTY-NINE

Armand Gamache kissed his wife goodbye just as the first huge drops of rain fell with a splat. No mist or atmospheric drizzle for this Canada Day. It was a day for plump, ripe, juicy rain.

‘You know, don’t you,’ she whispered into his ear as he embraced her.

He pulled back and nodded.

Peter and Clara climbed into the Volvo like two shellshocked veterans returning to the front line. Already Peter’s hair stood on end.

‘Wait,’ Reine-Marie called just as Armand opened the driver’s side door. She took her husband aside for a moment, ignoring the drops plopping all around them. ‘I forgot to tell you. I remembered where I’d seen Chef Veronique before. You have too, I’m sure of it.’

She told him and his eyes widened, surprised. She was right, of course. And so many vaguely troubling things suddenly made sense. The world-class chef hidden away. The army of young English workers. Never older, never French. Why she never greeted the guests. And why she lived, year round, on the shores of an isolated lake.

‘Merci, ma belle.‘ He kissed her again and returned to the car, and the car returned to the road. Back to the Manoir Bellechasse.

As they turned the final corner of the dirt road they saw the old log lodge through the windshield wipers, and they saw a Surete vehicle parked on the winding drive. Then more police vehicles, as they got closer. Some Surete, some municipal police. Even a Royal Canadian Mounted Police truck. The drive was packed with vehicles parked higgledy-piggledy.

The chatting stopped in the car and it grew very silent, except for the clack, clack, clack of the wiper. Gamache’s face grew stern and hard and watchful. The three of them dashed through the rain and into the reception room of the Manoir.

‘Bon Dieu, thank God you’re here,’ said little Madame Dubois. ‘They’re in the Great Room.’

Gamache walked quickly.

At the opening of the door all eyes turned to him. There in the centre stood Jean Guy Beauvoir, surrounded by the Morrows, what looked like the entire staff of the Manoir, and men and women in assorted uniforms. A huge ordnance map was hanging from the fireplace mantel.

‘Bon,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I believe you know this man. Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, the head of homicide for the Surete du Quebec.’

There was a murmur and some nodding. A few of the officers offered salutes. Gamache nodded back.

‘What’s happened?’ Gamache asked.

‘Elliot Byrne is missing,’ said Beauvoir. ‘It was noticed sometime between the breakfast and the luncheon service.’

‘Who reported it?’

‘I did.’ Chef Veronique stepped forward. And as Gamache looked at her he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. Reine-Marie was right. ‘He wasn’t there for the breakfast service,’ the chef was explaining, ‘and that was unusual but not unheard of. He’d worked dinner the night before and sometimes their schedule gives them the next breakfast off. So I didn’t say anything. But he should have been there to set up for lunch.’

‘What did you do?’ asked Gamache.

‘I spoke to Pierre, the maitre d’,’ said Veronique.

Pierre Patenaude stepped forward, looking shaken and worried.

‘Shouldn’t we be looking for him?’ he asked.

‘We are, monsieur,’ said Beauvoir. ‘We have calls out to police and the media, to the bus and train stations.’

‘But he might be out there.’ Pierre waved outside, where rain was now pouring down the windows, making the outside world distorted and grotesque.

‘We’ll form search parties, but first we need information and a plan. Go on.’ Gamache turned to Beauvoir.

‘Monsieur Patenaude managed a quick search of the bunks and the grounds, to make sure Elliot wasn’t sick or hurt or maybe just goofing off,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Nothing was found.’

‘Were his clothes gone?’ asked Gamache.

‘No,’ said Beauvoir, and their eyes locked for an instant. ‘We were just about to form search parties for the surrounding area.’ Beauvoir addressed the room. ‘Everyone who wants to volunteer please stay. The rest, please leave.’

‘Can I help?’ Little Madame Dubois, dwarfed by the sequoia-like
RCMP
officers, stepped forward.

‘You can help me, madame,’ said Gamache. ‘Carry on.’ He nodded to Beauvoir, and to everyone’s astonishment the Chief Inspector took Madame Dubois’s arm and they left the Great Room.

‘Coward.’ The whispered word in the Morrow voice slid off Gamache’s back and to the floor, where it evaporated.

‘What can I do, monsieur?’ she asked when they arrived in the outer office.

‘You can find me Elliot’s employment application and whatever information you have about him. And you can place these phone calls.’

He jotted down a list.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked, perplexed by the list, but seeing his face she didn’t wait for an answer.

He walked into the library and closed the door. In the hallway he heard the trooping of heavy feet as the searchers prepared to go out into the rain. Not a storm, but the rain and wind would make the ground sodden and slippery. It was going to be miserable.

After making a few more notes he looked up and stared out of the window. Then he quickly walked out of the French doors and through the rain across the lawn, towards a group of searchers just entering the woods. They were wearing bright orange coats, supplied by the local hunt and game society, who were also volunteering. Each team would have a police officer and a local hunter. The last thing they needed was to lose the searchers. It happened. How often had the lost reappeared and the searchers disappeared, only to be found as bones years later. The Canadian wilderness didn’t give up her territory or her dead easily.

The rain was coming down in torrents, hitting them sideways. Everyone was anonymous in the orange covers, slick with rain.

‘Colleen?’ he shouted, knowing with their hoods up all they’d hear was the din of the rain pelting their heads. ‘Colleen!’

He grabbed a promising shoulder. A young man Gamache recognized as a porter turned round. He looked frightened and uncertain. Water dribbled down Gamache’s face, into his eyes and down his cheeks. He smiled reassuringly at the young man.

‘You’ll do fine,’ he shouted. ‘Just stick close to them.’ Gamache pointed to two large orange coats with bold duct tape X’s on their backs. ‘And if you get tired, tell them. You’re not to hurt yourself, d’accord?’

The young man nodded. ‘Are you coming with us, sir?’

‘I can’t. I’m needed somewhere else.’

‘I understand.’

But Gamache saw the disappointment. And he saw fear lick the boy. And he felt horrible. But he was needed elsewhere, though he needed to find the young gardener first. ‘Is Colleen in your group?’

The young man shook his head then ran off to catch up with the others.

‘Sacre,’ whispered Gamache, standing alone now on the soaked lawn, his own clothes unprotected and wet through. ‘Idiot.’

He spent the next few minutes striding into the woods, asking each group he found whether the gardener was with them. He knew the standard search pattern, had co-ordinated enough searches himself not to be worried about losing the searchers. He was worried about something else. About Elliot, missing. About Elliot, whose clothing was still in his modest wooden cupboard in the small bunkroom.

‘Colleen?’ He touched another orange shoulder and saw another little leap as some poor kid’s movie nightmare came momentarily true. As they turned he knew they expected to see Freddy Krueger or Hannibal Lecter or the Blair Witch. Huge, terrified eyes met his.

‘Colleen?’

She nodded, relieved.

‘Come with me.’ He shouted to the team leader he was taking the young gardener from the search, and while the others trudged deeper into the woods Gamache and Colleen emerged onto the lawn and jogged towards the refuge of the lodge.

Once inside with towels to dry off Gamache spoke.

‘I need to know a few things, and I need you to be honest.’

Colleen looked well beyond being able to lie.

‘Who do you have the crush on?’

‘Elliot.’

‘And who do you believe he had feelings for?’

‘Her. The woman who was killed.’

‘Julia Martin? Why do you say that?’

‘Because he was always hovering around her, asking questions.’

She brought the soft towel to her wet face and gave a good scrub.

‘Like what, Colleen? What did he want to know?’

‘Stupid things. Things like what her husband did and where they lived and whether she sailed or hiked. Whether she knew Stanley Park and the yacht club. He’d worked there once.’

‘Did he know her, do you think, from Vancouver?’

‘I heard them laughing once that he probably served her a martini there, just as he was serving her one in Quebec.’

Colleen clearly didn’t see the humour.

‘You talked about ants,’ he said more gently. ‘The ones that gave you nightmares. Where were they?’

‘All over.’ She shivered at the memory of ants crawling all over her.

‘No, I mean in real life, not your dream. Where did you see the ants?’ He tried not to let his anxiety show, and deliberately kept his voice even and calm.

‘They were all over the statue. When I was trying to transplant the sick flowers I looked up and the statue was covered with ants.’

‘Now, think carefully.’ He smiled and took his time, even though he knew time was fleeing before him, racing away. ‘Were they really all over the statue?’

She thought.

After what seemed hours she spoke. ‘No, they were at the bottom, all over his feet, and the white block. Right where my head was.’

And he could see the young gardener kneeling down, trying to save the dying plants, and coming face to face with a colony of scampering, frenzied ants.

‘Was there anything else there?’

‘Like what?’

‘Think, Colleen, just think.’ He was dying to tell her, to quickly lead her to it, but he knew he couldn’t. Instead he waited.

‘Wasps,’ she said finally. And Gamache exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. ‘Which was funny because there wasn’t a nest. Just wasps. That kid, Bean, said it was a bee sting, but I’m sure it was a wasp.’

‘Actually, it was a bee,’ said Gamache. ‘A honey bee.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. Why would a honey bee be there? Their hive’s all the way across the property. Besides, all the flowers around there were sick. A bee wouldn’t be attracted to them.’

‘One last question. Agent Lacoste says you kept saying it wasn’t your fault.’ He quickly held up a steady hand to reassure her. ‘We know it wasn’t. But I need to know why you said it.’

‘Elliot and Mrs Martin were talking on the other side of the statue. Laughing and kinda flirting. I was so angry. It was horrible to have to see them every day. I was working there and they obviously hadn’t seen me, or didn’t notice. Anyway, I stood up and put my hand on the statue. It moved.’

She lowered her eyes and waited for the inevitable laughter. He’d never believe her. Who would? What she’d said was laughable, which was why she hadn’t said anything about it before. How could a statue move? Yet it had. She could feel it grinding forward even now. She waited for him to laugh, to dismiss what she’d just said as ridiculous. She raised her eyes and saw him nodding.

‘Thank you,’ he said softly, though she wasn’t convinced he was talking to her. ‘It’s too late to join the others on the search. Perhaps you could help me.’

She smiled, relieved.

While Gamache took a couple of calls Madame Dubois put through he asked Colleen to call the Correctional Centre in Nanaimo, BC. ‘Tell them Chief Inspector Gamache needs to speak to David Martin, urgently.’

Gamache spoke to the Musee Rodin in Paris, the Royal Academy in London and the Cote des Neiges cemetery in Montreal. He’d just hung up when Colleen handed him her phone.

‘Mr Martin’s on the line.’

‘David Martin?’ Gamache asked.

‘It is. Is this Chief Inspector Gamache?’

‘Oui, c’est moi-meme.‘ He continued in rapid French, and received answers in equally rapid French. Very quickly Gamache found out about Martin’s early life and career, his early bankruptcies, his investors.

‘I need the names of all your early investors.’

‘That’s easy. There weren’t that many.’

Gamache scribbled the names as Martin dictated them.

‘And they lost everything they’d invested with you?’

‘We all did, Chief Inspector. No need to shed huge cow tears for them. Make no mistake, they were out for the main chance as well. It wasn’t charity. If the companies had hit big they’d have made a fortune. It’s business. I went bankrupt, and some of them did too. But I picked myself up.’

‘You were young and without responsibilities. Some of them were older with families. They didn’t have the time or energy to start again.’

‘Then they shouldn’t have invested.’

Gamache rang off and looked up. Irene Finney and Madame Dubois were standing in the room, side by side, with the same expression on their faces now. Behind them Colleen, like a ‘before’ version of these elderly women, stood fresh and plump but with the same look on her face.

Fear.

‘What is it?’ He stood.

‘Bean,’ said Mrs Finney. ‘We can’t find Bean.’

Gamache paled.

‘When was the last time you saw Bean?’

‘Lunch,’ said Mrs Finney, and they all checked their watches. Three hours. ‘Where’s my grandchild?’

She looked at Gamache as though he was responsible. And he knew he was. He’d been slow, allowed himself to be misdirected by his own prejudices. He’d accused Beauvoir of being blinded by emotion, but he had been too.

‘You sit here, safe and warm with the old women and children,’ hissed Mrs Finney. ‘Hiding here while others do the difficult work.’

She was shaking with rage, as though the fault line had finally spread too wide and she’d tumbled in herself.