The Murder Stone (42 page)

‘That must’ve taken a lot of sugar,’ said Clara.

‘It did. He’d been hoarding it for days. That was why the Manoir unexpectedly ran out. He’d been stealing it. Remember how white the pedestal is?’

They nodded.

‘The maitre d’ guessed a layer of white sugar wouldn’t be noticed, especially since he’d shooed everyone away, leaving just Madame Dubois and the crane operator, both of whom would be busy concentrating on other things.’

They could see it all. Charles Morrow hoisted off the flatbed truck, tied tight and strung up, all eyes staring, breaths held and prayers said that he wouldn’t fall. And then, slowly, slowly, he was lowered to his pedestal.

‘Even at the unveiling we didn’t notice,’ said Clara. ‘What we did see were wasps.’

‘Attracted by the sugar,’ said Gamache. ‘Wasps, honey bees, ants. Colleen the young gardener has nightmares about the ants and I assumed she meant she’d seen ants crawling over the body. But she didn’t. In fact, the coroner even told us the heavy rain meant there were no ants. Colleen saw the ants before the statue fell, on the pedestal and feet.’ He looked at Colleen, who nodded. ‘The cushion of sugar had attracted every insect for miles around. When I saw the wasps and ants at the spilled Coke I realized they were attracted to something sweet.’

‘A honey bee,’ said Peter, shaking his head. ‘I wonder if Patenaude realized how damning that was?’

‘Such a small thing, a bee. Imagine that giving away a murderer,’ said Clara.

‘The real brilliance of this old sugar technique is that it’s time sensitive,’ said Gamache. ‘One good rain, the sugar dissolves and the statue subsides onto its pedestal, to stay there forever.’

‘But suppose it hadn’t rained,’ asked Peter. ‘What then?’

‘Hose it off, simple. Colleen might have noticed, but probably not with the shock of the discovery.’

‘But still, it didn’t have to be Pierre,’ said Madame Dubois. ‘Any one of us could have hoarded that sugar.’

‘It’s true. He was the most likely, but I needed more. And I got it from Gabri, when he told us about his name. Short for Gabriel, of course. You told him about our own children’s names that also work in both French and English.’

‘I remember,’ said Reine-Marie.

‘That was a clue. That and the turn of phrase “everyone comes back for this week”. You only “come back” if you’re from here to begin with. David Martin told Inspector Beauvoir that he’d come back to Montreal a few times. Come back. I’d presumed he was English, from British Columbia, but suppose he was a Montrealer and his name was Da-veed Mar-tan?’ Gamache gave it the French pronunciation. ‘When I returned to the Manoir one of the calls I made was to Martin. He confirmed he was from Montreal, and that a Francois Patenaude had been involved in an early, disastrous investment.’

He told them then what the maitre d’ had told them in the kitchen.

As he spoke Beauvoir looked over and saw Chef Veronique standing at the kitchen door, listening. And he suddenly knew who she was, and why he’d cared for her.

THIRTY-TWO

The rain had stopped, but the grass underfoot was sodden.

Sun shot through the clouds and beamed onto the lake, the lawn, the vast metal roof. Their feet squelched as the two couples and Beauvoir walked across the Manoir lawn towards the circle of chairs newly dried by the young staff.

‘What do you think will happen to the Bellechasse?’ Reine-Marie asked, holding her husband’s hand but talking to Clara.

Clara paused and glanced back at the grand and solid lodge. ‘This was built to last,’ she said finally, her eyes catching a gleam on the old roof. ‘And I think it will.’

‘I agree,’ said Gamache.

Elliot Byrne was standing on the terrasse, setting out tables for dinner and directing some of the younger staff. He seemed a natural.

‘How are you doing?’ Reine-Marie asked Beauvoir, on her other side, as he batted away at the cloud of biting blackflies that had descended upon him.

‘Did you know who she was?’ he asked.

‘Chef Veronique? As soon as I saw her,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Though I knew her by another name, she’s unmistakable, even after all these years. I used to watch her. Our kids were raised on her recipes.’

‘So was I,’ said Beauvoir, and he coughed up a bug. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled ruefully at Madame Gamache.

The swarming flies and buzzing receded, and he could again smell the Vicks VapoRub, could taste the flat ginger ale and the crackers. He could feel the lumpy sofa and the soft blanket as he lay feverish, a sick day off school. Beside him sat his mother, gently rubbing his cold feet, as together they watched her favourite show on Radio Canada.

‘Bonjour, mes enfants,’ said the beefy young woman in the wimple. ‘Bless you for joining me. Let’s just hope I don’t burn the kitchen down today. Mother Superior is still angry about that frying pan I forgot on the gas last week.’

And she’d laugh. She had a laugh like a French horn and a voice like a root vegetable.

Soeur Marie Angele and her famous cooking show. Midi Avec Ma Soeur.

It had become required viewing for young mothers across Quebec. Some to laugh at the old-fashioned, drab woman, no older than themselves really, who taught them how to make a perfect blancmange or rouille or poire Helene. She seemed like something from another era. But below the laughter was admiration. Soeur Marie Angele was a gifted cook who loved what she did, and did it with humour and excitement. There was a simplicity and certainty about her in a Quebec changing so rapidly.

Beauvoir could again hear his mother’s laughter as Ma Soeur made even the most complicated recipes seem easy and clear.

Enrolment in nunneries spiked, as did sales of her popular cookbooks, with the plain, happy woman in a habit with crossed baguettes on the cover.

How could he not have seen?

But there was a troubling edge to his memories. And then he remembered. The scandal when Soeur Marie Angele suddenly left. In headlines and talk shows, in the streets and kitchens of Quebec, there was one topic. Why would Soeur Marie Angele suddenly quit? And not just the show, but the order?

She’d never answered that. She’d simply taken her frying pans and vanished.

Into the wilderness, and here, Beauvoir knew, she’d finally found peace. And love. And a garden to tend and honey to harvest and people she cared for to cook for.

It was a small and perfect life. Away from the glare, away from scrutiny.

All the troubling little mysteries became clear. Why this wonderful chef was content to stay at the Manoir Bellechasse when she could work in the finest restaurant in Quebec. Why the Manoir employed only English kids, from other provinces.

So that her secret would be safe. Her peace unviolated. No one would recognize Chef Veronique as the infamous Ma Soeur who’d left the order like a thief in the night. And come here, to be taken in and protected by the fierce Madame Dubois. Her new Mother Superior.

‘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.