The Long Way Home

“What made him angry? What would set him off?”


“Anyone who disagreed with his tenth muse theory. And anything he judged to be mediocre. The two went together in his mind. Unfortunately, as the year went on he became more and more unbalanced. We didn’t know when he’d go over the edge, and who he might take with him. We had to protect the students. But we didn’t act in time.”

“There was an incident?” asked Reine-Marie.

Beside her, Ruth was no help at all. Reine-Marie wasn’t even sure she was listening. There was a goofy smile on her face as she watched Professor Massey.

“Not violence,” said the professor. “Not physical anyway. Without telling anyone, or getting the college’s permission, Sébastien Norman created the Salon des Refusés.”

“Clara Morrow told us about that. But what was it?”

“It was a show that ran parallel to the real exhibition. It featured the rejected works.”

“And why was that so bad?”

Reine-Marie could immediately feel his censure. It radiated from him, waves of disapproval, of disappointment. In her. And she found herself regretting asking the question. Intellectually she knew that was silly. It was a legitimate question. But in her gut she felt she’d let this man down in not knowing the answer.

Even Ruth deserted her now. She drifted off and started examining the paintings on the walls. Pausing before each one. Paying more attention to them than she ever had, as far as Reine-Marie knew, to Clara’s or Peter’s.

“Are you a teacher?” Professor Massey asked.

Reine-Marie shook her head. “A librarian.”

“But you have children?”

“Two. Both grown up now. And two grandchildren.”

“And when they go to school and get an assignment wrong, would you like the teacher to hold it up in front of the class? In front of the school? For ridicule?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, that’s what Professor Norman did. Ask your friend Clara how it felt. How it still feels. These are young people, Madame Gamache. They’re gifted, and many are fragile, having been marginalized most of their lives for being creative. We live in a society that doesn’t value being different. When they come here, to art college, it’s probably the first time in their lives they feel they belong. Safe. Not just valued, but precious.”

He held her eyes, his voice deep and calm, almost mesmerizing. And Reine-Marie felt again the pull of this man, even in his old age. How powerful he must have been in his prime.

And how comforting his message to the young, lost, wounded men and women who straggled into the college with their screw-you attitudes and piercings and broken hearts.

Here they were safe. To experiment, to explore. To fail and try again. Without fear of ridicule.

She looked at the worn sofa and could almost see the generations of young, excited artists lounging about in animated debate. Finally free.

Until Professor Norman got ahold of them. And then it was no longer safe.

The Salon des Refusés.

Reine-Marie was beginning to see just how vile that was.

“Would the college have Professor Norman’s address in their files?”

“They might. He was from Québec. I know that. He had a funny sort of accent.”

“Do you know where in Québec?” Reine-Marie asked, and he shook his head.

“Did Peter ask these questions, when he visited you?”

“About Professor Norman?” Massey was clearly both surprised and amused. “No. We talked about him briefly, but I think I was the one who brought him up.”

“Is it possible Peter’s looking for Professor Norman?” Reine-Marie asked.

“I doubt it,” said Massey. “He said nothing about that when he left. Why?”

“Clara and my husband and some others are trying to find Peter,” she said. “And it seems Peter was trying to find someone named Norman.”

“I’d be shocked if it was the same man,” said Massey. And he looked shocked. “I hope that’s not true.”

“Why?”

“If Sébastien Norman was insane thirty years ago, I hate to think what he is now.” Massey took a breath and shook his head. “When she left, I advised Clara to just go home. To get on with her life. And that Peter would come back, when he was ready.”

“Do you think he planned to return to her?” Reine-Marie asked.

“He didn’t mention it,” Massey admitted. “But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t going to do it.”

“Like looking for Norman, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

The professor’s gaze left Reine-Marie and found Ruth. She was down at the far end of his studio looking at another painting.

“I don’t suppose you have a picture of Professor Norman?”

“In my wallet?” Professor Massey smiled. “Actually, I might be able to find you one. In our yearbook.”

While Massey examined the bookcase, Reine-Marie walked over to Ruth.