EIGHT
The unveiling ceremony was short and dignified. The Morrows sat in a semicircle facing the canvas-draped statue. It was late afternoon and the trees cast long shadows. Sandra batted a bee towards Julia who passed it on to Mariana.
Gamache and Reine-Marie sat under the huge oak tree next to the lodge, watching from a respectful distance. The Morrows dabbed dry eyes and moist brows.
Clementine Dubois, who’d been standing beside the statue, handed Irene Finney a rope and mimed a tugging movement.
The Gamaches leaned forward but the Morrows leaned, almost imperceptibly, away. There was a pause. Gamache wondered whether Mrs Finney was hesitant to pull the canvas caul off the statue. To reveal and release her first husband.
The elderly woman gave a tug. Then another. It was as though Charles Morrow was clinging on to the canvas. Unwilling to be revealed.
Finally, with a yank, the canvas fell away.
There was Charles Morrow.
All through the dinner service the statue was the talk of the kitchen. Chef Veronique tried to calm the giddy staff and get them to focus on the orders, but it was difficult. Finally, in a quiet moment, as she stirred the reduction for the lamb and Pierre stood beside her arranging the dessert service, she spoke to him.
‘What’s it look like?’ she whispered, her voice deep and mellow.
‘Not what you’d expect. You haven’t seen it?’
‘No time. Thought I might sneak a peek later tonight. Was it very awful? The kids seem spooked.’
She glanced at the young waiters and kitchen staff, huddled in small groups, some talking excitedly, others wide eyed and hushed as though sharing ghost stories around a campfire. And scaring each other silly, thought Pierre.
‘Bon, that’s enough.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Back to work.’
But he made sure to sound reassuring, not harsh.
‘I swear it moved,’ came a familiar voice from one of the groups. Pierre turned and saw Elliot, surrounded by other workers. They laughed. ‘No, I’m serious.’
‘Elliot, that’s enough,’ he said. ‘Statues don’t move and you know it.’
‘Of course you’re right,’ said Elliot. But his tone was sly and condescending, as though the maitre d’ had said something slightly stupid.
‘Pierre,’ whispered Chef Veronique behind him.
He managed to smile. ‘You haven’t been smoking the napkins again, have you, young man?’
The others laughed and even Elliot smiled. Soon the maitre d’s squadron of waiters was out of the swinging door, crisply delivering food and sauces, bread and wine.
‘Well done,’ said Chef Veronique.
‘Goddamned Elliot. Sorry,’ said the maitre d’, shooting her an apologetic look. ‘But he’s deliberately scaring the others.’
She was surprised to see his hands tremble as he poured fresh sugar into a bone china bowl.
‘Do we have enough now?’ She nodded to the empty sugar sack in his hand.
‘Plenty. Strange that we ran out. You don’t think …’
‘What? Elliot? Why would he?’
The maitre d’ shrugged. ‘When something strange happens you can be sure he’s behind it.’
Chef Veronique didn’t disagree. They’d seen a lot of kids come and go over the years. Had trained hundreds. But there was only one Elliot.
He cares so deeply for the kids, she thought as she watched Pierre. As though they were his own. And she wondered, not for the first time, how much he missed being a father himself. He’d have been a good one. He gave these kids training and guidance. But even more than that, he gave them a stable environment and a kind home. In the middle of nowhere, they found what they needed. Good food, a warm bed and solid ground beneath their feet. Pierre had given up having his own children in exchange for a home in the wilderness and caring for other people and other people’s children. They both had. But after almost thirty years had Pierre finally been pushed too far by one of them? Chef Veronique loved nature, and found plenty of time to study it, and she knew that sometimes something unnatural crawled out of the womb, out of the woods. She thought of Elliot, and wondered whether the charming, handsome young man was all, or perhaps more than, he appeared.
‘What did you think of the statue?’ Reine-Marie asked as they sipped their after-dinner espressos and cognacs on the lawn, the night broken only by a firefly flickering here and there. The Morrows were still inside, eating in near silence, and the Gamaches had the rest of the world to themselves.
Gamache thought a moment. ‘I was amazed.’
‘So was I,’ she said, gazing over to where it stood. But the night was dark and she couldn’t see the gaunt, weary face of Charles Morrow. A handsome man, gone to stone.
The wind had picked up steadily since the unveiling. But instead of being refreshing, the breeze seemed to drag even more heat and humidity with it.
Bach wafted from the open windows of the Great Room.
Armand loosened his tie. ‘There. That’s better. Did you see that?’
He pointed down the lake, though he didn’t have to. In a night this dark the lightning was impossible to miss.
‘Fork,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Pierre was right. Storm’s coming.’
Her husband was moving his lips, whispering numbers, counting the space between light and sound. And then, in the distance, a low rumbling. It built then broke, and rumbled some more.
‘Long way off still,’ he said. ‘Might even miss us. Storms get caught in valleys sometimes.’
But he didn’t think this storm would miss them. Soon all that was calm and peaceful would be disrupted.
‘Paradise lost,’ he murmured.
‘The mind is its own place, monsieur,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. This is heaven. Always will be.’
‘This place? Manoir Bellechasse?’
‘No.’ She put her arms around him. ‘This place.’
‘Please take this in to the Great Room.’ Pierre handed a silver tray with coffee, a Drambuie and chocolates to a waiter. ‘It’s for Madame Martin.’
‘Here, I’ll trade you. I’ll take that.’ At the door Elliot reached for the tray. ‘I saw her go in the garden for a smoke. You can take mine. It’s for Mrs Morrow.’
‘The wild-haired one?’ the waiter asked hopefully.
‘No, the deflated one,’ admitted Elliot. ‘Sandra Morrow.’ Seeing the other waiter’s expression he lowered his voice. ‘Listen, I know where Mrs Martin goes for a smoke. You’ll be wandering all over trying to find her.’
‘How d’you know where she goes?’ the other waiter whispered.
‘I just know.’
‘Come on, man. I’m not going to take that to Mrs Morrow. She’ll make me come back for more chocolates, or different chocolates, or a bigger coffee. Screw off.’
The waiter held on to his tray and Elliot reached for it.
‘What’s going on? Why’re you both still here?’