If it was murder, someone in this room almost certainly did it. He never let that overwhelm his compassion, but neither did he let his compassion blind him. He watched closely as he spoke.
‘Madame.’ He turned to Mrs Finney, sitting composed in a wing chair, that day’s Montreal Gazette folded on her lap. He saw her stiffen. Her eyes darted quickly about the room. He could read her nimble mind. Who was there, and who was missing?
‘There’s been a death.’ He said it quietly, clearly. He was under no illusions about what his words would do to this woman. They were statue words, heavy and crushing.
‘Julia,’ she exhaled the name. The missing child. The one not there.
‘Yes.’
Her lips parted and her eyes searched his, looking for some escape, some back door, some hint this might not be true. But he didn’t blink. His brown eyes were steady, calm and certain.
‘What?’
Thomas Morrow was on his feet. The word wasn’t yelled. It was expelled across the room at him.
What. Soon someone would ask how and when and where. And finally the key question. Why.
‘Julia?’ Peter Morrow asked, standing. Beside him Clara had taken his hand. ‘Dead?’
‘I have to go to her.’ Mrs Finney stood, the Gazette slipping to the floor, unattended. It was the equivalent of a scream. Mr Finney rose unsteadily to his full height. He reached for her hand then pulled back.
‘Irene,’ he said. Again he reached out, and Gamache willed with all his might that Bert Finney could go the distance. But once again the old twig hand stopped short and finally fell to the side of his grey slacks.
‘How do you know?’ snapped Mariana, also on her feet now. ‘You’re not a doctor, are you? Maybe she’s not dead.’
She approached Gamache, her face red and her fists clenched.
‘Mariana.’ The voice was still commanding and it stopped the charging woman in her tracks.
‘But Mommy—’
‘He’s telling the truth.’ Mrs Finney turned back to the large, certain man in front of her. ‘What happened?’
‘How could she be dead?’ Peter asked.
The shock was lifting, Gamache could see. They were beginning to realize a woman in her late fifties, apparently healthy, doesn’t normally just die.
‘An aneurysm?’ asked Mariana.
‘An accident?’ asked Thomas. ‘Did she fall down the stairs?’
‘The statue fell,’ said Gamache, watching them closely. ‘It hit her.’
The Morrows did what they did best. They fell silent.
‘Father?’ asked Thomas, finally.
‘I’m sorry.’ Gamache looked at Mrs Finney, who stared as though stuffed. ‘The police are with her now. She isn’t alone.’
‘I need to go to her.’
‘The police aren’t letting anyone close. Not yet,’ he said.
‘I don’t care, they’ll let me.’
Gamache stood in front of her and held her eyes. ‘No, madame. Not even you, I’m afraid.’
She looked at him with loathing. It was a look he’d received often enough, and understood. And he knew it would get worse.
Gamache left them to their sorrow, taking Reine-Marie with him, but he quietly motioned the Surete officer into a corner.
Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir stepped out of the car and looked at the sky. Unremitting grey. It would rain for a while yet. He looked down at his shoes. Leather. His slacks designer. His shirt. Casual linen. Perfect. Fucking middle of nowhere murder. In the rain. And mud. He slapped his cheek. And bugs. Flattened to his palm were the remains of a mosquito and some blood.
Fucking perfect.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste opened an umbrella and offered him one. He declined. Bad enough to be here, he didn’t need to look like Mary Poppins.
Chief Inspector Armand Gamache came out of the auberge and waved. Beauvoir waved back then slapped his forehead. Gamache hoped it was a bug. Beside Beauvoir Agent Lacoste walked with an umbrella. In her late twenties, she was married and already a mother of two. Like most Quebecoises, she was dark and petite with a comfortable flair and confidence. She wore a blouse and slacks that managed to be both sensible and soignee, even with rubber boots.
‘Salut, Patron,’ she said. ‘How’d you manage to find the body?’
‘I’m staying here.’ He fell into step between them. ‘The victim is a guest at the Manoir.’
‘Hope she gets a discount,’ said Beauvoir. They turned the corner of the lodge and Gamache introduced the local Surete officers.
‘Anyone come out?’ he asked. Beside him Beauvoir was staring over at the scene, anxious to get there.
‘Some older woman,’ said a young female agent.
‘English?’ asked Gamache.
‘No, sir. Francophone. Offered us tea.’
‘Tall, with a deep voice?’
‘Yes, that’s her. Looked a little familiar, actually,’ said one of the men. ‘Suppose I’ve seen her in Sherbrooke.’
Gamache nodded. Sherbrooke was the nearest town, where the detachment was based.
‘That would be the chef here, Veronique Langlois. Did she seem interested in the scene?’ Gamache looked over to where the agents had encircled the site in yellow tape.
‘Who wouldn’t be?’ The young woman laughed.
‘You’re right,’ he said quietly. He turned sombre, kindly eyes on her. ‘There’s a woman over there who was alive hours ago. It might be an accident, it might be murder, but either way, this isn’t the time or place for laughter. Not yet.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re too young to be hardened and cynical. So am I.’ He smiled. ‘It’s no shame to be sensitive. In fact, it’s our greatest advantage.’
‘Yes sir.’ The young agent could have kicked herself. She was naturally sensitive but had thought she should hide it, that a certain cavalier attitude would impress this famous head of homicide. She was wrong.
Gamache turned to the scene. He could almost feel Beauvoir vibrating beside him. Inspector Beauvoir was the alpha dog, the whip-smart, tightly wound second in command who believed in the triumph of facts over feelings. He missed almost nothing. Except, perhaps, things that couldn’t be seen.
Agent Lacoste also stared at the scene. But unlike Beauvoir she could become very still. She was the hunter of their team. Stealthy, quiet, observant.
And Gamache? He knew he was neither the hound nor the hunter. Armand Gamache was the explorer. He went ahead of all the rest, into territory unknown and uncharted. He was drawn to the edge of things. To the places old mariners knew, and warned, ‘Beyond here be monsters.’
That’s where Chief Inspector Gamache could be found.
He stepped into the beyond, and found the monsters hidden deep inside all the reasonable, gentle, laughing people. He went where even they were afraid to go. Armand Gamache followed slimy trails, deep into a person’s psyche, and there, huddled and barely human, he found the murderer.
His team had a near perfect record, and they did it by sorting facts from fancy from wishful thinking. They did it by collecting clues and evidence. And emotions.
Armand Gamache knew something most other investigators at the famed Surete du Quebec never quite grasped. Murder was deeply human. A person was killed and a person killed. And what powered the final thrust wasn’t a whim, wasn’t an event. It was an emotion. Something once healthy and human had become wretched and bloated and finally buried. But not put to rest. It lay there, often for decades, feeding on itself, growing and gnawing, grim and full of grievance. Until it finally broke free of all human restraint. Not conscience, not fear, not social convention could contain it. When that happened, all hell broke loose. And a man became a murderer.
And Armand Gamache and his team spent their days finding murderers.
But was this a murder at the Manoir Bellechasse? Gamache didn’t know. But he did know that something unnatural had happened here.
‘Take this in to them, s’il vous plait.’ Chef Veronique’s large ruddy hand trembled slightly as she motioned to the trays. ‘And bring out the pots already there. They’ll want fresh tea.’
She knew this was a lie. What the family wanted they could never have again. But tea was all she could give them. So she made it. Over and over.
Elliot tried not to make eye contact with anyone. He tried to pretend he heard nothing, which was actually possible given the sniffles and snorts coming from Colleen. It was as though her head contained only snot. And too much of it.