Gamache was quiet, absorbing the information.
‘Are you saying the statue fell off and crushed her before the storm hit?’
‘That’s a fact, Chief Inspector. The ground’s dry. I have no idea how that thing came to fall, but it wasn’t the storm.’
They all watched as the flatbed was slowly and carefully driven past them, a Surete officer in the passenger seat and the crane operator driving. They disappeared round a bend in the dirt road and into the thick forest.
‘When did the storm hit?’ He was asking himself as much as her. She was silent, pretending to think. She’d been in bed by nine with her Madeleine cookies, Diet Coke and Cosmo, though she’d rather not volunteer that information. She’d woken in the middle of the night to find her cottage shaking and the power out.
‘We’ll call the weather office. If they don’t know the maitre d’ will,’ he said, walking back to the hole. Staring in he saw what he should have noted in the first place. She was in the clothes he remembered from the night before.
No raincoat. No hat. No umbrella.
No rain.
She was dead before the storm had struck.
‘Any other wounds on her body?’
‘Don’t appear to be. I’ll do the autopsy this afternoon and let you know. Anything else before we take her away?’
‘Inspector?’ Gamache called and Beauvoir joined him, wiping his hands on his sodden slacks.
‘No, we’re finished. Dirt.’ He looked at his hands and spoke as a surgeon might say ‘germs’. Dirt, grass, mud, insects were unnatural to Beauvoir, for whom cologne and a nice silk blend were his elements.
‘That reminds me,’ said Gamache. ‘There was a bees’ or wasps’ nest nearby. Be careful.’
‘Lacoste, the nest?’ Beauvoir jerked his head, but Lacoste continued to stare at the dead woman. She was putting herself in Julia’s place. Turning. Seeing the statue do the impossible, the unthinkable. Seeing it fall towards her. And Agent Lacoste put her hands out in front of her, palms forward, elbows tucked into her body, ready to repel the attack. Turning away.
It was instinctive.
And yet Julia Martin had opened her arms.
The chief walked past her and stood in front of the pedestal. Reaching out he slid his hand over the wet marble. The surface was perfect, pristine. But that wasn’t possible. A several ton statue would make scuffs, scratches, divots. But this surface was unmarred.
It was as though the statue had never been there. Gamache knew that was indulging his imagination. But he also knew he’d need his imagination if he was going to catch this killer. And there was a killer. Armand Gamache had no doubt. For all his magical thinking, Gamache knew statues didn’t walk themselves off their pedestals. If magic hadn’t done it, and if the storm hadn’t, something else had. Some one had.
Somehow someone had managed to get a massive statue, weighing tons, to fall. And to land on Julia Martin.
She’d been murdered. He didn’t know who, and he sure as hell didn’t know how.
But he would.
TWELVE
Armand Gamache had never been in the Manoir kitchen but wasn’t surprised to find it was large, with floors and counters made of gleaming dark wood and appliances made of stainless steel. Like the rest of the old lodge it was a mix of very old and very new. It smelled of basil and coriander, fresh bread and rich ground coffee.
As he entered bottoms slid from counters, the chopping stopped and the hum of conversation petered out.
Gamache immediately went over to Colleen, who was sitting beside the proprietor, Madame Dubois.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
She nodded, face bloated and blotched, but she seemed composed.
‘Good. That was a pretty awful thing to see. Shook me too.’
She smiled, grateful he’d said it loud enough for everyone to hear.
Gamache turned to the room.
‘I’m Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, head of homicide for the Surete du Quebec.’
‘Voyons,’ he heard a loud whisper, ‘I told you it was him.’
A scattering of ‘Holy shit’ was also heard.
‘As you know, there’s been a death. The statue in the garden fell and struck Madame Martin.’
Young, attentive, and excited faces looked at him.
He spoke with natural authority, trying to reassure, even as he broke the frightening news. ‘We believe Madame Martin was murdered.’
There was stunned silence. He’d seen that transition almost every day of his working life. He often felt like a ferryman, taking men and women from one shore to another. From the rugged, though familiar, terrain of grief and shock into a netherworld visited by a blessed few. To a shore where men killed each other on purpose.
They’d all seen it from a safe distance, on television, in the papers. They’d all known it existed, this other world. Now they were in it.
Gamache watched as the young, fresh faces closed slightly, as fear and suspicion entered this room where just moments ago they’d known they were safe. And now these young men and women knew something even their parents probably didn’t fully appreciate.
No place was safe.
‘She was killed last night, just before the storm. Did any of you see Madame Martin after the coffee service? That would’ve been about ten thirty.’
There was a movement off to his left. He glanced over and saw Colleen and Madame Dubois sitting at the table. The young waiter Elliot was standing beside them and behind him was someone else. Given her age and costume it could only be the head chef, the famous Chef Veronique.
One of them had moved. Not a crime, but while everyone else was too stunned to budge, one of them wasn’t. Who?
‘You’ll all be interviewed, of course, and I want to make something clear. You need to be honest. If you saw something, anything, you must tell us.’
The silence continued.
‘Every day I look for murderers, and most of the time we find them. It’s what we do, my team and I. It’s our job. Your job is to tell us everything you know, even if you think it’s not important.’
‘You’re wrong.’ Elliot stepped forward.
‘Elliot,’ the maitre d’ warned, also coming forward, but Gamache stopped him with a raised hand and turned to the young man.
‘Our job is to wait tables and make beds and serve drinks. To smile at people who insult us, who treat us like furniture. Our job isn’t to help you find a murderer, and I sure as hell am not being paid enough to keep waiting on these people. I mean,’ he appealed to the rest of the staff, ‘one of them killed her. Do you want to stay and serve them? Did you ever?’
‘Elliot,’ said the maitre d’ again, ‘that’s enough. I know you’re upset, son, we all are—’
‘Don’t call me son.’ Elliot rounded on him. ‘You’re pathetic. These people won’t thank you. They never do. They don’t even know who you are. They’ve been coming here for years and has any of them even asked your last name? Do you think if you left and someone else took over they’d even notice? You’re nothing to them. And now you’d risk your life to keep feeding them cucumber sandwiches? And you’d have us do the same?’
His face was bright red as though burned.
‘It’s our job,’ repeated the maitre d’.
‘Ours is but to do and die, is that it?’ Elliot offered a mocking salute.
‘Pierre Patenaude’s a remarkable man,’ Chef Veronique said, speaking to Elliot but heard by all. ‘You’d do well to learn from him, Elliot. And the first lesson could be knowing who’s on your side. And who isn’t.’
‘You’re right,’ said the maitre d’ to Elliot. ‘I will stay to feed them cucumber sandwiches or whatever they want and Chef Veronique makes. And I do it happily. Sometimes people are rude and insensitive and insulting. That’s their problem, not mine. Everyone who comes here is treated with respect. Not because they’ve earned it, but because it’s our job. And I do my job well. They’re our guests, true. But they’re not our superiors. One more outburst like that and you won’t have to worry about staying on.’ He turned to the rest of the room. ‘If any of you want to leave I’ll understand. I for one am staying.’
‘So am I,’ said Chef Veronique.
Gamache noticed Colleen’s furtive glances at Elliot, then over to the maitre d’.
‘They’re welcome to quit, Patron,’ said Gamache, who’d found this exchange interesting, ‘but they’re not welcome to leave. You need to stay at the Manoir at least for the next few days.’ He let this sink in then smiled reassuringly. ‘If you have to stay, you might as well be paid.’
There were nods of agreement. Chef Veronique moved to the cutting board and handed bunches of herbs to a couple of the kitchen staff and soon the air was ripe with the scent of rosemary. A small murmur of conversation picked up. A few of the guys shoved Elliot playfully. But the young man wasn’t ready to be jollied out of his rage.