The door opened and Clementine Dubois waddled in, followed by the maitre d’ and a couple of the staff, carrying trays.
‘I thought you could use some refreshment,’ the proprietor said. ‘I’ve taken food and drinks in to the family as well.’
‘How are they?’ asked Gamache.
‘Pretty upset. They’re demanding to see you.’
Gamache looked down at a tray of frothy cold soups with delicate mint leaves and curled lemon rind floating on the top. Another tray held platters of open-faced sandwiches, roast beef, smoked salmon, tomato and Brie. The final tray held bottles of ginger beer, spruce beer, ginger ale, beer and a bucket with a light white wine on ice.
‘Merci.‘ He accepted a ginger beer and turned to the maitre d’. ‘When did the storm start last night? Do you know?’
‘Well, I’d done my last tour of the place and had just gone to bed. I was woken by a huge explosion, practically blew me out of bed. I looked over to my clock radio and it said one something. Then the power went out.’
‘Did you see anyone before you went to bed?’ asked Beauvoir, who’d taken a soup and a roast beef sandwich and was about to plop into a large leather wing chair.
The maitre d’ shook his head. ‘No one was up.’
Gamache knew that wasn’t true. Someone was up.
‘I was woken by the storm too,’ said Madame Dubois. ‘I got up to make sure everything was properly shut and to secure the shutters. Pierre and a couple of the staff were already running around. You two were there. You helped.’
‘A little. Were all the windows and doors shut?’
‘They were shut before I went to bed,’ said Pierre. ‘I check on my last rounds.’
‘But in the storm some blew open.’ Gamache remembered the banging. ‘Were they locked?’
‘No,’ Madame Dubois admitted. ‘We never lock. Pierre’s been trying to convince me for a few years that we should, but I’m a little hesitant.’
‘Pig-headed,’ said the maitre d’.
‘Perhaps a little. But we’ve never had a problem and we’re in the middle of nowhere. Who’s going to break in? A bear?’
‘It’s a different world,’ said Pierre.
‘Today I believe you.’
‘It wouldn’t have changed anything,’ Gamache said. ‘Julia Martin would still be dead no matter how many doors were locked.’
‘Because whoever did this was already inside,’ said Madame Dubois. ‘What happened here last night isn’t allowed.’
It was such an extraordinary thing to say it actually stopped the ravenous Beauvoir from taking another bite of his roast beef on baguette.
‘You have a rule against murder?’ he asked.
‘I do. When my husband and I bought the Bellechasse we made a deal with the forest. Any death that wasn’t natural wasn’t allowed. Mice are caught alive and released. Birds are fed in the winter and even the squirrels and chipmunks are welcome. There’s no hunting, not even fishing. The pact we made was that everything that stepped foot on this land would be safe.’
‘An extravagant promise,’ said Gamache.
‘Perhaps.’ She managed a small smile. ‘But we meant it. Nothing would deliberately die at our hands, or the hands of anyone living here. We have an attic filled with reminders of what happens when creatures turn against each other. It scared that poor child half to death and well it should scare us all. But we’ve grown used to it, we tolerate the taking of lives. But it’s not allowed here. You must find out who did this. Because I know one thing for sure. If a person would kill once, they’d kill again.’
She nodded briskly and left, followed silently by Pierre.
Gamache watched the door close. He knew the same thing.
THIRTEEN
‘Mrs Morrow, would you like some lunch?’
‘No, Claire, thank you.’
The elderly woman sat on the sofa next to her husband, as though her spine had fused. Clara held out a small plate with a bit of poached salmon, delicate mayonnaise and paper-thin cucumbers and onion in vinegar. One of Peter’s mother’s favourite lunches, she knew, from the times she’d asked for it at their place when all they had to offer was a simple sandwich. Two struggling artists rarely ran to salmon.
Normally when Mrs Morrow called her Claire, Clara was livid. For the first decade she’d presumed Peter’s mother simply didn’t hear well and genuinely thought her name was Claire. Sometime in the second decade of her marriage to Peter, Clara realized her mother-in-law knew perfectly well what her name was. And what her profession was, though she continued to ask about her job at some mythical shoe store. It was, of course, possible Peter had actually told his mother Clara worked in a shoe store. Anything, she knew, was possible with the Morrows. Especially if it meant keeping the truth from each other.
‘A drink, perhaps?’ she asked.
‘My husband will look after me, thank you.’
Clara was dismissed. She glanced at her watch. Past noon. Could they leave soon? She hated herself for the thought, but she hated staying even more. And another thought she hated still more. That Julia’s death was a massive inconvenience. More than that, it was a pain in the ass. There. She’d said it.
She wanted to go home. To be surrounded by her own things, her own friends. To work on her solo show. In peace.
She felt like shit.
Turning to look back she saw Bert Finney with his eyes closed.
Sleeping.
He’s fucking sleeping. The rest of us are trying to deal with this tragedy and he’s napping. She opened her mouth to invite Peter onto the terrasse. She longed for some fresh air, maybe a little walk through the mist. Anything to escape this stifling atmosphere.
But Peter had gone again. Into his own world. He was focused only on the movement of his pencil. Art had been his sanity growing up. The only place where nothing happened unless he made it happen. Lines appeared and disappeared according to his will alone.
But when does the lifeboat become the prison ship? When does the drug start working against you? Had her beloved, gentle, wounded husband escaped too far?
What was that called? She tried to remember conversations with her friend Myrna in Three Pines. The former psychologist sometimes talked about that. People who were delusional, disconnected.
Insane.
No, she shoved the shard of a word away. Peter was wounded, hurt, brilliant for having found a coping mechanism that soothed as well as provided an income. He was one of the most respected artists in Canada. Respected by everyone, except his own family.
Mrs Morrow was rolling in money and yet she’d never once bought a painting by her own son, even when they were all but starving. She’d offered to give them money, but Peter had side-stepped that mine.
Clara watched as Mariana Morrow wandered to the piano. Thomas had abandoned it and was now reading a newspaper. Mariana sat, swept her shawl over her shoulder and held her hands over the keys.
This should be good, thought Clara, awaiting the clunks and bangs. Anything to break the crackling silence. Mariana’s hands hovered, bouncing slightly, as though playing airpiano. For God’s sake, shouted Clara’s mind. Can’t they do anything for real?
Clara glanced around and saw Bean alone.
‘What’re you reading?’ she asked, joining the serious child on the window seat.
Bean showed Clara the book. Myths Every Child Should Know.
‘Wonderful. Did you find it in the library?’
‘No, Mommy gave it to me. It was hers. See.’ Bean showed Clara the first page, inscribed, For Mariana on her birthday, from Mother and Father.
Clara felt tears sting her eyes again. Bean stared at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Clara, dabbing her eye with a cushion. ‘I’m being silly.’
But Clara knew why she wept. Not for Julia, not for Mrs Morrow. She wept for all the Morrows, but mostly for parents who gave gifts and wrote ‘from’. For parents who never lost children because they never had them.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Bean.
It had been Clara’s intention to comfort Bean.
‘It’s just very sad,’ said Clara. ‘I’m sorry about your aunt. How about you? Are you all right?’
Bean’s mouth opened and music came out. Or so it seemed for an instant.
Turning round Clara stared at the piano. Mariana had dropped her hands to the keys, and they were doing the most remarkable thing. They were finding the notes. In the right order. The music was astonishing. Fluid and passionate and natural.
It was gorgeous, but it was also typical. She should have known. The untalented brother was a brilliant painter. The mess of a sister was a virtuoso pianist. And Thomas? She’d always presumed he was as he seemed. A successful executive in Toronto. But this family was fuelled by deceit. What was he, really?
Clara glanced around and saw Chief Inspector Gamache standing at the door, staring at Mariana.
The music stopped.
‘I’m going to ask you all to stay at the Manoir for at least another day, perhaps longer.’
‘Of course,’ said Thomas.
‘Thank you,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘We’re collecting evidence now and sometime today one of my agents will interview each of you. Until then feel free to wander the grounds. I’d like to speak with you. Will you walk with me?’
He gestured to Peter, who rose.
‘We’d like to go first,’ said Sandra, her eyes anxiously flitting from Peter to Gamache and back.
‘Why?’