‘She’d been flustered all day. Father’s unveiling. She and Father had had a falling out. It was emotional for all of us to see that statue, but probably more so for her. It’s a difficult time for her. She’s just been through a very public and messy divorce. Her husband was David Martin, you know.’
His grey-blue eyes slid over to Beauvoir, to make sure he’d understood. Beauvoir already knew about David Martin but was interested in Morrow’s manner. He’d spoken with both malicious pleasure and pride. Pleasure that his little sister had screwed up and married a felon, and pride that the felon was one of the wealthiest men in Canada, even after paying back all that money.
‘Who would want your sister dead?’
‘Nobody. This was a family reunion, a happy time. No one wanted her dead.’
Beauvoir slowly turned his head to look into the misty day and was silent but even a Morrow couldn’t miss his meaning. A hole in the ground outside those windows put the lie to Thomas Morrow’s words.
Don’t believe a thing they say, Mariana Morrow had said. And Beauvoir didn’t.
‘Did Julia have any children?’ Gamache asked as he and Peter emerged from the woods and headed slowly back to the Manoir.
‘None. Don’t even know if they tried. We’re not a big family for kids,’ said Peter. ‘We eat our young.’
Gamache let that join the mist around them. ‘What did you think of the statue of your father?’
Peter didn’t seem fazed by the non sequitur. ‘I didn’t give it any thought. I had no reaction at all.’
‘That’s not possible. Even as an artist you must’ve had an opinion.’
‘Oh, well, as an artist, yes. I can see the merit. Obviously the person who did it has some technique. It wasn’t bad. But he’d never met Father.’
Gamache just kept walking, his large hands clasped behind his back, his gaze alternately on his soaking feet and on the ever growing Manoir.
‘My father never looked like that. Never looked sad or whatever that was on his face. He only ever scowled. And he never, ever stooped. He was huge and, and …’ Peter gestured with his arms, as though sketching the world. ‘Huge. He killed Julia.’
‘His statue killed Julia.’
‘No, I mean before she left, he killed her. He took her spirit and he crushed her. He crushed us all. That’s what you’ve been dying for me to say, isn’t it? Why do you think we have no children, any of us? Look at our role models. Would you?’
‘There is one child. Bean.’
Peter harrumphed.
Again, Gamache was quiet.
‘Bean doesn’t jump.’
Gamache stopped, arrested by this unlikely string of words from his companion.
Bean doesn’t jump.
‘Pardon?’ he asked.
‘Bean doesn’t jump,’ Peter repeated.
He might as well have said, ‘Toaster picture bicycle,’ for all the sense he made.
‘What do you mean?’ Gamache asked, suddenly feeling very stupid.
‘Bean can’t leave the ground.’
Armand Gamache felt the damp seep into his bones.
‘Bean’s feet never leave the ground, at least not together. The child can’t or won’t jump.’
Bean can’t jump, thought Armand Gamache. What family produces a child so earthbound? Mired. How does Bean express excitement? Joy? But thinking about the child, and the family, he had his answer. So far, in ten years, that hadn’t been an issue.
Armand Gamache decided to call his son as soon as he was back at the Manoir.