Is that what killed her? Not something buried in the past, but something fresh and vigorous? And deadly. Something she’d seen or heard here at the Manoir?
Settling into the chair on the wooden dock Gamache sipped coffee and stared at the lake and the forested mountains all around. He cradled the delicate cup in his large hands and let his mind wander. Instead of forcing himself to focus on the case he tried to open his mind, to empty it. And see what came to him.
What came to him was a bird, a footless bird. Then Ulysses and the whirlpool, and Scylla, the monster. The white pedestal.
He saw young Bean, earthbound and trapped among the stuffed heads in the attic. They might have been Morrows, meant more as trophies than children. All head, all stuffed and staring.
But mostly he saw Charles Morrow, looming over this case. Hard, burdened, bound.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
Gamache twisted in the chair. Bert Finney was standing on the shore, at the foot of the dock. Gamache struggled out of the chair and lifted the tray, indicating the seat next to him. Monsieur Finney hobbled forward, all gangling arms and legs like a puppeteer’s poor first attempt. And yet he stood erect. It looked an effort.
‘Please.’ Gamache pointed to the chair.
‘I’d rather stand.’
The old man was shorter than the Chief Inspector, though not by much and Gamache thought he’d probably have been taller before age and gravity got him. Now Bert Finney pulled himself even more erect and faced Gamache. His eyes were less wilful this morning, and his nose less red. Or perhaps, Gamache thought, I’ve grown accustomed to him as one grows accustomed to chipping paint or a dent in a car. For the first time Gamache noticed there was a pair of binoculars hanging like an anchor round Finney’s bony neck.
‘I’m afraid I shocked you last night. I didn’t mean to.’ Finney looked directly at Gamache, or at least his wandering eyes paused on him.
‘You surprised me, it’s true.’
‘I’m sorry.’
It was said with such dignity, such simplicity, it left Gamache speechless for a moment.
‘It’s been a while since I’ve heard people talk about my father. Did you know him personally?’ Gamache again indicated the chair and this time Finney bent into it.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please. Black.’
Gamache poured a cup for Monsieur Finney and refreshed his own, then brought over the basket with croissants and rested it on the generous arm of his chair, offering one to his unexpected guest.
‘I met him at the end of the war.’
‘You were a prisoner?’
Finney’s mouth twisted into what Gamache thought was a smile. Finney stared across the water for a moment then closed his eyes. Gamache waited.
‘No, Chief Inspector, I’ve never been a prisoner. I wouldn’t allow it.’
‘Some people have no choice, monsieur.’
‘You think not?’
‘How did you know my father?’
‘I’d just returned to Montreal and your father was giving speeches. I heard one of them. Very passionate. I spoke to him afterwards and we struck up an acquaintance. I was so sorry to hear he’d been killed. Car accident, was it?’
‘With my mother.’
Armand Gamache had trained his voice to sound neutral, as though delivering news. Just facts. It was a long time ago. More than forty years. His father was now dead longer than he’d lived. His mother as well.
But Gamache’s right hand lifted slightly off the warming wood and curled upward, as though lightly holding another, a larger, hand.
‘Terrible,’ said Finney. They sat quietly, each in his own thoughts. The mist was slowly burning off the lake and every now and then a bird skimmed the surface, hungry for insects. Gamache was surprised how companionable it felt, to be alone with this quiet man. This man who knew his father, and hadn’t yet said what most people did. This man, Gamache realized, who would be almost exactly his father’s age, had he lived.
‘It feels like our own world, doesn’t it?’ Finney said. ‘I love this time of day. So pleasant to sit and think.’
‘Or not,’ said Gamache and both men smiled. ‘You came here last night too. You have a lot to think about?’
‘I do. I come here to do my sums. It’s a natural place for it.’
It seemed an unnatural place for counting to Gamache. And Finney didn’t seem to have a notebook or ledger. What had Peter said the night before? The old accountant had married his mother for the money, and killed Julia for money as well. And now the elderly man was sitting on a dock in a remote lake, counting. Greed didn’t lessen with age, Gamache knew. If anything it grew, fuelled by fear of not having enough, of things left undone. Of dying destitute. Though it might not be money he was counting. It might be birds.
‘You birdwatch?’
‘I do,’ said Finney, bringing his hand up to finger the binoculars. ‘I have quite a life-list. Sparrows, of course, and cardinals. Black-crested bulbul and white-throated babbler. Marvellous names. I’ve seen most of the birds here before, but you never know what you might find.’
They sipped their coffee and ate their croissants, batting away hungry flies. Dragonflies skimmed the water around the dock, graceful and bright as the sun caught their wings and luminous bodies.
‘Do you know of a bird without feet?’
‘Without feet?’ Instead of laughing Finney considered the question carefully. ‘Why would a bird have no feet?’
‘Why indeed?’ said Gamache, but chose not to elaborate. ‘Who do you think killed your stepdaughter?’
‘Besides Charles?’
Gamache remained silent.
‘This is a difficult family, Chief Inspector. A complicated one.’
‘You called them “seven mad Morrows in a verchere” the other day.’
‘Did I?’
‘What did you mean? Or were you just angry about being left behind?’
As Gamache had hoped, that roused the elderly man who up until that moment had seemed perfectly at ease. Now he turned in his chair and looked at Gamache. But not with annoyance. He looked amused.
‘I remember I told Clara that not everyone makes the boat,’ said Finney. ‘What I didn’t say is that not everybody wants to make the boat.’
‘This is a family, Monsieur Finney, and you’ve been excluded. Doesn’t that hurt?’
‘Hurt is having your daughter crushed to death. Hurt is losing your father, your mother. Hurt is all sorts of things. It isn’t being forced to stand on a shore, especially this shore.’
‘The surroundings aren’t the issue,’ said Gamache quietly. ‘The interior is. Your body can be standing in the loveliest of places, but if your spirit is crushed, it doesn’t matter. Being excluded, shunned, is no small event.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Finney leaned back again into the deep Adirondack chair. Across the lake a couple of Oh Canada birds called to each other. It was just after seven.
Bean’s alarms would have gone off by now.
‘Did you know that Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson were friends?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Gamache, staring straight ahead, but listening closely.
‘They were. Thoreau was once thrown in jail for protesting some government law he believed violated freedom. Emerson visited him there and said, “Henry, how did you come to be in here?” Do you know what Thoreau replied?’
‘No,’ said Gamache.
‘He said, “Ralph, how did you come to be out there?”’ After a moment Finney made a strangled noise. Gamache turned to look. It was laughter. A soft, almost inaudible, chuckle.
‘You called them mad. What did you mean?’
‘Well now, that’s just my perception, but I’ve seen men go mad before and I’ve thought about it quite a bit. What do we call madness?’
Gamache was beginning to appreciate that Finney spoke in rhetorical questions.
‘Not going to answer?’
Gamache smiled at himself. ‘Do you want me to? Madness is losing touch with reality, creating and living in your own world.’
‘True, though sometimes that’s the sanest thing to do. The only way to survive. Abused people, especially children, do it.’
Gamache wondered how Finney knew that.
‘They’ve lost their minds,’ said Finney. ‘Not always a bad thing. But there’s another expression we use to describe madness.’
A movement to his left caught Gamache’s eye, a flapping. Looking over he saw Bean running down the lawn. Fleeing? Gamache wondered. But after a moment he realized the child was neither fleeing nor running.
‘We say they’ve taken leave of their senses,’ said Finney.