TWENTY
Armand Gamache walked off the wharf, leaving Bert Finney sitting in the Adirondack chair. On the grass the Chief Inspector turned round, looking for signs of the galloping child. But the lawn was empty and quiet.
His watch said seven thirty. Had Bean gone back into the Manoir?
This was the reason he’d gotten up so early, to see why Bean did. And now he’d managed to lose the child, in favour of a conversation with Finney. Had he made the right decision?
Gamache turned away from the lodge and took the trail that wound into and out of the woods, along the shores of Lac Massawippi. It was warm and he knew, even without the maitre d’s forecast, that it would be hot. Not the stifling heat and humidity before the storm, but still hot. Already the sun dazzled off the lake, blinding him if he looked too close and too long.
‘Dream on, dream on,’ a thin voice sang through the woods. Gamache turned and looked in, trying to adjust his eyes to the relative darkness of the forest in full leaf.
‘Dream on, dream on.’ The voice, reedy, reached an almost shrieking pitch. He walked off the path, stepping on roots and unsteady rocks, his ankle almost twisting a few times. But he ploughed on, snaking his large body around living trees and climbing over dead ones until he reached an opening. It was astonishing.
A large circle had been cleared in the middle of the thick forest and planted with honeysuckle and clover. He wondered how he could have missed it, if only by following his nose. It was sweet almost to the point of cloying. The other sense he might have used was hearing.
The glade buzzed. As he looked closer he noticed the tiny, bright, delicate flowers bobbing. The clearing was alive with bees. Bees crawled into and out of and around the blossom-filled bushes.
‘Dream on,’ the voice sang from the other side of the bobbing bushes. Gamache decided on discretion and skirted the glade, catching sight as he did of half a dozen wooden boxes in the very centre of the circle.
Hives. These were honey bees at their morning feeding. The Manoir Bellechasse had its own hives.
At the far side he turned his back on the thousands of bees and stared once again into the woods. There he caught sight of colour flitting between trunks. And then it stopped.
Gamache ploughed indelicately through the forest until he was within yards of Bean. The child stood feet apart as though planted. Knees slightly bent, head tilted back, hands gripped in front as though holding something.
And smiling. No, not just smiling, beaming.
‘Dream on, dream on,’ Bean sang in a music-free voice. But a voice filled with something much richer than even music. Bliss.
Bean was the first Morrow he’d seen with a look of joy, of delight, of rapture.
Gamache recognized it because he felt those things himself, every day. But he hadn’t expected to find them here, in the middle of the forest, in a Morrow. And certainly not from this child, marginalized, excluded, mocked. Named for a vegetable, asexual and rooted. Bean seemed destined for disaster. A puppy beside a highway. But this child who couldn’t jump could do something much more important. Bean could be transported.
He sat for a long time, mesmerized, watching the child. He noticed thin white strings falling from Bean’s ears and disappearing into a pocket. An iPod perhaps? Something was driving the concert he was listening to. He heard Louis Armstrong singing ‘St James Infirmary Blues’, then the Beatles’
‘Let It Be’, though it sounded more like ‘Letter B’. And some tune without words that sent Bean galloping and humming in a whirl of activity. Every now and then Bean would kick back furiously then arch forward.
Eventually he snuck away, satisfied that Bean was safe. Better than safe. Unbelievable as it seemed, Bean was sound.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste stood by the yellow police tape, staring down at the place where Julia Martin had last lived, and died. The blades of grass had sprung back up, erect where yesterday they too had been crushed. Too bad people couldn’t do the same thing, be revitalized after a rain and some sun. Spring back to life. But some wounds were too grave.
Lacoste was haunted by the sight of the body. She’d been in homicide for many years and had seen bodies in far more gruesome shape. What disturbed her, though, hadn’t been the stare on the victim’s face, or even the statue imbedded in her chest. It was Julia Martin’s arms. Flung out, open.
She knew that pose. She saw it each time she visited her mother. There on the steps of her modest east end Montreal home, her mother would be standing. Carefully turned out, always clean and proper. When they pulled up she’d open the door having stood just inside, waiting. She’d step onto the stoop and watch them park, then as Isabelle got out her mother’s face would break into a smile. And her arms would open wide, in welcome. It seemed involuntary, as though her mother was exposing her heart to her daughter. And Isabelle Lacoste would head down the walk, picking up speed until finally she was enfolded in those old arms. Safe. Home.
And Lacoste did the same thing when her own children raced down the walk, and into her open arms.
It was just such a gesture Julia Martin had made in the moments before she died. Had she welcomed what was coming? Why had she opened her arms as the massive statue tilted on top of her?
Agent Lacoste closed her eyes and tried to feel the woman. Not the terror of her last moment, but the spirit, the soul of the woman. During each investigation Lacoste quietly went to the site of the murder, and stood there alone. She wanted to say something to the dead. And now, silently, she assured Julia Martin that they would find out who had taken her life. Armand Gamache and his team wouldn’t rest until she rested.
So far they had a near perfect record, and she’d only had to apologize to a few spirits. Would this be one? She hated to bring negative thoughts to this moment, but this case disturbed Agent Lacoste. The Morrows disturbed her. But more even than that, the walking statue disturbed her.
Opening her eyes she saw the chief walking across the lawn and above the buzzing insects and chirps of birds she heard him humming and singing in his baritone.
‘Letter B, Letter B.’
Jean Guy Beauvoir had slept fitfully. After putting in a few calls to British Columbia and getting some interesting answers he’d done what he knew he shouldn’t. Instead of going to bed, or into the library to make more notes, on notepads, for God’s sake, he’d gone into the kitchen.
Some of the young staff were just sitting down to eat, the rest were cleaning up. Beauvoir arrived as Pierre Patenaude bustled in. Chef Veronique’s attention, momentarily on Beauvoir, shifted. As did Beauvoir’s mood. He’d been buoyant, feeling again the strange desire to laugh or at least smile in her company. It was a gladness of heart he rarely felt. But that shifted as her attention shifted, away from him to the maitre d’. And the Inspector surprised within himself an anger. A hurt. She seemed happy to see him, but happier to see the maitre d’.
And why shouldn’t she be? he told himself. It’s only natural.
But the rational thought glanced off the hard feelings forming as he watched Chef Veronique smile at Patenaude.
What sort of man waits on others all his life? he wondered. A weak man. Beauvoir hated weakness. Distrusted it. Murderers were weak, he knew. And he looked at the maitre d’ with new eyes.
‘Bonjour, Inspector,’ the maitre d’ had said, wiping his hands on a dish towel. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I was hoping for a cup of coffee and perhaps a small dessert?’ He turned and looked at Chef Veronique as he spoke. He could feel his cheeks burn slightly.
‘Bon, parfait,’ she said. ‘I was just cutting some poire Helene for Monsieur Patenaude. Would you like some?’
Beauvoir’s heart raced and contracted at the same time, giving him a pain so sharp he wanted to press his fist into his chest. ‘May I help?’
‘You never help a chef in her own kitchen,’ said Pierre with a laugh. ‘Here’s your coffee.’
Beauvoir took it reluctantly. This wasn’t how he’d seen the encounter going. Chef Veronique would be alone in here. Washing up. He’d pick up a dish towel and dry as she washed, just as he’d seen the Chief Inspector do a thousand times after dinner at home. Unlike his own home. He and his wife ate in front of the TV then she took the dishes down and shoved them in the dishwasher.
He’d dry the dishes and then Chef Veronique would invite him to sit down. She’d pour coffee for both of them, and they’d eat chocolate mousse and talk about their days.
He certainly hadn’t imagined sitting with the maitre d’ and five pimply Anglo kids.
Chef Veronique had cut them each a wedge of poire Helene. Beauvoir watched as she put plump almost purple raspberries and coulis on each plate. One was larger than the other. Had more fruit, more custard. More rich pear pie on a dark chocolate base.
She’d put the plates in front of them. The larger one in front of the maitre d’.
Jean Guy Beauvoir had felt himself grow cold. In the hot kitchen, on a hot summer’s evening, he felt himself freeze over.
Now, in the bright, fresh, warm morning he felt hungover, as though he’d been drunk on emotion. Drunk and sick. But still, as he descended the wide stairs he felt himself pulled once again to the door into the kitchen. He stood outside for a moment, willing himself to turn round, to go into the dining room, or the library, or into his car and head home and make love with his wife.
The door suddenly swung open, knocking Beauvoir square in the face.
He fell back, swallowing with a massive effort the swear words that sprang to mind and tongue, in case it was Veronique who’d done it. For some reason, around her, he couldn’t bring himself to swear. He shut his eyes against the pain and his hand flashed up and held his nose, feeling something trickle between his fingers.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry.’
It was the maitre d’.
Beauvoir opened his eyes and his mouth at the same time. ‘Chalice, look at this.’ He stared down at his hand, covered in blood. Suddenly he felt a little lightheaded.
‘Here, let me help.’ The maitre d’ took Beauvoir’s arm, but he shook it away.
‘Tabernac! Leave me alone,’ he shouted, nasally, haemorrhag ing swear words and blood.
‘It wasn’t his fault.’
Beauvoir stood still, not wanting this to be happening.
‘You shouldn’t be standing right in front of a kitchen door at mealtime. Monsieur Patenaude was simply doing his job.’
The foghorn voice was unmistakable, as was the tone. A woman defending someone she cared about. More concerned about the attack on the maitre d’ than the bleeding policeman. That hurt more, far more, than the hard door to the soft nose. Beauvoir turned and saw Chef Veronique towering behind him, sheaves of paper in her beefy hand. Her voice had been hard, censorious, like his teachers at Catholic school when he’d done something particularly stupid.
Chalice, had he said chalice? And tabernac? Now he felt really nauseous.
‘Desole,’ he said, cupping the blood as it poured off his chin. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What’s happened?’