‘At a dance. She was the most beautiful woman there, still was the most beautiful woman in any room. I fell in love and came back to Montreal to ask her father to let me marry her. He told me I was welcome to her. It wasn’t very gracious. We didn’t have much to do with each other after that. I’d actually tried to get them to reconcile, but after I met the family I lost enthusiasm for that.’
‘Who do you think killed your wife?’ Might as well ask.
‘I don’t honestly know, but I do know who I think wrote those terrible things in the men’s room at the Ritz.’
Beauvoir already knew it was probably Thomas Morrow so he was uninterested in what came next.
‘Her brother, Peter.’
Beauvoir was suddenly interested.
Peter strode into his brother’s room, not bothering to knock. Best to be forceful, assured.
‘You’re late. God, you look a mess. Doesn’t that wife of yours look after you? Or maybe she’s too busy painting. What’s it like to have a wife far more successful than you?’
Rattatatatat. Peter stood stunned. Once he recovered he knew this was his chance to stand up for Clara, to tell this smug, smarmy, smiling nemesis how she’d saved his life, given him love. How brilliant and kind she was. He’d tell Thomas— ‘Thought so,’ said Thomas, waving him into the room.
Silenced, Peter did as he was told, looking around as he entered. It was much more splendid than his room, the bed canopied, the sofa facing the balcony and the lake. The huge armoire was almost dwarfed by the scale. But Peter’s eyes found the tiniest thing in there. Sitting on the bedside table.
Cufflinks. Left there, he knew, to be seen.
‘We have to do something, Spot.’
‘What do you mean?’ With alarm Peter noticed crumbs on his shirt and quickly brushed them off.
‘Someone killed Julia and that idiot of a detective thinks it was one of us.’
Now was his chance to stand up for Gamache, to tell Thomas what a remarkable man he was, astute, courageous, kind.
‘Mother thinks he’s trying to compensate for his father,’ said Thomas. ‘Must be hard to have a traitor and a coward for a father. For all the stuff we could say about the pater, he was no coward. Bully, perhaps, but no coward.’
‘Bullies are cowards,’ said Peter.
‘That would make your friend’s father both a bully and a coward. That’s not a very nice thing to say, Peter. It’s a wonder you have any friends at all. But I didn’t ask you here to chat about you. This is about Julia, so please focus. It’s obvious who killed her.’
‘Finney,’ said Peter, finding his voice again.
‘Well done.’ Thomas turned his back on Peter and looked out the window. ‘Not that he didn’t do us a favour.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh, come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t done the math.
Four minus one?’
His voice was wheedling, insisting Peter answer a rhetorical question.
‘What are you saying?’
‘You’re not really this thick, are you?’
‘Mother might leave all her money to Finney,’ said Peter. ‘Julia’s death doesn’t mean we’ll get a bigger inheritance. Besides, I don’t care. Remember who turned down Father’s inheritance? Money means nothing to me.’
And he knew Thomas couldn’t argue. It was the one incontrovertible fact, bought for a million dollars. The thing that made him different, separated him from his siblings. They knew he’d refused the inheritance, but in true Morrow fashion had said nothing. And he’d said nothing, reserving the words for just this moment.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Thomas, his voice dripping reason. ‘If it meant nothing to you you’d have taken the inheritance.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said Peter, but the rock solid ground beneath him shifted. The territory he’d bought in exchange for his inheritance, in exchange for security for himself and Clara, had proved worthless. He was sinking.
‘Spot claiming not to care that Julia’s death makes us richer?’ said Mariana, stepping in without knocking. ‘Three to inherit,’ she sang to them.
‘You’re late, Magilla,’ said Thomas.
‘It’s comforting, isn’t it, knowing you’ll be rich one day?’ cooed Mariana. Peter could smell her stale perfume and powder and sweat. She smelled of decay.
‘I don’t care about those things, never have.’
‘Now, that might work with Gamache. It might even work with Clara,’ said Thomas. ‘But we know you, Spot. We love fine things,’ he looked around the room, ‘and I bet your room’s spartan compared to this.’
It was.
‘But you’re still the greediest of us,’ Mariana finished her brother’s thought.
‘That’s not true.’ Peter raised his voice.
‘Ah ha.’ Thomas waggled his finger at his brother then raised it to his lips.
‘Of course it’s true,’ said Mariana. ‘Why do you think we call you Spot?’
Peter turned astonished eyes on her. He brought up his hands, to show them the paint spots tattooed there.
‘My painting,’ he said. But he could see in their faces he was wrong. Had been wrong all his life. Or had he? Had he known the truth all along, and denied it?
‘We call you Spot because of the way you used to follow Father around,’ said Thomas, his voice calm, explaining nicely this devastating fact. ‘Like a puppy.’
‘And what do puppies want?’ Mariana asked.
‘Affection,’ said Thomas, ‘and stroking. They want to be cuddled and told how wonderful they are. But it wasn’t enough when Father said it to you. You wanted it all. Every ounce of affection he had. You hated it when he paid any attention to Julia. You were greedy then, Peter, and you’re greedy now. Love, attention, praise, Spot. Good boy, Spot. And after Father died you turned to Mother. Love me, love me, love me, pleeeease.’
‘And you shit on us because all we want from Mother is her money. We at least ask for something she can give,’ said Mariana.
‘You’re wrong,’ Peter exploded. His rage burst out of him with such force he thought the room would shake and tremble and shatter. ‘I never wanted anything from them. Nothing.’
He screamed so loud the last word was barely audible. He thought he’d stripped his vocal cords. He looked around the room for something to throw. Mariana was staring at him, frightened. He liked that. But Thomas? Thomas was smiling.
Peter stepped towards him. He finally knew how to get that smile off his face.
‘You want to kill me, don’t you?’ said Thomas, actually walking to meet Peter. ‘I knew it. Always knew you were the unstable one. Everyone thought it was Julia or Mariana—’
‘Hey—’
‘But it’s always the quiet ones. Isn’t that what your neighbours in that dreary little village will be telling the CBC tomorrow? He always seemed so nice, so normal. Never a harsh word, never a complaint. You going to throw me off the balcony, Peter? Then there’ll only be two of you to inherit. Will that be enough? Or should Mariana start worrying too? All the affection and all the money. The mother-lode.’
Peter could see himself tilting his head back and opening his mouth, and flames spewing out, like vomit. From the tips of his toes the rage would streak through his body, and shoot out, destroying everything around him. He was Nagasaki and Hiroshima, he was the Bikini Atoll and Chernobyl. He would annihilate everything.
Instead he clamped his mouth shut and felt the bitterness and bile burn in his throat and chest. He fought to shove the rage back in, stuffing it down there with anger and jealousy and fear and hate, hate, hate.
But Pandora’s box wouldn’t be shut. Not again. The demons had already escaped and were swirling around the Manoir Bellechasse, feeding and growing. And killing.
Peter turned a twisted, pinched face on Mariana.
‘I might be a puppy, but you’re something much worse, Magilla.’
He spat the last word in her fearful face. It felt good to see her afraid. Then he turned to Thomas.
‘Magilla and Spot,’ he said to the smug face. ‘And do you know what we called you?’
Thomas waited.
‘Nothing. You were nothing to us then and still are. Nothing.’
Peter walked out, feeling calmer than he had in days. But he knew that was because he was curled up in the back seat, and something else was driving. Something rancid and stinking and horrible. The something he’d hidden all his life. It was finally in charge.