‘Who do you have the crush on?’
‘Elliot.’
‘And who do you believe he had feelings for?’
‘Her. The woman who was killed.’
‘Julia Martin? Why do you say that?’
‘Because he was always hovering around her, asking questions.’
She brought the soft towel to her wet face and gave a good scrub.
‘Like what, Colleen? What did he want to know?’
‘Stupid things. Things like what her husband did and where they lived and whether she sailed or hiked. Whether she knew Stanley Park and the yacht club. He’d worked there once.’
‘Did he know her, do you think, from Vancouver?’
‘I heard them laughing once that he probably served her a martini there, just as he was serving her one in Quebec.’
Colleen clearly didn’t see the humour.
‘You talked about ants,’ he said more gently. ‘The ones that gave you nightmares. Where were they?’
‘All over.’ She shivered at the memory of ants crawling all over her.
‘No, I mean in real life, not your dream. Where did you see the ants?’ He tried not to let his anxiety show, and deliberately kept his voice even and calm.
‘They were all over the statue. When I was trying to transplant the sick flowers I looked up and the statue was covered with ants.’
‘Now, think carefully.’ He smiled and took his time, even though he knew time was fleeing before him, racing away. ‘Were they really all over the statue?’
She thought.
After what seemed hours she spoke. ‘No, they were at the bottom, all over his feet, and the white block. Right where my head was.’
And he could see the young gardener kneeling down, trying to save the dying plants, and coming face to face with a colony of scampering, frenzied ants.
‘Was there anything else there?’
‘Like what?’
‘Think, Colleen, just think.’ He was dying to tell her, to quickly lead her to it, but he knew he couldn’t. Instead he waited.
‘Wasps,’ she said finally. And Gamache exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. ‘Which was funny because there wasn’t a nest. Just wasps. That kid, Bean, said it was a bee sting, but I’m sure it was a wasp.’
‘Actually, it was a bee,’ said Gamache. ‘A honey bee.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. Why would a honey bee be there? Their hive’s all the way across the property. Besides, all the flowers around there were sick. A bee wouldn’t be attracted to them.’
‘One last question. Agent Lacoste says you kept saying it wasn’t your fault.’ He quickly held up a steady hand to reassure her. ‘We know it wasn’t. But I need to know why you said it.’
‘Elliot and Mrs Martin were talking on the other side of the statue. Laughing and kinda flirting. I was so angry. It was horrible to have to see them every day. I was working there and they obviously hadn’t seen me, or didn’t notice. Anyway, I stood up and put my hand on the statue. It moved.’
She lowered her eyes and waited for the inevitable laughter. He’d never believe her. Who would? What she’d said was laughable, which was why she hadn’t said anything about it before. How could a statue move? Yet it had. She could feel it grinding forward even now. She waited for him to laugh, to dismiss what she’d just said as ridiculous. She raised her eyes and saw him nodding.
‘Thank you,’ he said softly, though she wasn’t convinced he was talking to her. ‘It’s too late to join the others on the search. Perhaps you could help me.’
She smiled, relieved.
While Gamache took a couple of calls Madame Dubois put through he asked Colleen to call the Correctional Centre in Nanaimo, BC. ‘Tell them Chief Inspector Gamache needs to speak to David Martin, urgently.’
Gamache spoke to the Musee Rodin in Paris, the Royal Academy in London and the Cote des Neiges cemetery in Montreal. He’d just hung up when Colleen handed him her phone.
‘Mr Martin’s on the line.’
‘David Martin?’ Gamache asked.
‘It is. Is this Chief Inspector Gamache?’
‘Oui, c’est moi-meme.‘ He continued in rapid French, and received answers in equally rapid French. Very quickly Gamache found out about Martin’s early life and career, his early bankruptcies, his investors.
‘I need the names of all your early investors.’
‘That’s easy. There weren’t that many.’
Gamache scribbled the names as Martin dictated them.
‘And they lost everything they’d invested with you?’
‘We all did, Chief Inspector. No need to shed huge cow tears for them. Make no mistake, they were out for the main chance as well. It wasn’t charity. If the companies had hit big they’d have made a fortune. It’s business. I went bankrupt, and some of them did too. But I picked myself up.’
‘You were young and without responsibilities. Some of them were older with families. They didn’t have the time or energy to start again.’
‘Then they shouldn’t have invested.’
Gamache rang off and looked up. Irene Finney and Madame Dubois were standing in the room, side by side, with the same expression on their faces now. Behind them Colleen, like a ‘before’ version of these elderly women, stood fresh and plump but with the same look on her face.
Fear.
‘What is it?’ He stood.
‘Bean,’ said Mrs Finney. ‘We can’t find Bean.’
Gamache paled.
‘When was the last time you saw Bean?’
‘Lunch,’ said Mrs Finney, and they all checked their watches. Three hours. ‘Where’s my grandchild?’
She looked at Gamache as though he was responsible. And he knew he was. He’d been slow, allowed himself to be misdirected by his own prejudices. He’d accused Beauvoir of being blinded by emotion, but he had been too.
‘You sit here, safe and warm with the old women and children,’ hissed Mrs Finney. ‘Hiding here while others do the difficult work.’
She was shaking with rage, as though the fault line had finally spread too wide and she’d tumbled in herself.
‘Why?’ Gamache whispered to himself. ‘Why Bean?’
‘Do something, man,’ Mrs Finney shouted.
‘I need to think,’ he said.
He placed his hands behind his back and started to walk with a measured pace, around the library. In disbelief they watched. Then finally he stopped and turned, reaching into his pocket.
‘Here, take my Volvo and park it across the drive. Are there other ways in and out of the property?’ He tossed his keys to Colleen and walked rapidly to the door, Mesdames Dubois and Finney following and Colleen dashing into the rain.
‘There’s a service road,’ said Madame Dubois. ‘Little more than a track, at the back. We use it for heavier equipment.’
‘But it puts out onto the main road?’ asked Gamache. Madame Dubois nodded. ‘Where is it?’
She pointed and he dashed into the rain and climbed into the huge RCMP pickup, finding the keys in the ignition, as he expected. Soon he was clear of the lodge, heading down the service road. He had to find a narrowing of the woods where he could leave the truck and seal off the property.
The murderer was still with them, he knew. As was Bean. He needed to keep them there.
He parked the truck across the track and was just jumping out when another vehicle rounded the corner in his wake and skidded to a stop. Gamache couldn’t see the driver’s face. The bright orange hood put it in shadow. It looked as though a spectre was driving the car. But Gamache knew it was no spirit, but flesh and blood behind the wheel.
Spinning tyres spewed mud and dead leaves as the car strained to back up. But it was sunk into the mud. Gamache raced forward just as the door opened and the murderer leapt out and began running, the orange raincoat flapping madly.
Gamache skidded to a halt and thrust his head into the car. ‘Bean?’ he shouted. But the car was empty. His heart, thudding, stopped for a moment. He turned and raced after the orange figure, just disappearing into the lodge.
Within a moment Gamache also plunged through the door, pausing only long enough to tell the women to lock themselves in the inner office and to get on the walkie-talkie to tell the others to return.
‘What about Elliot?’ Colleen shouted after him.
‘He’s not in the woods,’ said Gamache, not looking back. He was looking down, following the line of drips, like transparent blood.
Up the polished old stairs they went, along the hall, and puddled in front of one of the bookcases.
The door to the attic.
He yanked it open and took the stairs two at a time. In the dim light he followed the drops to an opening. He knew what he’d find.
‘Bean?’ he whispered. ‘Are you here?’ He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.
Stuffed cougars, hunted almost to extinction, stared glassy eyed at him. Little hunted hares, moose and delicate deer and otters. All dead, for sport. Staring.