He blinked, not understanding this world that had suddenly appeared.
‘The man was David Martin, wasn’t it?’ said Veronique. ‘Julia’s husband.’
Patenaude nodded. ‘My father went bankrupt, of course. Lost everything. My mother didn’t care. I didn’t care. We loved him. But he never recovered. I don’t think it was the money, I think it was the shame and the betrayal. We never expected Martin to pay Dad back. It was an investment, and a bad one. It happens. Dad knew the risks. And Martin didn’t steal the money. But he never said he was sorry. And when he made his fortune, hundreds of millions of dollars, he never once contacted Dad, never offered to pay him back. Or invest in his company. I watched Martin get rich and my father work and work trying to rebuild.’
He stopped talking. There seemed nothing more that could be said. He couldn’t begin to explain how it felt to watch this man he adored sink, and finally go under. And watch the man who’d done this rise up.
Something new had started growing in the boy. Bitterness. And over the years it ate a hole where his heart should have been. And finally it ate all his insides so that there was only darkness in there. And a howl, an old echo going round and round. And growing with each repetition.
‘I was happy here, you know.’ He turned to Madame Dubois, who reached her old hand across the table and touched his arm.
‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘And I was happy to have you. It seemed a kind of miracle.’ She turned to Veronique. ‘A double blessing. And you were so good with the young staff. They adored you.’
‘When I was with them I felt my father inside me. I could almost hear him whispering to me, telling me to be patient with them. That they needed a steady but gentle hand. Did you find Elliot?’
He asked Beauvoir beside him, who nodded.
‘Just got the call. He was at the bus station in North Hatley.’
‘Didn’t get far,’ said Patenaude, and he smiled despite himself. ‘He never could take direction.’
‘You told him to run, didn’t you? You tried to frame him, monsieur,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Tried to make us believe he’d killed Julia Martin. You found the notes he’d written her and you kept them, deliberately tossing them into the grate, knowing we’d find them there.’
‘He was homesick. I know the signs,’ said Patenaude. ‘I’ve seen it often enough. And the longer he stayed the more angry and frustrated he got. But when he found out Julia Martin was from Vancouver he clung to her. At first it was inconvenient for me. I was afraid he’d figure out what I was doing. Then I saw how I could use it.’
‘You’d have let him be arrested for your crime?’ Veronique asked. She wasn’t, Beauvoir noticed, accusing, not judging. Just asking.
‘No,’ he said, tired. He rubbed his face and sighed, coming to the end of his energy. ‘I just wanted to confuse things, that’s all.’
Beauvoir didn’t believe him, but he thought Veronique did. Or maybe she didn’t, and loved him anyway.
‘Is that why you took the child?’ asked Madame Dubois. They were in dangerous territory now. Killing Julia Martin was one thing. Who, honestly, didn’t want to kill a Morrow every now and then? Even framing Elliot she could understand, perhaps. But dangling that child from the roof?
‘Bean was insurance, that’s all,’ said Patenaude. ‘To add to the confusion, and in case Elliot came back. I didn’t want to hurt Bean. I just wanted to get away. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t tried to stop me,’ he said to Gamache.
And everyone in the comfortable, warm room glimpsed Pierre Patenaude’s small world, where wretched actions could be justified, and others blamed.
‘Why did you kill Julia Martin?’ Gamache asked again. He was bone tired but he had a distance to go yet. ‘She wasn’t responsible for what her husband did. They weren’t even married at the time.’
‘No.’ Patenaude looked at Gamache. They both looked very different from less than an hour ago, on the roof. The fear was gone from Gamache’s deep brown eyes, and the rage from Patenaude’s. Now they were two tired men, trying to understand. And be understood. ‘When I first realized who she was I felt kind of numb, but as the days passed I just got angrier and angrier. Her perfect nails, her styled hair, her teeth.’
Teeth? thought Beauvoir. He’d heard many motives for murder, but never teeth.
‘Everything so perfect,’ the maitre d’ continued. As he spoke his voice sharpened and sculpted the gentle man into something else. ‘Her clothes, her jewellery, her manners. Friendly but slightly condescending. Money. She shouted money. Money my father should have had. My mother.’
‘You?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘Yes, even me. I got more and more angry. I couldn’t get at Martin, but I could get her.’
‘And so you killed her,’ said Gamache.
Patenaude nodded.
‘Didn’t you know who he was?’ Beauvoir asked, pointing at the Chief Inspector. ‘You killed someone right in front of the head of homicide for Quebec?’
‘It couldn’t wait,’ said Patenaude, and they all knew the truth of it. It had waited too long. ‘Besides, I knew you’d come eventually. If you were already here it didn’t much matter.’
He looked at the Chief Inspector. ‘You know, all David Martin had to do was say he was sorry. That’s all. My father would have forgiven him.’
Gamache got up. It was time to face the family. To explain all this. At the door to the dining room he turned and watched as Pierre Patenaude was led through the back door and into a waiting Surete vehicle. Chef Veronique and Madame Dubois stared out of the screen door as it clacked shut behind him.
‘Do you think he would have really thrown Bean off the roof?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘I believed it then. Now, I don’t know. Perhaps not.’
But Gamache knew it was wishful thinking. He was only glad he was still capable of it. Beauvoir stared at the large, still man in front of him. Should he tell him? He took a breath, and walked into the unknown.
‘I had the strangest feeling when I saw you on the roof,’ he said. ‘You looked like a Burgher of Calais. You were frightened.’
‘Very.’
‘So was I.’
‘And yet you offered to come with me.’ Gamache cocked his head slightly to one side. ‘I remember. And I hope you remember, always.’
‘But the Burghers died, and you didn’t.’ Beauvoir laughed, trying to break the unbearable moment.
‘Oh, no. The Burghers didn’t die,’ said Gamache. ‘Their lives were spared.’
He turned back to the door into the dining room, and said something Beauvoir didn’t quite catch. It might have been merci. Or mercy. Then he was gone.
Beauvoir put out his hand to shove the swinging door and follow the chief, but hesitated. Instead he walked back to the table where the women stood still staring out of the back door and into the woods.
In the dining room he could hear raised voices. Morrow voices. Demanding answers, demanding attention. He needed to join the Chief Inspector. But he needed to do something first.
‘He could have let them die, you know.’
The two women turned slowly to look at him.
‘Patenaude, I mean,’ Beauvoir continued. ‘He could have let Chief Inspector Gamache and Bean die. But he didn’t. He saved their lives.’
And Chef Veronique turned to face him then with a look he’d longed for, but no longer needed. And inside he felt a deep calm, as though some old debt had been paid.