The Murder Stone (11 page)

‘Couple of days yet,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘We’re celebrating our wedding anniversary.’

‘That’s right,’ said Clara, embarrassed that she’d forgotten. ‘Congratulations. When?’

‘It’ll be thirty-five years on July first. Canada Day.’

‘Easy to remember,’ said Peter, smiling appreciatively at Gamache.

‘Was it love at first sight?’ Clara sat beside Reine-Marie.

‘For me, yes.’

‘But not for you?’ Peter asked Gamache.

‘Oh yes. She means her family.’

‘No, you had family problems too? In-laws?’ asked Clara, eager to hear someone else’s misery.

‘Not exactly. They were wonderful,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘He was the problem.’

She nodded to her husband, leaning against the fireplace mantel, trying to pretend he was invisible.

‘You? What happened?’ asked Clara.

‘Now you must remember I was young,’ he warned her. ‘And in love. And not very worldly-wise.’

‘This is going to be good,’ said Peter to Clara.

‘Reine-Marie invited me round after mass on a Sunday for lunch, to meet her family. There were seventy-three siblings.’

‘Nine,’ his wife corrected him.

‘I wanted to impress them, of course, so I spent all week trying to figure out what to take her mother. Nothing too big. Didn’t want to show off. Nothing too small. Didn’t want to appear cheap. I lost sleep. Couldn’t eat. It became the most important thing in my life.’

‘What did you take?’ Clara asked.

‘A bath mat.’

‘You’re kidding,’ sputtered Peter. Gamache shook his head, unable to speak. As the others broke into howls of laughter he finally found his voice.

‘Well,’ he wiped away his tears, ‘it never goes bad.’

‘Or out of style, but doesn’t it lack a certain je ne sais quoi?’

‘His gift giving has improved,’ admitted Reine-Marie.

‘Soap dishes?’ asked Clara.

‘Toilet plunger?’ asked Peter.

‘Shhh,’ whispered Gamache. ‘That’s a surprise for our golden anniversary.’

‘And surprise it will be,’ said Clara, laughing. ‘But don’t get us started on toilets.’

‘Oh, please. Don’t,’ said Peter, trying to recover himself.

‘Oh, no,’ said Gamache, clasping Peter by the arm. ‘Your turn, old son.’

‘OK.’ Peter relented and took a swig of Drambuie. ‘When I first went away to school and was unpacking all my little socks and shoes and slacks, I found a note pinned to my blazer in my father’s handwriting. It said, Never use the first stall in a public washroom.‘

Peter, grown up and greying, stood in the room, but what Gamache saw was a serious little boy with spots on his hands holding the note. And memorizing it, as one might memorize a passage from the Bible. Or a poem.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead?

What kind of man was Charles Morrow that he’d write that to his son? Gamache was longing to ask Peter about the statue, but hadn’t yet had the chance.

‘Good advice,’ said Reine-Marie and they all looked at her. ‘If you’re in a hurry, where do you go? To the first stall.’

She didn’t need to say more.

Peter, who’d never decoded what his father had meant but knew in his heart it must be vital, wondered.

Was it that mundane? Was it really just practical advice after all? As a child, even as a teen, and even, dare he admit it, as an adult, he’d fantasized that it was a secret code. Given only to him. Entrusted to him. By his father. A code that would lead to treasure.

Never use the first stall in a public washroom.

And he hadn’t.

Gamache was just about to ask Peter’s opinion of the statue when Thomas strolled in.

‘You were talking about public washrooms?’ he said.

‘Toilets?’ asked Mariana, breezing into the room with Sandra. ‘Bean’ll be sorry to be in bed. It’s the sort of conversation a ten year old is good at.’

‘Hello.’ Julia walked through the screen doors from the terrasse carrying a demi-tasse of espresso. ‘There’s lightning and thunder out there. I think a storm’s coming.’

‘No,’ said Thomas sarcastically. ‘Peter’s been talking about toilets, Julia.’

‘Not really,’ said Peter quickly.

Julia stared at him.

‘Men’s or women’s?’ asked Mariana, with exaggerated interest.

‘Probably men’s,’ said Thomas.

‘That’s it, that’s enough.’ Julia threw her coffee cup to the carpet, where it shattered. The action was so unexpected, so violent, everyone in the room jumped.

‘Stop it,’ she rasped. ‘I’ve had enough.’

‘Calm down,’ Thomas said.

‘Like you? You think I don’t know?’ She started to smile, or at least to show her teeth. ‘Thomas the success, the talented one,’ she hissed at him.

‘And you.’ She turned to Mariana. ‘Magilla, the gorilla. The screw-up with the screwed-up child. Bean. Bean? What kind of a name is that? What kind of kid is that? You think you’re so smart? Well I know. I know it all.

‘And you. You’re the worst.’ She closed in on Peter. ‘Gimme, gimme, gimme. You’d destroy anything and everything to get what you want, wouldn’t you?’

‘Julia.’ Peter could barely breathe.

‘You haven’t changed. Cruel and greedy. Empty. A coward and a hypocrite. You all came here to suck up to Mother. You hated Father. And he knew it. But I know something none of you does.’ Now she was up against Peter, tilting her face up to his. He didn’t move, kept his eyes fixed on the painting above the fireplace. The Krieghoff. Lines and colour he understood. His sister’s hysterics were unfathomable, terrifying.

‘I know Daddy’s secret,’ Julia was hissing. ‘I had to spend my life as far from you as I could get to figure it out, but I finally did. And now I’m back. And I know.’

She grinned malevolently and stared around the room. Her eyes finally came to rest on the Gamaches. For a moment she seemed confused, surprised to see them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered, the spell broken, the rage gone. She looked down at the mess she’d made. ‘I’m sorry.’ She bent to pick it up.

‘No, don’t,’ Reine-Marie said, stepping forward.

Julia stood up, holding a piece of the cup, a slight trickle of blood on her finger. ‘I’m sorry.’

Her eyes filled with tears and her chin dimpled. All her rage dissolved. Turning, she ran out of the screen door leaving behind her family, who might have had their heads mounted on the old log walls. They’d been hunted, slaughtered, and put on display.

‘She’s cut her finger,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I’ll take her a bandage.’

‘She’s not hurt badly,’ said Sandra. ‘She’ll be fine. Leave her.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Gamache, grabbing the flashlight on the table by the door. He and Reine-Marie followed the bright spot of the flashlight as it played on the rough stones of the terrasse then the grass. They followed the light and the sobs and found Julia sitting on the lawn, near the edge of the forest. Near the statue.

‘It’s all right,’ said Reine-Marie, kneeling down and putting an arm round her.

‘It’s. Not. All. Right.’

‘Let me see your hand.’

All fight gone, Julia raised her hand. Reine-Marie examined it. ‘The other one, please.’ She found the small cut on Julia’s finger and dabbed at the blood with a Kleenex. ‘It’s stopped bleeding. You’ll be fine.’

Julia laughed, sputtering slime from her nose and mouth. ‘You think?’

‘We all get angry, we all shout and say things we don’t mean,’ said Reine-Marie.

Gamache handed Julia his handkerchief and she blew into it.

‘I meant them.’

‘Then things that didn’t need to be said.’

‘They did.’ She was stuffing her innards back, sewing herself up, putting her skin, her make-up, her party frock back on.

‘They’ll never forgive me, you know.’ She stood up, smoothed her dress, and wiped the tears and mucus from her face. ‘Morrows have long memories for things like this. It was a mistake to come back. Foolish, really.’ She gave a small snort of laughter. ‘I think I might leave before breakfast tomorrow.’

‘Don’t,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Talk to them. If you leave without seeing them it’ll just get worse.’

‘And you think talking would help? You don’t know the Morrows. I’ve said way too much already.’

Gamache had been silent, watching and listening. And holding the torch. In the light he could just see her face, unnaturally pale, with harsh lines and shadows.

Not everything needed to be brought into the light, he knew. Not every truth needed to be told. And he knew she was right. He’d seen their faces as she’d fled. She’d said too much. He didn’t understand it, couldn’t see it, but he knew something foul had just come to light, come to life.

NINE

Gamache woke a few hours later to a rending, ripping sound as though something huge was tearing towards them. Then a sudden crash.

Thunder. Not quite on top of them, but close.

Drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled and soaking around his feet, he got up and quietly splashed cold water across his neck and on his face, tasting salt and feeling the stubble under his fingers and momentary relief from the sullen heat.

‘Can’t sleep either?’

‘Just woke up,’ he said, returning to bed. He turned his sodden pillow over and laid his head on the cool pillowcase. But within moments it too was hot, and damp with perspiration. Any moment now, he felt, the air must surely turn to liquid.

‘Oh,’ said Reine-Marie.

‘What?’

‘The clock just went out.’ She stretched out and he heard a click, though nothing happened. ‘The light’s gone as well. Storm’s knocked out the electricity.’

Gamache tried to fall back to sleep, but an image kept intruding. Of Charles Morrow, alone in the garden, illuminated by the flashes of lightning. Then in darkness again.

He’d expected the statue to be imperious, commanding. But as the canvas hood had slipped from the sculpture there’d been the most astonishing sight.

The statue was a deep undulating grey, and instead of holding his head high and proud he was bowed slightly. He looked off balance, as though about to step forward. But this Charles Morrow was not full of purpose and plans. This stooped, grey man hesitated on his pedestal.

There’d been silence when the canvas had collapsed to the ground and the Morrows looked once again upon their father.

Mrs Finney had walked up to the statue. One by one the children followed, circling it like nuts around a bolt, then Mrs Finney turned to the others.

‘I think it’s time for a drink.’

And that was that.

Once they’d gone inside Gamache and Reine-Marie had approached and looked up into that handsome face. Straight noble nose. Forehead high. Lips full and slightly pursed. Not in judgement, nor, Gamache thought, in sour reflection, but with something to say. But his eyes were the most striking. They looked ahead and what they saw had turned this man to stone.

What did Charles Morrow see? And why would the sculptor put that there? And how had the Morrows really felt? Gamache suspected that last question was the most difficult of all.

Light flashed for an instant into their bedroom. Instinctively he started counting. One one thousand, two one thousand.

Another rumble and another crash.

‘Angels bowling,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Mother told me.’

‘Better than my answer. I actually thought it might be a storm.’

‘Ignorant man. What kind of storm? Deciduous or coniferous?’

‘Aren’t those trees?’

‘I believe you’re thinking of the cumulous tree.’

‘I have an idea,’ he said, getting off the damp bed.

Minutes later, in their light summer dressing gowns, they’d snuck downstairs, through the living room and onto the screen porch. Sitting in the wicker rocking chairs they watched as the storm moved towards them down the lake. Reine-Marie picked plump purple cherries from a fruit bowl and Gamache ate a juicy peach. They were ready for whatever was coming. Or so they thought.

The silence was suddenly shattered as the wind picked up, keening through the trees and sending the leaves into wild, simpering applause for what was coming. Gamache could hear the lake too. Waves crashed against the dock and the shore, whitecaps breaking as the storm marched towards them. Gamache and Reine-Marie watched as the lightning bolted and approached, spearing its way down the bay.

It was a big one. The wind hit the porch, bowing the screens inward as though grabbing for them.

The lake and mountains flashed visible for an instant. Beside him Gamache could feel Reine-Marie tense as another huge fork of lightening shot into the forest across the lake.

‘One one thousand, two—’

A huge explosion of thunder drowned their counting. The storm was less than two miles off, and heading straight for them. Gamache wondered if the Manoir had a lightning rod. It must, he thought, otherwise it would have been struck and burned years ago. Another lightning bolt lanced into the forest across the bay and they heard a huge rending crack, as an old-growth tree was destroyed.

‘Perhaps we should go inside,’ said Reine-Marie, but just as they rose a massive gust of wind hit the screen porch and with it a wash of rain. They stumbled inside, drenched and a little shaken.

‘God, you scared me,’ a small, quivering voice said.

‘Madame Dubois, desolee,’ said Reine-Marie. Any more conversation was drowned out by another blast of lightning and thunder. But in that flash the Gamaches saw figures running across the Great Room, like spectres, as though the storm had pushed the Manoir into the netherworld.

Then small spots of light began appearing in the room. Torrential rain pounded against the windows and doors could be heard banging furiously in the wind.

The spots of light began converging on them and they saw in an instant that Pierre, Elliot, Colleen the gardener and a few others had found flashlights. Within moments they’d swarmed away, closing storm shutters and locking doors and windows. There was no space for counting now between lightning and thunder. The storm was caught between the mountains, unable to escape. It hurled itself against the Manoir, over and over. Gamache and Reine-Marie helped and before long they were sealed into the log lodge.

‘Do you have a lightning rod?’ Gamache asked Madame Dubois.

‘We do,’ she said, but in the wavering light she looked uncertain.