And that might be true, but he thought it was more than that.
Irene Morrow stood at the Manoir Bellechasse sink, her young, pink hands ladling lukewarm water over Julia. Tiny Julia, so much more petite than Thomas, who was already bathed and in a huge white towel in Charles’s arms. Now it was his baby sister’s turn. Their room at the Manoir hadn’t changed since she’d been going there as a girl herself. The same taps, the same black rubber stopper, the same buoyant Ivory soap.
Now her hands supported her baby in the sink, protecting her from the hard taps, holding her secure so she didn’t slip. Making certain even the mild soap didn’t get into the trusting eyes.
It would be perfect, if it hadn’t been for the pain. Neuralgia they’d later diagnose, a women’s problem her doctors had told Charles at the time. He’d believed them. So had she. After Thomas. But the pain had grown after Julia until she could barely stand to be touched, though she’d never admit that to Charles. Her Victorian parents had made clear two things: the husband must be obeyed, and she must never show weakness, especially to that husband.
And so she’d bathed her beautiful baby, and cried. And Charles had mistaken those tears as a sign of joy. And she’d let him.
And now Julia was gone, and Charles was gone and even the ruse of joy was gone, not even pretended to any more.
And all that was left was pain and a sink and old taps and the scent of Ivory soap.
‘Bonjour, is this the clogging queen?’
‘Oui, c’est la reine du clogging,’ sang the cheery voice down the phone line. She sounded so far away and yet she was just over the line of mountains on the other side of the lake. In the next valley.
‘Is that the stable boy?’ Reine-Marie asked.
‘Oui, mademoiselle.‘ Gamache could feel the laughter start. ‘I understand your handsome husband has been called away on very important state business.’
‘Actually, he’s in detox. Again. The coast is clear.’
She was much better at this than he. Gamache always started laughing first and he did now.
‘I miss you.’ He didn’t bother whispering, not caring who heard. ‘Will you come for dinner tonight? I can pick you up in an hour.’
Arrangements were made, but before he left he met with the team. It was teatime and they sat balancing fine bone china cups and saucers and tiny plates with delicate doilies. On the table in front of them were notes on murder and crustless cucumber sandwiches. Lists of suspects and eclairs. Bits of evidence and petits fours.
‘May I be mother?’ Gamache asked.
Beauvoir had actually heard odder things from the Chief Inspector so he just nodded. Isabelle Lacoste smiled and said, ‘S’il vous plait.‘
He poured and they took the food, Beauvoir counting to make sure he got his fair share.
As they ate they talked.
‘OK,’ said Isabelle Lacoste. ‘I have the background information. First Sandra Morrow, nee Kent. Affluent background. Father a banker, mother involved in volunteer activities. Born and raised in Montreal. Both parents dead. Inherited a modest amount by the time it was split among all the heirs and taxes were paid. She’s a management consultant in the firm of Bodmin Davies, in Toronto. A junior vice president.’
Gamache raised his eyebrows.
‘Not as impressive as you might think, sir. Almost everyone is called a junior vice president, except the senior VPs. She seems to have hit a glass ceiling a while ago.
‘Her husband Thomas Morrow. Went to the Mantle private school in Montreal then McGill University. Barely scraped by with a general arts degree, though he made a few of the sports teams. Took a job at the Toronto investment firm Drum and Mitchell and he’s still there.’
‘He’s the success story,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Actually, not,’ said Lacoste. ‘But you’d think so to hear him tell it.’
‘To hear the whole family tell it,’ said Beauvoir. ‘They all point to Thomas as the success. Is he hiding something?’
‘Doesn’t actually seem all that big a secret. His office is a cubicle, he does a few million dollars’ worth of business, but I understand in the investment world that’s considered next to nothing.’
‘He doesn’t make that?’
‘Not even close. No, that’s his clients’ money. According to his latest tax return he made seventy-six thousand dollars last year.’
‘And he lives in Toronto?’ Beauvoir asked. Toronto was a ridiculously expensive city. Lacoste nodded.
‘Is he in debt?’
‘Not that we could find. Sandra Morrow makes more than him, about a hundred and twenty last year, so between them they make almost two hundred thousand dollars. And as you discovered, they inherited over a million dollars from his father. That was a few years ago and I bet there’s not much left. I’ll keep digging.
‘Peter and Clara Morrow we know about. They own their own cottage in Three Pines. He’s a member of the Royal Academy of Arts in Canada. Very prestigious, but you can’t eat the honour. They lived hand to mouth until Clara inherited money from their neighbour a few years ago. Now they’re comfortable, though far from wealthy. They live modestly. He hasn’t had a solo show in a few years, but he always sells out when he does. His works go for about ten thousand dollars each.’
‘And hers?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘That’s a little harder to say. Until recently she was selling her works for Canadian Tire money.’
Gamache smiled, seeing the wads of the store’s credit bills they gave out with every purchase, like Monopoly money. He had a pile in his glove compartment. Perhaps he should buy an original Clara Morrow while he still could.
‘But then her art started attracting more attention,’ Lacoste continued. ‘As you know, she has a huge solo show coming up.’
‘That brings us to Mariana Morrow,’ said Beauvoir, taking a delicate sip of tea. He imagined Chef Veronique scooping the loose dried leaves into the pretty floral pot, then grasping the large iron kettle and pouring the steaming water in. For him. She’d know it was coming to him, and probably added an extra scoop. And trimmed the crusts from the cucumber sandwiches.
‘Right, Mariana Morrow,’ said Lacoste, turning the page of her notebook. ‘Lives in Toronto too. In an area called Rosedale. I gather it’s like Westmount. Very posh.’
‘Divorced?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘Never married. This is the interesting part. She’s selfmade. Has her own company. She’s an architect. Got a huge break right out of school. For her thesis she designed a small, energy efficient low cost home. Not one of those ugly concrete blocks, but something pretty cool. A place low income people needn’t be ashamed to live in. She made a fortune from it.’
Beauvoir snorted. Trust a Morrow to make money from the poor.
‘She goes all over the world,’ continued Lacoste. ‘Speaks French, Italian, Spanish and Chinese. She makes massive amounts of money. Her last tax form shows her income last year at well over two million dollars. And that’s just what she declares.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Beauvoir, almost choking on an eclair. ‘You’re saying that woman all wrapped in scarves who drifts around and is late for everything is a self-made millionaire?’
‘More successful than even her father,’ Lacoste nodded. She was secretly pleased. It gave her pleasure to think this most marginalized of Morrows was actually the most successful.
‘Do we know who the kid’s father is?’ Beauvoir asked.
Lacoste shook her head. ‘Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it was a virgin birth.’
She liked screwing with Beauvoir’s head. ‘I think I can guarantee you that’s not true,’ said Beauvoir, but a look at Gamache removed his smirk. ‘Now, you’re not telling me you believe it, Chief? I’m not going to be the one putting that in the official report. Suspects, Thomas, Peter, Mariana, oh yes and the Second Coming.’
‘You believe in the first, don’t you? Why not the second?’ asked Agent Lacoste.
‘Come on,’ he sputtered. ‘Do you really want me to believe the Second Coming is a child named Bean?’
‘A bean is a seed,’ said Gamache. ‘It’s an old allegory for faith. I have a feeling Bean is a very special child. Nothing is impossible with Bean.’
‘Except to tell if it’s a boy or a girl,’ said Beauvoir, miffed.
‘Does it matter?’ asked Gamache.
‘It matters in that all secrets in a murder investigation matter.’
Gamache nodded slowly. ‘That’s true. Often after a day or so it’s obvious who’s genuine and who isn’t. In this case it’s getting muddier and muddier. Thomas told us about a plant in the desert. If it showed itself for what it really was predators would eat it. So it learned to disguise itself, to hide its true nature. The Morrows are the same. Somehow, somewhere along the line they learned to hide who they really are, what they really think and feel. Nothing is as it seems with them.’
‘Except Peter and Clara,’ said Agent Lacoste. ‘I presume they’re not suspects.’
Gamache looked at her thoughtfully.
‘Do you remember that first case in Three Pines? The murder of Miss Jane Neal?’
They nodded. It was where they first met the Morrows.
‘After we’d made an arrest I was still uncomfortable.’
‘You think we arrested the wrong person?’ asked Beauvoir, aghast.
‘No, we got the murderer, there’s no doubt. But I also knew there was someone else in Three Pines I felt was capable of murder. Someone who needed watching.’
‘Clara,’ said Lacoste. Emotional, temperamental, passionate. So much can go wrong with a personality like that.
‘No, Peter. Closed off, complex, so placid and relaxed on the surface but God only knows what’s happening underneath.’
‘Well, I at least have some good news,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I know who wrote these.’ He held up the crumpled notes from Julia’s grate. ‘Elliot.’
‘The waiter?’ asked Lacoste, amazed.
Beauvoir nodded and showed them the samples of Elliot’s writing next to the notes. Gamache put on his half-moon reading glasses and bent over. Then he sat up.
‘Well done.’
‘Should I speak to him?’
Gamache thought about it for a moment then shook his head. ‘No, I’d like to put a few more things together first, but this is interesting.’
‘There’s more,’ said Beauvoir. ‘He’s not only from Vancouver, but he lived in the same neighbourhood as Julia and David Martin. His parents might have known them.’
‘Find out,’ said Gamache, rising and heading for the door to pick up his wife.
Elliot Byrne seemed to have breached the boundary set out by Madame Dubois. Had young Elliot conquered lonely and defenceless Julia Martin? What had he wanted? An older lover? Attention? Perhaps he’d wanted to finally and absolutely infuriate his boss, the maitre d’.
Or was it simpler than that, as it often was? Did he want money? Was he tired of waiting tables for a pittance? And when he got money from Julia, did he kill her?
At the door to the library Gamache paused and looked back at the sheet of foolscap hanging up and the large red letters at the top.
WHO
BENEFITS?
Who didn’t benefit from Julia’s death, he was beginning to wonder.
TWENTY-SIX
Reine-Marie laid down her fork and leaned back in the comfortable chair. Pierre whisked away the plate, which had the smallest dusting of strawberry shortcake crumbs left, and asked if there was anything else.
‘Perhaps a cup of tea,’ she said and when he’d left she reached out and squeezed her husband’s hand. It was a rare treat to see him in the middle of one of his cases. When she’d arrived she’d said hello to Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste, both of whom were eating and working in the library. Then they’d wandered into the dining room, made up with crisp white linen and fresh flowers and gleaming silver and crystal.
A waiter placed an espresso in front of Gamache and a teapot in front of Reine-Marie.
‘Did you know the Manoir makes its own honey?’ Armand asked, noticing the amber liquid in a pot beside her teacup.
‘Really? How extraordinary.’
Reine-Marie didn’t normally take honey but decided to try some with her Thunderbolt Darjeeling, dipping her little finger into the honey before stirring it in.
‘C’est beau. It has a familiar taste. Here, try.’
He dipped as well.
Her eyes narrowed as she tried to figure it out. He knew, of course, what she was tasting but wanted to see if she’d get it.
‘Give up?’ he asked. When she nodded he told her.
‘Honeysuckle?’ She smiled. ‘How wonderful. Will you show me the glade sometime?’
‘With pleasure. They even polish the furniture with the beeswax.’
As they talked Gamache noticed the Morrows were at their table, though Peter and Clara weren’t in their regular seats. They were relegated to the far end, with Bean.
‘Hello,’ said Reine-Marie, as they left the dining room for a stroll, ‘how are you both?’
But she could see. Peter was wan and strained, his clothes dishevelled and his hair awry. Clara was immaculate, buttoned down and impeccable. Reine-Marie didn’t know which was more disconcerting.
‘You know.’ Clara shrugged. ‘How’s Three Pines?’ She sounded wistful, as though asking after a mythical kingdom. ‘All ready for Canada Day?’
‘Yes, it’s tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ Peter looked up. They’d lost all sense of time.
‘I’m going over tomorrow,’ said Gamache. ‘Would you like to come? You’ll be in my custody.’
He thought Peter would burst into tears, he looked so relieved and grateful.
‘That’s right, it’s your anniversary,’ said Clara. ‘And I hear there’s a major new talent being unveiled at the clogging competition.’
Gamache turned to his wife. ‘So Gabri wasn’t kidding?’
‘Sadly not.’
They made the arrangements and the Gamaches turned to go into the garden.
‘Wait, Armand.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Do you think we could pop in and compliment the chef? I’m dying to meet her. Would she mind?’
Gamache thought about it. ‘Perhaps we should ask Pierre. I don’t think it’d be a problem, but you never know. Wouldn’t want to have to dodge cleavers.’
‘Sounds like our clog-dancing training. Ruth’s the coach,’ she explained.
Gamache tried to catch Pierre’s eye but the maitre d’ was busy explaining, or apologizing, to the Morrows.