The Murder Stone

by Louise Penny

  Peter and Clara, Gamache and Reine-Marie ran onto the lawn and put their arms out to stop Bean, who seemed strangely intent on avoiding them, but Peter caught the fugitive.

  ‘Let me down,’ Bean wailed and struggled in his arms, as though Peter was the threat. Wild eyed, the child looked back at the Manoir.

  The lawn was filled with people, the Morrows, the Finneys and some of the staff following the now trotting gardener.

  ‘Who are you running from, Bean?’ Gamache quickly knelt down and took the child’s trembling hands. ‘Look at me, now,’ he said kindly but firmly, and Bean did. ‘Has someone hurt you?’

  He knew he had until the others joined them to get an honest answer from Bean, and they were almost there. His eyes never left the frightened child.

  Bean held out an arm. Welts were appearing on the tender skin.

  ‘What have you done to my grandchild?’

  It was too late. They’d arrived and Gamache looked up into the accusing face of Irene Finney. She was a formidable woman, Gamache knew. He admired, respected, trusted strong women. He’d been raised by one, and had married one. But he knew strength wasn’t hardness, and a formidable woman and a bully were two different things. Which was she?

  He looked at the elderly woman now, stern, unbending, demanding an answer.

  ‘Get away from Bean,’ she commanded, but Gamache stayed kneeling, ignoring her.

  ‘What happened?’ he quietly asked the child.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he heard behind him and turned to see the young gardener standing there.

  ‘That normally means it was,’ said Mrs Finney.

  ‘Irene, let the girl speak. What’s your name?’ Bert Finney spoke softly.

  ‘Colleen,’ said the gardener, edging away from the wild-looking old man. ‘It was wasps.’

  ‘It was bees,’ snuffled Bean. ‘I was riding round Olympus when they got me.’

  ‘Olympus?’ snapped Mrs Finney.

  ‘The marble block,’ said Colleen. ‘And it was wasps, not bees. The kid doesn’t know the difference.’

  Gamache knelt down and held out his large hand. Bean hesitated, and while the family argued over the difference between bees and wasps he examined the three welts. They were red and warm to the touch. Peering closer he could see the stingers stuck under the skin, with small poison sacs attached.

  ‘Can you get some calamine lotion?’ he asked a member of the staff, who sprinted back up the lawn.

  Holding Bean’s arm firmly he quickly removed all the stingers and sacs, then watched for an allergic reaction, ready to scoop the child up and race for his car and the Sherbrooke Hospital. He looked over at Reine-Marie, who was obviously watching for the same thing.

  Once a parent.

  The arm remained angry but not lethal.

  Reine-Marie took the bottle of peach-coloured liquid and kissing the welts first she dabbed the lotion on then straightened up. All around them the family was now arguing over whether calamine lotion really worked.

  ‘The excitement’s over,’ declared Mrs Finney. Looking around she noticed the rowboat and walked towards the dock. ‘Now, who’ll sit where?’

  After much discussion Peter and Thomas started hauling Morrows into the verchère. Peter stood in the boat and Thomas stood on the dock and between them they sat Mrs Finney, Mariana and Julia. Bean crawled carefully into the boat without help.

  ‘My turn,’ said Sandra, putting her arm out. Thomas handed her to Peter.

  Clara stepped forward and reached for Peter, who hesitated.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Thomas, and stepped beside Clara then into the verchère. Thomas sat and the entire boat stared at Peter, standing in front of the only seat left.

  ‘Sit down before you tip us all,’ said Mrs Finney.

  Peter sat.

  Clara lowered her arms. In the reflection of the water she saw the ugliest man alive standing beside her.

  ‘Not everyone makes the boat,’ said Bert Finney as the verchère left the dock.

  SEVEN

  ‘I didn’t really want to go, you know,’ said Clara, not looking at Reine-Marie. ‘But I said I would because it seemed important to Peter. This is probably better.’

  ‘Will you join us, sir?’ Gamache walked up to Bert Finney, also looking out at the lake. Finney turned and stared at Gamache. It was a disconcerting look, not only because of his forbidding face and odd eyes but because people so rarely stared that openly for that long. Gamache held the stare and finally Finney’s lips parted and his disarray of yellow teeth showed in what might have been a smile.

  ‘No, merci. I believe I’ll stay here.’ He walked to the end of the dock. ‘Seven mad Morrows in a verchère. What could possibly go wrong?’

  Gamache took his floppy hat off and felt the full force of the sun. He couldn’t remember a hotter day. It was stifling now. There was no breeze, nothing stirred, and the sun beat down on them relentlessly, bouncing off and magnified by the lake. Perspiration had plastered his fresh shirt to his skin. He offered the hat to the old man.

  Very slowly Bert Finney turned round as though he was afraid of capsizing. Then an old hand, like twigs stripped of bark, reached out and held the gaily patterned sun hat.

  ‘It’s your sun bonnet. You need it.’

  ‘I prefer to think of it as my helmet,’ said Gamache, letting go of the hat. ‘And you need it more.’

  Finney chuckled and held the hat, his fingers stroking it slightly. ‘A sun helmet. I wonder who the enemy is?’

  ‘The sun?’

  ‘That would be it, I suppose.’ But he seemed unconvinced and nodding to Gamache he put the hat on his satellite head and turned back to the lake.

  An hour later Peter joined them in the garden, his face red from sunburn, Clara was pleased to see. She’d decided to play it cool. Not show how she felt.

  Gamache handed him a cold beer, ice slipping off the sides. Peter held it to his red face and rolled it on his chest.

  ‘Have fun?’ Clara asked. ‘Get caught up with the family?’

  ‘It wasn’t too bad,’ said Peter, sipping the drink. ‘We didn’t sink.’

  ‘You think not?’ said Clara and stomped away. Peter stared at Gamache then ran after her, but as he neared the Manoir he noticed a huge canvas blanket that seemed to hover in the air.

  The statue had arrived. His father had arrived. Peter slowed to a stop, and stared.

  ‘For God’s sake, you can’t even leave your family long enough to chase me,’ yelled Clara from the other side of the Manoir, no longer caring that she was proving all the Morrow suspicions true. She was unstable, emotional, hysterical. Mad. But so were they.

  Seven mad Morrows.

  ‘God, Clara, I’m sorry. What can I say?’ he said when he caught up with her. Clara was silent. ‘I’m really fucking up today. What can I do to make this better?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’m not your mother. You’re fifty and you want me to tell you how to make this better? You fucked it up, you figure it out.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. My family’s nuts. I probably should’ve told you sooner.’

  He smiled so boyishly it would have melted her heart had it not turned to marble. There was silence.

  ‘That’s it?’ she said. ‘That’s your apology?’

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘I wish I did.’

  He stood there, lost. As he always was when she was angry.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeated. ‘There wasn’t room in the boat.’

  ‘When will there be?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You could have left. Joined me.’

  He stared at her as though she’d told him he could have sprouted wings and flown. She could see that. For Peter it was demanding the impossible. But she also believed Peter Morrow was capable of flight.

  EIGHT

  The unveiling ceremony was short and dignified. The Morrows sat in a semicircle facing the canvas-draped statue. It was late afternoon
and the trees cast long shadows. Sandra batted a bee towards Julia who passed it on to Mariana.

  Gamache and Reine-Marie sat under the huge oak tree next to the lodge, watching from a respectful distance. The Morrows dabbed dry eyes and moist brows.

  Clementine Dubois, who’d been standing beside the statue, handed Irene Finney a rope and mimed a tugging movement.

  The Gamaches leaned forward but the Morrows leaned, almost imperceptibly, away. There was a pause. Gamache wondered whether Mrs Finney was hesitant to pull the canvas caul off the statue. To reveal and release her first husband.

  The elderly woman gave a tug. Then another. It was as though Charles Morrow was clinging on to the canvas. Unwilling to be revealed.

  Finally, with a yank, the canvas fell away.

  There was Charles Morrow.

  All through the dinner service the statue was the talk of the kitchen. Chef Véronique tried to calm the giddy staff and get them to focus on the orders, but it was difficult. Finally, in a quiet moment, as she stirred the reduction for the lamb and Pierre stood beside her arranging the dessert service, she spoke to him.

  ‘What’s it look like?’ she whispered, her voice deep and mellow.

  ‘Not what you’d expect. You haven’t seen it?’

  ‘No time. Thought I might sneak a peek later tonight. Was it very awful? The kids seem spooked.’

  She glanced at the young waiters and kitchen staff, huddled in small groups, some talking excitedly, others wide eyed and hushed as though sharing ghost stories around a campfire. And scaring each other silly, thought Pierre.

  ‘Bon, that’s enough.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Back to work.’

  But he made sure to sound reassuring, not harsh.

  ‘I swear it moved,’ came a familiar voice from one of the groups. Pierre turned and saw Elliot, surrounded by other workers. They laughed. ‘No, I’m serious.’

  ‘Elliot, that’s enough,’ he said. ‘Statues don’t move and you know it.’

  ‘Of course you’re right,’ said Elliot. But his tone was sly and condescending, as though the maître d’ had said something slightly stupid.

  ‘Pierre,’ whispered Chef Véronique behind him.

  He managed to smile. ‘You haven’t been smoking the napkins again, have you, young man?’

  The others laughed and even Elliot smiled. Soon the maître d’s squadron of waiters was out of the swinging door, crisply delivering food and sauces, bread and wine.

  ‘Well done,’ said Chef Véronique.

  ‘Goddamned Elliot. Sorry,’ said the maître d’, shooting her an apologetic look. ‘But he’s deliberately scaring the others.’

  She was surprised to see his hands tremble as he poured fresh sugar into a bone china bowl.

  ‘Do we have enough now?’ She nodded to the empty sugar sack in his hand.

  ‘Plenty. Strange that we ran out. You don’t think …’

  ‘What? Elliot? Why would he?’

  The maître d’ shrugged. ‘When something strange happens you can be sure he’s behind it.’

  Chef Véronique didn’t disagree. They’d seen a lot of kids come and go over the years. Had trained hundreds. But there was only one Elliot.

  He cares so deeply for the kids, she thought as she watched Pierre. As though they were his own. And she wondered, not for the first time, how much he missed being a father himself. He’d have been a good one. He gave these kids training and guidance. But even more than that, he gave them a stable environment and a kind home. In the middle of nowhere, they found what they needed. Good food, a warm bed and solid ground beneath their feet. Pierre had given up having his own children in exchange for a home in the wilderness and caring for other people and other people’s children. They both had. But after almost thirty years had Pierre finally been pushed too far by one of them? Chef Véronique loved nature, and found plenty of time to study it, and she knew that sometimes something unnatural crawled out of the womb, out of the woods. She thought of Elliot, and wondered whether the charming, handsome young man was all, or perhaps more than, he appeared.

  ‘What did you think of the statue?’ Reine-Marie asked as they sipped their after-dinner espressos and cognacs on the lawn, the night broken only by a firefly flickering here and there. The Morrows were still inside, eating in near silence, and the Gamaches had the rest of the world to themselves.

  Gamache thought a moment. ‘I was amazed.’

  ‘So was I,’ she said, gazing over to where it stood. But the night was dark and she couldn’t see the gaunt, weary face of Charles Morrow. A handsome man, gone to stone.

  The wind had picked up steadily since the unveiling. But instead of being refreshing, the breeze seemed to drag even more heat and humidity with it.

  Bach wafted from the open windows of the Great Room.

  Armand loosened his tie. ‘There. That’s better. Did you see that?’

  He pointed down the lake, though he didn’t have to. In a night this dark the lightning was impossible to miss.

  ‘Fork,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Pierre was right. Storm’s coming.’

  Her husband was moving his lips, whispering numbers, counting the space between light and sound. And then, in the distance, a low rumbling. It built then broke, and rumbled some more.

  ‘Long way off still,’ he said. ‘Might even miss us. Storms get caught in valleys sometimes.’

  But he didn’t think this storm would miss them. Soon all that was calm and peaceful would be disrupted.

  ‘Paradise lost,’ he murmured.

  ‘The mind is its own place, monsieur,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. This is heaven. Always will be.’

  ‘This place? Manoir Bellechasse?’

  ‘No.’ She put her arms around him. ‘This place.’

  ‘Please take this in to the Great Room.’ Pierre handed a silver tray with coffee, a Drambuie and chocolates to a waiter. ‘It’s for Madame Martin.’

  ‘Here, I’ll trade you. I’ll take that.’ At the door Elliot reached for the tray. ‘I saw her go in the garden for a smoke. You can take mine. It’s for Mrs Morrow.’

  ‘The wild-haired one?’ the waiter asked hopefully.

  ‘No, the deflated one,’ admitted Elliot. ‘Sandra Morrow.’ Seeing the other waiter’s expression he lowered his voice. ‘Listen, I know where Mrs Martin goes for a smoke. You’ll be wandering all over trying to find her.’

  ‘How d’you know where she goes?’ the other waiter whispered.

  ‘I just know.’

  ‘Come on, man. I’m not going to take that to Mrs Morrow. She’ll make me come back for more chocolates, or different chocolates, or a bigger coffee. Screw off.’

  The waiter held on to his tray and Elliot reached for it.

  ‘What’s going on? Why’re you both still here?’

  They looked up and the maître d’ was beside them. His eyes dropped to their hands, all four of them clasping the single silver tray for Julia Martin. In the background Chef Véronique stopped arranging a tray with miniature pâtisserie and watched.

  ‘Elliot, isn’t that your tray?’ The maître d’ nodded to the tray sitting on the old pine sideboard.

  ‘What’s the big deal? We’re just trading.’

  ‘No we’re not,’ said the other waiter, yanking the tray away and spilling some coffee.

  ‘That’s it, that’s enough. Get a fresh tray and coffee,’ Pierre ordered the waiter, ‘and you come with me.’

  He took Elliot into a far corner of the kitchen. They couldn’t escape the darting stares, but they could escape the ears.

  ‘What’s this about? Is there something going on between you and Madame Martin?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then why cause this commotion?’

  ‘I just can’t stand Mrs Morrow, that’s all.’

  Pierre hesitated. He could understand that. He didn’t much like her either. ‘She’s still our guest. We can’t just serve the ones we like.’ He smiled at the young
man.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ But Elliot didn’t smile back.

  ‘Bon,’ said Pierre. ‘I’ll take that.’

  He took the refreshed tray for Julia Martin from the surprised waiter and left the kitchen.

  ‘What’d the old man want?’ a waitress asked Elliot as he picked up his tray and prepared to take it to Sandra Morrow, who’d no doubt complain it was late and cold.

  ‘He doesn’t want me to serve Julia Martin,’ said Elliot. ‘He wants her to himself. Have you seen the way he looks at her? I think he has a crush on her,’ he sang in a childish falsetto.

  The two took their trays through the swinging doors. Elliot’s words had a larger audience than he realized. Chef Véronique wiped her hands on a tea towel and watched as the door clacked back and forth until it was finally still.

  ‘Home tomorrow,’ said Clara to the Gamaches as they walked into the library from the terrasse. She could go to bed soon, sleep eight hours, have breakfast with her in-laws then head back to Three Pines. Really, only a couple more waking hours with these people. She looked at her watch for the umpteenth time. Only ten? How could that be? My God, could the Morrows stop time too? ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘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.