by Louise Penny
Gamache continued to stare at him, then turned and walked out of the cool shade.
‘Wait,’ Peter called after him. Gamache stopped and let him catch up. ‘Look, I have to tell you. I stole those cufflinks and threw them into the lake because my father gave them to Thomas. They went from first son to first son. I always thought maybe he’d give them to me. I know, it was stupid, but I’d hoped. Anyway, he didn’t. I knew how much the cufflinks meant to Thomas.’
Peter hesitated, but plunged ahead anyway. It felt like walking off a cliff.
‘They were the most important thing he has. I wanted to hurt him.’
‘The way you wanted to hurt me just now when you talked about my own father?’
‘I’m sorry I did that.’
Gamache stared at the dishevelled man in front of him. ‘Be careful, Peter. You have a good spirit, but even good spirits stumble, and sometimes they fall. And sometimes they don’t get up.’
TWENTY-FOUR
WHO BENEFITS?
Beauvoir wrote in very large, very clear, very red capital letters on the foolscap. Instinctively he wafted the magic marker under his nose as he surveyed his work.
Now that was art. Or, if not actually art, it was definitely beautiful. It represented structure and order, and both those things thrilled the Inspector. Soon they’d have a list, of names, of motives, of clues, of movements. They’d connect them all up. Some would be dead ends, some murky alleys, but some would be superhighways, and they’d follow those speeding clues to the end.
Inspector Beauvoir looked over at the Chief Inspector, his elbows on the dark wooden table, his large fingers intertwined, his eyes thoughtful and attentive.
And then what?
But Beauvoir knew the answer to that. When they’d gone as far as the known world took them, when he and Lacoste and all the other investigators could see no further, Chief Inspector Gamache stepped forward. He walked into the unknown. Because that’s where murderers lurked. They might appear to walk in the same sun and drizzle, along the same grass and concrete, and even to speak the same language. But they didn’t really. Chief Inspector Gamache was willing to go where few others could. And he never, ever asked them to follow him, only to help him find the way.
Both men knew that one day Beauvoir would step forward. And both men knew the burned and desolate spot Gamache sought wasn’t exclusive to the murderer. The reason Armand Gamache could go there was because it wasn’t totally foreign to him. He knew it because he’d seen his own burned terrain, he’d walked off the familiar and comfortable path inside his own head and heart and seen what festered in the dark.
And one day Jean Guy Beauvoir would look at his own monsters, and then be able to recognize others. And maybe this was the day and this was the case.
He hoped so.
Now he put the capped magic marker in his mouth and jogged it up and down like a giant red cigar, staring at the blank page, except for the expectant heading.
WHO BENEFITS?
‘Well, David Martin does,’ said Agent Lacoste. ‘He doesn’t have to pay alimony.’
Beauvoir wrote the name and the reason. He also wrote, One less witness.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the Chief Inspector.
‘Well, at his trial she testified, but basically said she knew nothing about his business dealings. But suppose that wasn’t true? I get the feeling these Morrows aren’t very smart – in fact, they’re so stupid they think they’re smart. But they are cunning. And she grew up in a home where business was talked about, and she adored her father, so she probably paid attention.’
He stopped to gather his run-on thoughts. He was pretty sure this was leading somewhere. His colleagues waited. There was a tap at the door and he strolled over to open it.
Lunch.
‘Hello, Elliot,’ said the chief as the lithe young waiter gave him a barbecued steak sandwich with sautéed mushrooms and caramelized onions on top.
‘Bonjour, Patron,’ the young man smiled, then beamed at Lacoste, who looked quite pleased.
He put a lobster salad in front of her. And Beauvoir got a hamburger and string fries. For the last twenty minutes they’d smelled the charcoals warming up in the huge barbecue in the garden, with the unmistakable summer scents of hot coals and lighter fluid. Beauvoir hadn’t stopped salivating. Between that and the sweating he thought he should order a cold beer. Just to prevent dehydration. The chief thought that sounded good, as did Lacoste, and before long each had a beer in a tall frosted glass.
As he looked out of the French doors he saw the maître d’ walk by with a platter of steak and shrimp from the barbecue, presumably for the Morrows.
‘You were saying?’ The Chief Inspector was looking at him.
Beauvoir took the burger with him to the foolscap.
‘D’accord, the husband. Doesn’t it seem as though he’s been here the whole time?’ said Beauvoir. ‘I mean, even before the murder you said people were talking about him, telling you and Madame Gamache who Julia’s husband was. It was as though the Morrows couldn’t figure out if they loved him or hated him.’
‘You’re right,’ said Gamache. ‘He’s been the uninvited guest.’
Beauvoir let that go, suspecting it must be a quote. Still, it was a good way of putting it. The one not necessarily wanted, not expected, not watched for or prepared for. The one, therefore, with the advantage.
‘So many things come back to him.’ Beauvoir circled Martin’s name. It was easy, since it was the only name on the page so far. ‘She was only here because of the divorce.’
‘And his conviction,’ said Lacoste. ‘What was the case about anyway?’
They both turned to Gamache.
‘You’ll have to double check all this because it’s been a few months since it was in the papers, but David Martin ran the Royale Assurance Company, a very old, very proud Canadian company that specialized in marine insurance. It started, I believe, in Nova Scotia more than a century ago, but moved to Vancouver as the shipping trade grew with the Pacific Rim.’
‘Only shipping?’
‘Not under Martin. He did two things, if I’m remembering right. He expanded into buildings and infrastructure. Bridges, dams, roads. But the most brilliant thing he did, and his downfall, was he decided to spread the risks. He created a thing called Partners.’
‘Surely not the first business person to have partners,’ Lacoste smiled.
‘Very astute of you.’ Gamache smiled back. ‘But he spelled his with a capital P. It was like a pyramid scheme, though all perfectly legal, at first. He’d insure a bridge project, let’s say, and get a bunch of companies to take some of the risk. They in turn would sell interests to smaller companies, and they’d sell on to individuals. All called Royale Partners.’
‘And what would they get in return?’ Lacoste asked, her lobster salad forgotten for a moment. This sort of Byzantine dealing fascinated her.
‘They paid no money,’ said Gamache, leaning towards her, remembering as he went. ‘And they got a share of the company profits, which were huge. Most of the Partners became millionaires many times over.’
‘But?’ said Beauvoir.
‘But they had to guarantee they’d pay for any loss.’
Beauvoir was lost. But Lacoste was with him.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘He sold some of the profits and all the risk. He was making hundreds of millions and wasn’t in any danger if there was ever a huge claim.’
‘Exactly. It worked for years, with everyone, even the smallest Partner, making a great deal of money. People were falling all over themselves to invest.’
‘Did you?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘We were invited, but said no.’
‘Smart,’ said Lacoste.
‘I’d like to think so, but it was really just fear. I can talk about it, and on some level I think I understand it, but honestly I don’t. What I did understand was that if something went wrong we’d be ruined.’
‘And somethi
ng eventually went wrong?’ asked Lacoste.
‘Cigarettes,’ said Gamache. ‘One of the first things Royale Assurance under Martin expanded into was insuring the tobacco companies. They made enormous amounts of money out of the deals. Fortunes. But ten years ago a woman in Oregon sued Jubilee Tobacco after she developed emphysema. She was sixty. Family history, her mother had died of it. The tobacco company won the first round and the woman died, but her husband took it further, and eventually it became a class action suit and two years ago the Supreme Court ruled that Jubilee Tobacco was liable.’
The door to the library opened and Sandra Morrow stepped in. Beauvoir deftly stepped in front of their lists and Gamache got to his feet and went across to her.
‘May I help you?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you. I’m just here to find a book and settle in.’
She made to go around the Chief Inspector, who stepped in front of her.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, her voice frigid.
‘I’m sorry, madame, but this room is no longer available for guests. I thought that was clear. If not, I’m terribly sorry for the confusion, but we need it as our headquarters.’
‘Headquarters? You make it sound very grand. We’re paying guests. And I paid to use this room too.’
‘That won’t be possible,’ said Gamache, his voice firm but friendly. ‘I understand your frustration, and I know it’s a difficult time, but you’ll have to go elsewhere.’
She gave him a look of such loathing it surprised even Beauvoir, who’d given and received a few of those looks in his life.
‘I understand you need to investigate the death of my sister-in-law but you don’t need this particular room. There must be bedrooms. Hers even. Smaller rooms. Surely the Manoir has a back office you could use. These are public rooms, for the guests.’
‘Goodbye, Madame Morrow,’ he said and held out his arm to indicate the door.
She looked at him closely.
‘I know your type. You always take the best. You’re a little man with a little power and it’s made you a bully. I wonder where you get it from?’
She left.
Beauvoir shook his head. Just as he thought this Anglopalooza couldn’t get any weirder, Sandra Morrow did this.
‘Where were we?’ asked Gamache, regaining his seat and taking a sip of beer.
‘Cigarettes,’ said Lacoste, watching to see if Sandra Morrow’s ragged little insults had resulted in even a flesh wound. But the chief looked superbly unconcerned.
‘The Jubilee Tobacco case. I remember it,’ said Beauvoir. ‘All that stuff came out about the shit the companies are putting into cigarettes. My mother actually quit after watching a report.’
‘Smart woman,’ said Gamache. ‘Lots of people quit.’
‘And did that cause the crisis?’ asked Beauvoir, lost again.
‘No, they just turned to the developing world for their market. What brought Martin’s house down around him was the discovery that long after they knew they were in trouble they continued to sell Partnerships, to offset their losses with the tobacco companies. Thousands of people were ruined. The small investors.’
Beauvoir and Lacoste were silent, thinking about that. Beauvoir, having spoken to Martin from prison, was surprised. He didn’t seem like the sort to intentionally screw so many people, the small investors. Ma and Pop. Yet he had. Greed. That was the real jailer.
‘Is it possible one of the Morrows, maybe even Charles Morrow, was a Partner?’ Lacoste asked. ‘Maybe they lost a fortune.’
‘David Martin said the Morrows are worth about twenty million.’
‘Dollars?’ asked Lacoste.
‘No, dog biscuits. Of course dollars,’ said Beauvoir.
‘But maybe they were worth a hundred million before all this,’ said Gamache. ‘Could you check it out?’ he asked Lacoste.
Soon they had every other guest on the suspect list.
‘Haven’t exactly narrowed it down, have we?’ Beauvoir smiled ruefully. ‘They all had the opportunity, they all seemed to have motives for killing each other.’
‘Julia said she’d figured out her father’s secret,’ said Lacoste. ‘I think that’s significant. I asked Clara about it.’
‘And?’ Gamache was curious.
‘She wasn’t helpful, in fact she was slightly unhelpful.’
‘Really?’
Beauvoir stared at the list. Then at the other board. On it was a list of clues, facts, statements. The men’s room graffiti. The two notes they’d found in the grate were tacked to it, and next to them a bird without feet.
And a series of questions:
Was the storm significant?
What had Julia figured out about her father?
Who wrote the notes in the grate?
Why did Julia keep the thank you letters from long ago?
Who wrote the graffiti on the men’s room wall? Does it matter?
They had a long list for Who. For Why. But one word sat alone on the foolscap.
How.
How had that statue fallen? Nothing was written below the word, not even wild guesses.
‘Oh, I have another name to add to the list,’ said Beauvoir, scribbling the name slightly larger than the rest.
‘Pierre Patenaude? The maître d’?’ asked Lacoste.
‘Of course him,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Why him?’ asked Gamache.
‘Well, he was out on the terrasse around midnight. He helped place the statue, so maybe he did something so that it would fall down. He worked in a cemetery as a kid, so he’d know about statues.’
‘He’d know how to put them up, perhaps,’ said Gamache reasonably. ‘But not how to bring them down. He probably only learned how to cut grass around them, anyway.’
‘He has access to all the rooms,’ said Beauvoir, trying not to sound increasingly argumentative. ‘He could’ve written the notes. Or maybe he didn’t even give them to her. Maybe he just wrote them and crumpled them up and threw them into the grate knowing we’d find them.’
Two silent, staring faces greeted this burst of genius.
‘On purpose,’ he stressed. Still they stared. ‘To misdirect. Oh, come on, he’s a great suspect. He’s everywhere and no one sees him.’
‘You aren’t suggesting the butler did it?’ said Gamache.
‘It’s either him or the shopkeeper and his cleaning woman wife,’ said Beauvoir, and cracked a smile.
The door opened and all three looked up. It was Elliot with a tray of fresh, sweet strawberries.
‘We just picked them. And there’s crème fraîche.’ He smiled at Isabelle Lacoste, managing to make it sound like lubricant. ‘From the nearby monastery.’
Even that sounded sexy.
They ate and stared at the lists. Finally, after scraping the last of the thick cream from the bowl, Beauvoir got up and walked again to their lists. He tapped one.
‘Is this important?’
Who wrote the graffiti on the men’s room wall? Does it matter?
‘Could be. Why?’ asked Gamache.
‘Well, at the end of my conversation with David Martin he said he thought he knew who did it.’
‘We know,’ said Lacoste. ‘Thomas Morrow.’
‘No, Julia’s husband thinks Peter did it.’
Beauvoir and Lacoste spent the rest of the afternoon checking backgrounds and movements. Armand Gamache went in search of Madame Dubois, though it wasn’t a very long or difficult search. There she was, as always, in the middle of the reception hall at her shiny wooden desk looking as though it wasn’t eighty degrees in the shade.
He sat in the comfortable chair opposite. She removed her reading glasses and smiled at him.
‘How may I help you, Chief Inspector?’
‘I’ve been puzzling about something.’
‘I know. Who killed our guest.’
‘That too, but I’ve been wondering why you put the statue where you did.’
‘Ah, that is a very good ques
tion, and my answer will be riveting.’ She smiled as she got up. ‘Suivez-moi,’ she said, as though perhaps he wasn’t going to follow her. They walked along the wide plank flooring to the screen door which clacked closed behind them. They were out on the veranda, shaded from the worst of the sun, but still hot. As she waddled by the planters on the edge of the porch she spoke, Gamache bending low, anxious not to miss a riveting word.
‘When Madame Finney first approached me about the statue I declined. This was shortly after Charles Morrow died. She was still Madame Morrow then, of course. They’d stayed here often and I knew them quite well.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘He was a type I knew. I’d never have married him. Too wrapped up in work and society and right and wrong. Not morals, of course, but things like dessert forks and thank you notes and proper clothing.’
‘Forgive me, Madame Dubois, but all those things clearly matter to you, too.’
‘They matter by choice, Chief Inspector. But if you showed up in a striped shirt and a polka-dotted tie I wouldn’t ask you to change. Monsieur Morrow would have. Or he’d have made certain you knew it was offensive. He was easily offended. He had a very keen idea of his place. And yours.’ She smiled at him.
‘But there’s always more to a person, and you say you got to know them quite well.’
‘You’re very clever. I suppose that’s why they made you head of the Sûreté.’
‘Only homicide, I’m afraid.’
‘One day, monsieur. I will go to your swearing-in.’
‘If you do, it will be Madame Gamache doing the swearing,’ he said.
She stopped at the end of the veranda, where the wood was cut to accommodate the trunk of the large maple tree. She turned to look at him.
‘I liked Charles Morrow. For all he was pompous he had a sense of humour and a lot of good friends. You can tell a lot about a man by his friends, or lack of them. Do they bring out the best in each other, or are they always gossiping, tearing others down? Keeping wounds alive? Charles Morrow despised gossip. And his best friend was Bert Finney. That spoke volumes about the man, à mon avis. If Monsieur Finney wasn’t taken I’d have married him myself.’
