The Murder Stone

by Louise Penny

  Madame Dubois didn’t turn away, didn’t look down, didn’t even look defiant as she made this remarkable statement. She looked simply truthful.

  ‘Why?’ Gamache asked.

  ‘I like a man who does his sums,’ she said.

  ‘He was doing them on the dock this morning.’

  ‘He’s probably doing them now. He has a lot to count.’

  ‘Twenty million, apparently.’

  ‘Really? That many? He is a good catch.’ And she laughed.

  Gamache looked beyond her to the shade and the white marble that glowed even in the gloom. She followed his stare.

  ‘You relented eventually, about the statue,’ he said. ‘You needed the money.’

  ‘At first the Morrows insisted the statue go in one of those beds,’ she indicated the main bank of roses and lilies between the lodge and the lake, ‘but I refused. Even if the statue was a masterpiece it would still be a blemish there, and honestly I couldn’t see the Morrows managing a masterpiece. As you might have noticed, the Morrows aren’t exactly minimalists.’

  ‘More maximalists, it’s true.’

  ‘So after much discussion we decided on this spot. It’s discreet.’

  ‘Hidden, you mean?’

  ‘That too. And with luck the forest will grow around Charles Morrow and in twenty years he’ll be swallowed up.’

  ‘I can’t see you allowing that, madame.’

  She smiled at him a little sadly. ‘No, you’re right. Poor Charles had too much of that in his life. No, he’d have made a good home here. If he hadn’t killed his daughter.’

  Off in the middle distance they saw Pierre talking with one of the young workers. It looked like Elliot, though his back was turned to them. Pierre, though, saw them and waved.

  ‘You spoke of friends,’ said Gamache. ‘It must be hard sometimes to be this far from a community.’

  ‘You’re thinking of Monsieur Patenaude?’

  ‘And you. And Chef Véronique. The others come and go, I understand, the young workers like Elliot there.’

  He’d turned and it was now clearly the young man. He seemed to be arguing with the maître d’.

  ‘Some stay for a few seasons, but you’re right. Most don’t stay for more than a year. And our relationship with them isn’t one of friendship. More like teacher and pupil or mentor and prisoner.’

  She smiled. It was clear she saw this place as anything but a prison, but he could understand that some of the kids, perhaps Colleen, saw it as that. And couldn’t wait to escape.

  ‘Does it get lonely?’

  ‘For me? Never. But I have my husband. He’s in all the walls, and carpets, and flowers. He’s in this maple.’ She placed a tiny pink hand on the elephantine trunk. ‘We planted it sixty years ago. I talk to him all the time and curl up next to him every night. No, I’m never lonely.’

  ‘Is he?’ Gamache indicated Patenaude.

  ‘I must admit when he first came I didn’t think he’d last long. Not used to hard work. But it suited him. He must have some coureur du bois blood in him. He took to the wilderness. And he had such wonderful manners our old maître d’ quickly picked Pierre as his successor. Then Véronique showed up and our little family was complete.’

  ‘Pierre seems to be having difficulty with Elliot,’ said Gamache.

  ‘Poor Pierre. I’m afraid that young man got up his nose the moment he arrived. He drifted in here in April and has caused nothing but problems ever since.’

  ‘Why do you keep him?’

  ‘Because he needs us. He’s a good worker, has picked up French quickly. But he needs to learn self-discipline and self-respect. He demands attention, either by fighting or flirting.’

  ‘I think he might have flirted with me.’

  ‘Well, you probably started it,’ she said and he laughed. ‘He’ll learn that he needn’t do that, that he’s good enough as he is. And he’ll learn it from Pierre. Though perhaps not today.’

  They watched as Elliot, clearly agitated, stomped up the dirt road. The maître d’ watched him go, then slowly turned and made his way back, deep in thought. As the boss of occasionally difficult subordinates, Gamache felt for the man. And the boy.

  ‘Agent Lacoste is very observant and intuitive.’ He turned back to his companion. ‘She believes Chef Véronique is in love with Pierre.’

  ‘I’m afraid great powers of observation and intuition aren’t necessary to divine that, Chief Inspector, though I’m sure she has both. Véronique’s been in love with Pierre for years. And he, poor one, is oblivious.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried it’ll cause difficulties?’

  ‘I was at first,’ she admitted. ‘But after the first decade I relaxed. Frankly, it kept Véronique here, and she’s a wonderful chef. But she’ll never act on her feelings. I know that. She’s the sort of extraordinary woman who gets enough fulfilment from loving. She doesn’t need it in return.’

  ‘Or maybe she’s just afraid,’ suggested Gamache.

  Clementine Dubois gave him a Gallic shrug. ‘C’est possible.’

  ‘But what if Pierre leaves?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘He has nowhere to go. Do you know why we’re all so happy here, monsieur? Because it’s the last house on the road. We’ve tried everywhere else, and don’t fit in. Here we fit. Here we belong. Even the kids who come to work are special. Seekers. And they stay as long as they choose. One day a few will decide to stay for ever. Like me. Like Pierre and Véronique. And then I can go.’

  Armand Gamache stared down at the short, wizened woman with her hand on her husband. Then he stared out to the gleaming lake. Down the lawn there was movement and he noticed Irene Finney walking slowly across it, Bert by her side. And behind her walked Thomas, Mariana and finally Peter.

  ‘Charles Morrow was a wonderful pianist, you know,’ said Madame Dubois. ‘Not just a technician, but he played with great spirit. We’d sit for hours on a rainy afternoon and listen to him. He always said Irene was like a major chord, and his children were the harmonics.’

  Gamache watched them fan out behind their mother. He wondered whether the mother chord was maybe a little off, and the harmonics only magnified that.

  Then another figure appeared briefly and disappeared into the forest. A huge, hulking thing in overalls, gloves, boots and a hood. It looked like Frankenstein’s monster, flat headed and hulking.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ said Madame Dubois, and Gamache felt goosebumps spring up on his arms.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Over there, that thing disappearing into the woods.’

  ‘The devil?’

  Madame Dubois seemed to find this extremely amusing. ‘I like that, but no. Quite the opposite, really. That was Chef Véronique.’

  ‘Hell of a sun screen.’

  ‘Bee screen. She’s our bee-keeper. Off to get honey for tea.’

  ‘And beeswax for the furniture,’ said Gamache with a smile.

  That was why the Manoir Bellechasse smelled of decades of coffee and woodsmoke, and honeysuckle.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mariana Morrow plunked at the piano keys in the Great Room, glad of the peace.

  Rich, she was going to be rich one day. As long as Mommy didn’t leave everything to that Finney, and he didn’t leave everything to some cats’ home. Well, she’d done the best she could. She at least had produced a child. She looked over at Bean.

  She regretted naming the child Bean, now. What had she been thinking? River would have been better. Or Salmon. Or Salmon River. No, too normal.

  Bean had definitely been a mistake. Mariana’s mother had been appalled at first, her only grandchild named after a vegetable. The only reason Mariana had had Bean baptized was to force her mother to listen to the minister declare, in front of the entire congregation, not to mention God, the name of Bean Morrow.

  A glorious moment.

  But her mother had proved more resilient than Mariana
had thought, like a new strain of superbug. She’d become immune to the name.

  Aorta, maybe. Aorta Morrow. Or Burp.

  Damn, that would’ve been perfect.

  ‘And now, in the presence of this congregation, and before God, I give you Burp Morrow.’

  Another opportunity missed. Perhaps it wasn’t too late.

  ‘Bean, dear, come to Mommy.’

  Mariana patted the piano bench and the child walked over and leaned against it. Mariana thumped the bench with more force, but Bean didn’t budge.

  ‘Come on, Bean. Up you get. Sit beside Mommy.’

  Bean ignored the thumping, glancing down at the everpresent book instead. ‘Mommy, have you ever seen a flying horse?’

  ‘Only once, dear. In Morocco after a particularly good party. I’ve also seen a few fairies.’

  ‘You mean Uncle Scott and Uncle Derek?’

  ‘I do. They fly sometimes, you know, but I don’t think either could be called a stud.’

  Bean nodded.

  ‘Bean, do you like your name? I mean, wouldn’t you like Mommy to change it for you?’ She looked at the serious child. ‘Why don’t you jump?’

  Bean, used to Mommy’s verbal veers, followed easily. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Well, people do. That’s why we have knees, and arches on our feet. And ankles. Ankles are little wings, you know.’

  She made fluttering actions with her fingers, but Bean looked sceptical.

  ‘They don’t look like wings, they look like bones.’

  ‘Well, yours have probably fallen off. Disuse. It happens.’

  ‘I think you jump enough for both of us. I like it here. On the ground.’

  ‘You know what would make Mommy happy? If I could change your name. What do you think about that?’

  Bean shrugged. ‘Suppose. But you won’t make it stranger than Bean, will you?’

  The little eyes narrowed.

  Chlamydia Morrow.

  Very pretty. Too pretty, perhaps. Not quite right. Soon everyone would know if Bean was a boy or a girl and that little secret would be blown. The best way to infuriate Mother would be to give her only grandchild a really ridiculous name.

  Mariana looked at the child, strange by even her family’s standards.

  Syphilis.

  Mariana smiled. Perfect.

  Syphilis Morrow. Leads to madness.

  Jean Guy Beauvoir leaned back in his chair in the library and looked around. Not really taking in his surroundings, but feeling at ease. Normally he’d be making notes on his computer, checking messages, sending messages, surfing the web. Googling.

  But there was no computer. Just a pen and paper. He chewed the pen and stared ahead, using his brain to make connections.

  He’d spent much of the afternoon going over writing samples, trying to find out who’d written those notes to Julia. Someone had reached out to her, and from what little they were gathering about the lonely woman, she’d be almost incapable of not reaching back.

  Had it killed her? Had she been murdered by her needs?

  Beauvoir had had a need of his own. For the first hour and a half he’d concentrated on one suspect. The man he knew had done it. Pierre Patenaude. Far from being difficult to find, samples of his writing were everywhere. Notes on menus, staff rotation lists, evaluation forms and even French tests he’d given the young staff, trying to teach them that the night wasn’t a strawberry and that flaming mice wasn’t a menu option. It seemed the only thing the maître d’ hadn’t written were the notes to Julia Martin.

  But after another hour of digging and comparing, of leaning over an old-fashioned magnifying glass taken from a display of butterflies, Beauvoir had his answer. He knew beyond doubt who’d written to Julia.

  Bert Finney drew the curtains to block out the sun and watched as his wife undressed for her nap. Not a moment of any day went by when he wasn’t astonished by his good fortune. He was rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

  He was patient, but then he’d learned that years ago. And it had paid off. He was even willing to pick up after her, since it got him what he wanted. He gathered the clothes from the floor where she dropped them, trying not to notice the little gasps of pain coming from this tiny woman. Who felt so much, but mostly felt she couldn’t show it. The only argument they’d ever had, and that only once, had been when he’d tried to persuade her to explain all this to the children. She’d refused.

  And now Irene Finney stood naked in the centre of the dim room, tears streaming down her cheeks. He knew they would end soon. They always did. But lately they’d been going on longer.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, and knew immediately how ridiculous it sounded.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me.’ He picked up her slip and bra and underwear and looked up into her face.

  ‘It’s the smell.’

  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 éclairs. 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 plaît.’

  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, née 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.