by Louise Penny
‘Bean, look at me,’ Gamache called. ‘Remember Pegasus?’
The child calmed slightly and seemed to focus on Gamache, though the squealing continued.
‘Remember riding Pegasus into the sky? That’s what you’re doing now. You’re on his back. Can you feel his wings, can you hear them?’
The moaning wind became the outstretched wings of the horse Pegasus, who gave a powerful beat and took Bean into the sky, away from the terror. Gamache watched as Bean slipped the surly bonds of earth.
Bean relaxed in the murderer’s arms, and slowly the big book slipped from the small, wet fingers and hit the roof, sliding down and launching into the air, the leaves spreading like wings.
Gamache glanced down and saw frenzied activity, arms waving and pointing. But one man held his arms outstretched, to catch someone falling from the heavens.
Finney.
Gamache took a deep breath and looked briefly beyond Bean, beyond the murderer, beyond the chimney pots. To the tree tops, and the lake and the mountains.
‘This is my own, my native land!’
And he felt himself relax, a little. Then he looked further. To Three Pines, just on the other side of the mountains. To Reine-Marie.
Here I am, can you see me?
He stood up, slowly, a firm hand on his back steadying him.
‘Now, higher, Bean. I’ve seen you take Pegasus higher.’
Below, the men and women saw the three figures, the Chief Inspector standing upright now in the driving rain and the other two, melded as though the murderer had sprung tiny arms and legs from the chest.
Beside Finney the book thudded to the ground, leaves outstretched and flattened. And in the sobbing wind they heard a far-off song in a deep baritone.
‘Letter B, Letter B,’ it sang, to the tune of the Beatles’ ‘Let It Be’.
‘Oh, God,’ Lacoste whispered and raised her arms too. Beside her Mariana was staring, numb and dumb and uncomprehending. Everything else could fall, she saw it all day, every day. Except Bean. She stepped forward and raised her arms. Unseen beside her, Sandra lifted her hands towards the child. The precious thing, stuck on the roof.
Bean, hands now free of the book, brought them together in front. Clutching reins, eyes staring at the big man opposite.
‘Higher, Bean,’ Gamache urged. Wheeled and soared and swung, said a voice in his head, and Gamache’s right hand opened slightly, to grasp a larger, stronger one.
The child gave a mighty yank and kicked Pegasus in the flanks.
Shocked, Pierre Patenaude let go and Bean fell.
Armand Gamache dived. He sprang with all his might and seemed to hover in the air, as though expecting to make the other side. He strained, reached out his hand, and touched the face of God.
THIRTY
Gamache’s eyes locked on the flying child. They seemed to hang in mid-air then finally he felt the fabric of Bean’s shirt and closed his grip.
Hitting the roof he scrambled for purchase as they started skidding down the slick steep side. His left hand shot up and gripped the very top of the roof, where skilled hands had battered and connected the now tarnished copper hundreds of years earlier. And had placed a ridge along the peak of the roof. For no reason.
Now he was hanging down the side of the metal roof, clinging on to the copper ridge with one hand, and Bean with the other. They looked into each other’s eyes and Gamache could feel his grip firm on the child, but slipping on the roof. He could see, in his peripheral vision, frantic activity below, with shouts and calls and screams that seemed another world away. He could see people running with ladders, but he knew it would be too late. His fingers were tearing away from the roof and he knew in another instant they would both slide over the edge. And he knew if they fell he’d land on top of the child, as Charles Morrow had done. Crushing what lay beneath. The thought was too much.
He felt his fingers finally lose contact with the ridge, and for a blessed and surprising moment nothing happened, then the two of them started over.
Gamache twisted in one final effort, to heave the child away from him and towards the open arms below. Just then a hand gripped his from above. He didn’t dare look, in case it wasn’t real. But after a moment he looked up. Rain fell into his eyes and blinded him, but he still knew whose hand held his in a grip from long ago, and long ago lost.
Ladders were quickly raised and Beauvoir scrambled up, taking Bean and handing the child down, then crawling up onto the roof and supporting the Chief Inspector with his own young body.
‘You can let go now,’ said Beauvoir to Pierre Patenaude, who was clinging to Gamache’s hand. Patenaude hesitated a moment, as though he didn’t yet want to release this man, but he did and Gamache slid gently into the younger man’s arms.
‘All right?’ Beauvoir whispered.
‘Merci,’ Gamache whispered back. His first words in his new life, in a territory he hadn’t expected to see, but one that stretched, unbelievably, before him. ‘Thank you,’ he repeated.
He allowed himself to be helped down, his legs shaking and his arms like rubber. Once on the ladder he turned and looked up, into the face of the person who’d saved him.
Pierre Patenaude looked back, standing upright on the roof as though he belonged there, as though the coureurs du bois and the Abinaki had left him there when they’d departed.
‘Pierre,’ a small but firm voice said in a conversational tone. ‘It’s time to come in.’
Madame Dubois’s head poked out of the skylight. Patenaude looked at her and stood straighter. He put his arms out and tilted his head back.
‘Non, Pierre,’ said Madame Dubois. ‘You are not to do that. Chef Véronique has made a pot of tea and we’ve lit a fire so you won’t get a chill. Come down with me now.’
She held out her hand and he looked at it. Then, taking it, he disappeared into the Manoir Bellechasse.
Five of them sat in the kitchen of the Manoir. Patenaude and Gamache had changed into dry clothes and were wrapped in warm blankets by the fire while Chef Véronique and Madame Dubois poured tea. Beauvoir sat beside Patenaude, in case he made a run for it, though no one expected him to any more.
‘Here.’ Chef Véronique hesitated a moment, a mug of tea in her large grip. It hovered between Gamache and Patenaude, then it drifted over to the maître d’. She handed the next one to Gamache with a small, apologetic smile.
‘Merci,’ he said, taking the tea in one hand. His left he kept under the table, flexing it, trying to get the feeling back. He was chilled, more from shock he knew than from the rain. Beside him Beauvoir put two heaping spoons of honey into Gamache’s tea and stirred.
‘I’ll be mother today,’ Beauvoir said quietly, and the thought stirred something inside the younger man. Something to do with this kitchen. Beauvoir put the teaspoon down and watched Chef Véronique take the seat on Patenaude’s other side.
Beauvoir waited for the sting, the anger. But he felt only giddy amazement they were together in this warm kitchen, and he wasn’t kneeling in the mud, trying to force life back into a broken and beloved body. He looked over at Gamache, again. Just to make sure. Then he looked back at Chef Véronique and felt something. He felt sadness for her.
Whatever he’d felt for her before was nothing compared to what she felt for this man, this murderer.
Véronique took Patenaude’s trembling hand in her own. No reason to pretend any more. No reason to hide her feelings. ‘Ça va?’ she asked.
It might have been a ridiculous question, given what had just happened. Of course he wasn’t all right. But Patenaude looked at her with a little surprise, and nodded.
Madame Dubois brought Beauvoir a cup of hot, strong tea and poured one for herself. But instead of joining them the elderly woman stepped back from the table. She tried to block out the other two and see only Véronique and Pierre. The two who’d kept her company in the wilderness. Who’d grown up and grown old here. One had fallen in love, the other had simply fallen.
Clementine Dubois had known Pierre Patenaude was full of rage when he’d arrived as a young man, more than twenty years earlier. He’d been so contained, his movements so precise, his manners so perfect. He hid it so well. But ironically it had been his decision to stay that had confirmed her suspicion. No one chose to live this deep in the woods for so long without reason. She knew Véronique’s. She knew her own. And now, finally, she knew his.
This was the first time Véronique and Pierre had held hands, she knew. And probably the last. Certainly the last time they’d all gather round this old pine table. And discuss their days.
She knew she should feel horrible about what Pierre had done, and she knew she would, in a few minutes. But for the moment she only felt anger. Not at Pierre, but at the Morrows and their reunion and at Julia Martin, for coming. And getting murdered. And ruining their small but perfect life by the lake.
Madame Dubois knew that was unreasonable and unkind, and certainly very selfish. But for just a moment she indulged herself, and her sorrow.
‘Why did you kill Julia Martin?’ Gamache asked. He could hear people moving about outside the swinging doors into the dining room. A Sûreté agent was stationed at the door, not to stop anyone from leaving the kitchen but to stop anyone from entering. He wanted a few quiet minutes with Patenaude and the others.
‘I think you know why,’ said Patenaude, not meeting his eye. Since looking into Chef Véronique’s eyes a minute earlier he’d been unable to raise his own. They’d been cast down, staggered by what he’d met in her gaze.
Tenderness.
And now she held his hand. How long had it been since someone had held his hand? He’d held other people’s hands, at celebrations when they sang ‘Gens Du Pays’. He’d comforted kids homesick and afraid. Or hurt. Like Colleen. He’d held her hand to comfort her when she’d found the body. A body he’d made.
But when was the last time someone had held his hand?
He cast his mind back until it hit the wall beyond which he could never look. Somewhere on the other side was his answer.
But now Véronique held his cold hand in her warm one. And slowly his trembling stopped.
‘But I don’t know why, Pierre,’ said Véronique. ‘Can you tell me?’
Clementine Dubois sat down opposite him then and the three again, and for the last time, entered their own world.
Pierre Patenaude opened and closed his mouth, dredging the words up from deep down.
‘I was eighteen when my father died. A heart attack, but I know it wasn’t that. My mother and I had watched him work himself to death. We’d had money once, you know. He was the head of his own company. Big home, big cars. Private schools. But he’d made one mistake. He’d invested in a young man, a former employee. Someone he’d fired. I was there the day he’d fired the man. I was just a kid. My father had told me that everyone deserved a second chance. But not a third. He’d given this man a second chance, then fired him. But Dad liked this young man. Had kept in touch. Had even had him over for dinner after firing him. Perhaps he felt guilty, I don’t know.’
‘He sounds a kind man,’ said Madame Dubois.
‘He was.’ Patenaude’s eyes met hers and he was surprised, again, by tenderness. Had he always been surrounded by it, he wondered. Was it always there? And all he’d seen were the dark woods and the deep water.
‘He gave this man his personal money to invest. It was foolish, a kind of madness. The man later claimed my father and the others were as greedy as he was, and maybe that was true. But I don’t think so. I think he just wanted to help.’
He looked at Véronique, her face so strong and her eyes so clear.
‘I believe you’re right,’ she said, squeezing his hand slightly.
He blinked, not understanding this world that had suddenly appeared.
‘The man was David Martin, wasn’t it?’ said Véronique. ‘Julia’s husband.’
Patenaude nodded. ‘My father went bankrupt, of course. Lost everything. My mother didn’t care. I didn’t care. We loved him. But he never recovered. I don’t think it was the money, I think it was the shame and the betrayal. We never expected Martin to pay Dad back. It was an investment, and a bad one. It happens. Dad knew the risks. And Martin didn’t steal the money. But he never said he was sorry. And when he made his fortune, hundreds of millions of dollars, he never once contacted Dad, never offered to pay him back. Or invest in his company. I watched Martin get rich and my father work and work trying to rebuild.’
He stopped talking. There seemed nothing more that could be said. He couldn’t begin to explain how it felt to watch this man he adored sink, and finally go under. And watch the man who’d done this rise up.
Something new had started growing in the boy. Bitterness. And over the years it ate a hole where his heart should have been. And finally it ate all his insides so that there was only darkness in there. And a howl, an old echo going round and round. And growing with each repetition.
‘I was happy here, you know.’ He turned to Madame Dubois, who reached her old hand across the table and touched his arm.
‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘And I was happy to have you. It seemed a kind of miracle.’ She turned to Véronique. ‘A double blessing. And you were so good with the young staff. They adored you.’
‘When I was with them I felt my father inside me. I could almost hear him whispering to me, telling me to be patient with them. That they needed a steady but gentle hand. Did you find Elliot?’
He asked Beauvoir beside him, who nodded.
‘Just got the call. He was at the bus station in North Hatley.’
‘Didn’t get far,’ said Patenaude, and he smiled despite himself. ‘He never could take direction.’
‘You told him to run, didn’t you? You tried to frame him, monsieur,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Tried to make us believe he’d killed Julia Martin. You found the notes he’d written her and you kept them, deliberately tossing them into the grate, knowing we’d find them there.’
‘He was homesick. I know the signs,’ said Patenaude. ‘I’ve seen it often enough. And the longer he stayed the more angry and frustrated he got. But when he found out Julia Martin was from Vancouver he clung to her. At first it was inconvenient for me. I was afraid he’d figure out what I was doing. Then I saw how I could use it.’
‘You’d have let him be arrested for your crime?’ Véronique asked. She wasn’t, Beauvoir noticed, accusing, not judging. Just asking.
‘No,’ he said, tired. He rubbed his face and sighed, coming to the end of his energy. ‘I just wanted to confuse things, that’s all.’
Beauvoir didn’t believe him, but he thought Véronique did. Or maybe she didn’t, and loved him anyway.
‘Is that why you took the child?’ asked Madame Dubois. They were in dangerous territory now. Killing Julia Martin was one thing. Who, honestly, didn’t want to kill a Morrow every now and then? Even framing Elliot she could understand, perhaps. But dangling that child from the roof?
‘Bean was insurance, that’s all,’ said Patenaude. ‘To add to the confusion, and in case Elliot came back. I didn’t want to hurt Bean. I just wanted to get away. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t tried to stop me,’ he said to Gamache.
And everyone in the comfortable, warm room glimpsed Pierre Patenaude’s small world, where wretched actions could be justified, and others blamed.
‘Why did you kill Julia Martin?’ Gamache asked again. He was bone tired but he had a distance to go yet. ‘She wasn’t responsible for what her husband did. They weren’t even married at the time.’
‘No.’ Patenaude looked at Gamache. They both looked very different from less than an hour ago, on the roof. The fear was gone from Gamache’s deep brown eyes, and the rage from Patenaude’s. Now they were two tired men, trying to understand. And be understood. ‘When I first realized who she was I felt kind of numb, but as the days passed I just got angrier and angrier. Her perfect nails, her styled hair, her teeth.’
&nbs
p; Teeth? thought Beauvoir. He’d heard many motives for murder, but never teeth.
‘Everything so perfect,’ the maître d’ continued. As he spoke his voice sharpened and sculpted the gentle man into something else. ‘Her clothes, her jewellery, her manners. Friendly but slightly condescending. Money. She shouted money. Money my father should have had. My mother.’
‘You?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘Yes, even me. I got more and more angry. I couldn’t get at Martin, but I could get her.’
‘And so you killed her,’ said Gamache.
Patenaude nodded.
‘Didn’t you know who he was?’ Beauvoir asked, pointing at the Chief Inspector. ‘You killed someone right in front of the head of homicide for Quebec?’
‘It couldn’t wait,’ said Patenaude, and they all knew the truth of it. It had waited too long. ‘Besides, I knew you’d come eventually. If you were already here it didn’t much matter.’
He looked at the Chief Inspector. ‘You know, all David Martin had to do was say he was sorry. That’s all. My father would have forgiven him.’
Gamache got up. It was time to face the family. To explain all this. At the door to the dining room he turned and watched as Pierre Patenaude was led through the back door and into a waiting Sûreté vehicle. Chef Véronique and Madame Dubois stared out of the screen door as it clacked shut behind him.
‘Do you think he would have really thrown Bean off the roof?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘I believed it then. Now, I don’t know. Perhaps not.’
But Gamache knew it was wishful thinking. He was only glad he was still capable of it. Beauvoir stared at the large, still man in front of him. Should he tell him? He took a breath, and walked into the unknown.
‘I had the strangest feeling when I saw you on the roof,’ he said. ‘You looked like a Burgher of Calais. You were frightened.’
‘Very.’
‘So was I.’
‘And yet you offered to come with me.’ Gamache cocked his head slightly to one side. ‘I remember. And I hope you remember, always.’
