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.

‘Now you must remember I was young,’ he warned her. ‘And in love. And not very worldly-wise.’

‘This is going to be good,’ said Peter to Clara.

‘Reine-Marie invited me round after mass on a Sunday for lunch, to meet her family. There were seventy-three siblings.’

‘Nine,’ his wife corrected him.

‘I wanted to impress them, of course, so I spent all week trying to figure out what to take her mother. Nothing too big. Didn’t want to show off. Nothing too small. Didn’t want to appear cheap. I lost sleep. Couldn’t eat. It became the most important thing in my life.’

‘What did you take?’ Clara asked.

‘A bath mat.’

‘You’re kidding,’ sputtered Peter. Gamache shook his head, unable to speak. As the others broke into howls of laughter he finally found his voice.

‘Well,’ he wiped away his tears, ‘it never goes bad.’

‘Or out of style, but doesn’t it lack a certain je ne sais quoi?’

‘His gift giving has improved,’ admitted Reine-Marie.

‘Soap dishes?’ asked Clara.

‘Toilet plunger?’ asked Peter.

‘Shhh,’ whispered Gamache. ‘That’s a surprise for our golden anniversary.’

‘And surprise it will be,’ said Clara, laughing. ‘But don’t get us started on toilets.’

‘Oh, please. Don’t,’ said Peter, trying to recover himself.

‘Oh, no,’ said Gamache, clasping Peter by the arm. ‘Your turn, old son.’

‘OK.’ Peter relented and took a swig of Drambuie. ‘When I first went away to school and was unpacking all my little socks and shoes and slacks, I found a note pinned to my blazer in my father’s handwriting. It said, Never use the first stall in a public washroom.’

Peter, grown up and greying, stood in the room, but what Gamache saw was a serious little boy with spots on his hands holding the note. And memorizing it, as one might memorize a passage from the Bible. Or a poem.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead?

What kind of man was Charles Morrow that he’d write that to his son? Gamache was longing to ask Peter about the statue, but hadn’t yet had the chance.

‘Good advice,’ said Reine-Marie and they all looked at her. ‘If you’re in a hurry, where do you go? To the first stall.’

She didn’t need to say more.

Peter, who’d never decoded what his father had meant but knew in his heart it must be vital, wondered.

Was it that mundane? Was it really just practical advice after all? As a child, even as a teen, and even, dare he admit it, as an adult, he’d fantasized that it was a secret code. Given only to him. Entrusted to him. By his father. A code that would lead to treasure.

Never use the first stall in a public washroom.

And he hadn’t.

Gamache was just about to ask Peter’s opinion of the statue when Thomas strolled in.

‘You were talking about public washrooms?’ he said.

‘Toilets?’ asked Mariana, breezing into the room with Sandra. ‘Bean’ll be sorry to be in bed. It’s the sort of conversation a ten year old is good at.’

‘Hello.’ Julia walked through the screen doors from the terrasse carrying a demi-tasse of espresso. ‘There’s lightning and thunder out there. I think a storm’s coming.’

‘No,’ said Thomas sarcastically. ‘Peter’s been talking about toilets, Julia.’

‘Not really,’ said Peter quickly.

Julia stared at him.

‘Men’s or women’s?’ asked Mariana, with exaggerated interest.

‘Probably men’s,’ said Thomas.

‘That’s it, that’s enough.’ Julia threw her coffee cup to the carpet, where it shattered. The action was so unexpected, so violent, everyone in the room jumped.

‘Stop it,’ she rasped. ‘I’ve had enough.’

‘Calm down,’ Thomas said.

‘Like you? You think I don’t know?’ She started to smile, or at least to show her teeth. ‘Thomas the success, the talented one,’ she hissed at him.

‘And you.’ She turned to Mariana. ‘Magilla, the gorilla. The screw-up with the screwed-up child. Bean. Bean? What kind of a name is that? What kind of kid is that? You think you’re so smart? Well I know. I know it all.

‘And you. You’re the worst.’ She closed in on Peter. ‘Gimme, gimme, gimme. You’d destroy anything and everything to get what you want, wouldn’t you?’

‘Julia.’ Peter could barely breathe.

‘You haven’t changed. Cruel and greedy. Empty. A coward and a hypocrite. You all came here to suck up to Mother. You hated Father. And he knew it. But I know something none of you does.’ Now she was up against Peter, tilting her face up to his. He didn’t move, kept his eyes fixed on the painting above the fireplace. The Krieghoff. Lines and colour he understood. His sister’s hysterics were unfathomable, terrifying.

‘I know Daddy’s secret,’ Julia was hissing. ‘I had to spend my life as far from you as I could get to figure it out, but I finally did. And now I’m back. And I know.’

She grinned malevolently and stared around the room. Her eyes finally came to rest on the Gamaches. For a moment she seemed confused, surprised to see them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered, the spell broken, the rage gone. She looked down at the mess she’d made. ‘I’m sorry.’ She bent to pick it up.

‘No, don’t,’ Reine-Marie said, stepping forward.

Julia stood up, holding a piece of the cup, a slight trickle of blood on her finger. ‘I’m sorry.’

Her eyes filled with tears and her chin dimpled. All her rage dissolved. Turning, she ran out of the screen door leaving behind her family, who might have had their heads mounted on the old log walls. They’d been hunted, slaughtered, and put on display.

‘She’s cut her finger,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I’ll take her a bandage.’

‘She’s not hurt badly,’ said Sandra. ‘She’ll be fine. Leave her.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Gamache, grabbing the flashlight on the table by the door. He and Reine-Marie followed the bright spot of the flashlight as it played on the rough stones of the terrasse then the grass. They followed the light and the sobs and found Julia sitting on the lawn, near the edge of the forest. Near the statue.

‘It’s all right,’ said Reine-Marie, kneeling down and putting an arm round her.

‘It’s. Not. All. Right.’

‘Let me see your hand.’

All fight gone, Julia raised her hand. Reine-Marie examined it. ‘The other one, please.’ She found the small cut on Julia’s finger and dabbed at the blood with a Kleenex. ‘It’s stopped bleeding. You’ll be fine.’

Julia laughed, sputtering slime from her nose and mouth. ‘You think?’

‘We all get angry, we all shout and say things we don’t mean,’ said Reine-Marie.

Gamache handed Julia his handkerchief and she blew into it.

‘I meant them.’

‘Then things that didn’t need to be said.’

‘They did.’ She was stuffing her innards back, sewing herself up, putting her skin, her make-up, her party frock back on.

‘They’ll never forgive me, you know.’ She stood up, smoothed her dress, and wiped the tears and mucus from her face. ‘Morrows have long memories for things like this. It was a mistake to come back. Foolish, really.’ She gave a small snort of laughter. ‘I think I might leave before breakfast tomorrow.’

‘Don’t,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘Talk to them. If you leave without seeing them it’ll just get worse.’

‘And you think talking would help? You don’t know the Morrows. I’ve said way too much already.’

Gamache had been silent, watching and listening. And holding the torch. In the light he could just see her face, unnaturally pale, with harsh lines and shadows.

Not everything needed to be brought into the light, he knew. Not every truth needed to be told. And he knew she was right. He’d seen their faces as she’d fled. She’d said too much. He didn’t understand it, couldn’t see it, but he knew something foul had just come to light, come to life.