Finney, hovering behind his wife. “Not tonight. Everyone will understand.”
She was dressed in a loose-fitting frock, her earrings in, her pearl necklace on. Only one thing missing.
Her face.
“Really.” He reached out and almost touched her wrist, but stopped just in time. They locked eyes in the harsh bathroom mirror. His bulbous nose pocked and veined, his hair thinning and unkempt, his mouth full of teeth as though he’d chewed them but hadn’t yet swallowed. But for once his eyes, liquid almost, were steady. And trained on her.
“I must,” she said. “For Julia.”
She dipped the soft round pad into the foundation. Bringing her hand up she hesitated for a moment, looking at her reflection, then began applying her mask.
Irene Finney finally knew what she believed. She believed Julia to be the kindest, most loving, most generous of her children. She believed Julia loved her too, and came back just to be with her. She believed had Julia not died they’d have shared their lives. Loving mother and loving daughter.
Finally, a child who wouldn’t disappoint and disappear.
With each savage stroke of her make-up, Irene Finney filled the void with a child not loved then lost, but first lost, then loved.
Bean Morrow sat alone at the table. Waiting. But not alone or lonely. Bean had brought Hercules, Ulysses, Zeus and Hera. And Pegasus.
Alone in the dining room of the Manoir Bellechasse, feet planted on the ground, Bean climbed aboard the rearing, mighty stallion. Together they galloped down the grass of the Bellechasse and just as lawn turned into lake Pegasus took off. Together they circled the lodge then headed out across the lake, over the mountains. Bean wheeled and soared and swung, high in the sunlit silence.
SEVENTEEN
A table was set in the corner of the library, by the windows, and there the three officers sat to eat. They hadn’t dressed for dinner, though Chief Inspector Gamache always wore a suit and tie during investigations and still wore it.
As the various courses arrived they went over the findings.
“We now believe Julia Martin was murdered last night shortly before the storm. That would be sometime between midnight and one a.m., is that right?” Gamache asked, sipping his cold cucumber and raspberry soup. There was a bit of dill in it, a hint of lemon and something sweet.
Honey, he realized.
“Oui. Pierre Patenaude showed me his weather station. Between his readings and a call to Environment Canada we can say the rain began about then,” Agent Lacoste confirmed as she sipped her vichyssoise.
“Bon. Alors, what were people doing then?” His deep brown eyes moved from Lacoste to Beauvoir.
“Peter and Clara Morrow went to bed shortly after you left the room,” said Beauvoir, consulting the notebook beside him. “Monsieur and Madame Finney had already gone up. The housemaid saw them and wished them goodnight. No one saw Peter and Clara, by the way. Thomas and Sandra Morrow stayed in the library here with his sister Marianna discussing the unveiling for about twenty minutes then they went to bed too.”
“All of them?” Gamache asked.
“Thomas and Sandra Morrow went straight up, but Marianna stayed for a few minutes. Had another drink, listened to some music. The maître d’ served her and waited until she’d gone to bed. That was about ten past midnight.”
“Good,” said the Chief Inspector. They were getting the skeleton of the case, the outline, the facts, who did what when. Or at least what they said they did. But they needed more, much more. They needed the flesh and blood.
“We need to find out about Julia Martin,” said Gamache. “Her life in Vancouver, how she met David Martin. What her interests were. Everything.”
“Martin was in the insurance industry,” said Beauvoir. “I bet she was insured to the gills.”
Gamache looked at him with interest.
“I imagine you’re right. Easy enough to find out.”
Beauvoir lifted his brows then looked behind him. The large comfortable sofas and leather chairs had been rearranged and now a couple of tables were shoved together in the center of the library. Three sensible chairs sat round the tables, and in front of each, neatly arranged, was a notepad and pen.
This was Agent Lacoste’s solution to the computer problem. No computers. Not even a telephone. Instead they each had a pen and a pad of paper.
“I’ll start training the pigeons to carry the message. No wait, that’s silly,” said Beauvoir. “There must be a pony express stop nearby.”
“When I was your age, young man—” Gamache began, his voice creaky.
“Not the smoke signal story again,” said Beauvoir.
“You’ll