repeated Peter. His mother glared.
“You never disappoint me, you know. I always knew you’d come to nothing. Even Claire is more successful than you. A solo show with Denis Fortin. Have you ever had one?”
“Mrs. Morrow,” said Clara. Enough was enough. “That’s not fair. Your son’s a fine man, a gifted artist, a loving husband. He has lots of friends and a beautiful home. And a wife who loves him. And my name is Clara.” She stared along the table to the elderly woman. “Not Claire.”
“And my name is Mrs. Finney. You’ve called me Mrs. Morrow for fifteen years, long after my marriage. Do you know how insulting that is?”
Clara was stunned into silence. She was right. It’d never occurred to her that Peter’s mother was now Mrs. Finney. She’d always just been Mrs. Morrow.
How had it come to this? Here she was yelling at Peter’s mother when she meant to comfort her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right.”
And then she saw something almost as horrifying as what the young gardener must have witnessed that morning. But instead of a crushed middle-aged woman, Clara saw a crushed elderly woman. In front of her, in front of them all, Peter’s mother put her head in her hands and started to cry.
Marianna shrieked and jumped up, just as the ceiling collapsed. Or at least, something landed on her from above, and bounced.
It was a cookie.
The sky was made of marshmallow, and it was falling.
Over coffee Chief Inspector Gamache put on his half-moon glasses and read the bundle of letters, handing each to Beauvoir as he finished. After a few minutes he lowered his glasses and stared out of the window.
He was beginning to know Julia Martin. To know her facts, her history. He felt the rich, thick notepaper in his hands.
It was almost nine in the evening and still bright. They’d only just passed the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. The mist was disappearing, though some hovered lightly over the calm lake. The clouds were breaking up and a hint of red and purple was in the sky. It was going to be a magnificent sunset.
“What do you think?” he asked, tapping his glasses on the stack of letters.
“They’re the strangest collection of love letters I’ve ever seen,” said Beauvoir. “Why’d she keep them?”
Agent Lacoste picked up the letters and the velvet ribbon.
“They were important to her, for some reason. More than important, they were crucial. So much so she kept them with her. But . . .”
She seemed lost for words and Gamache knew how she felt. The notes spanned more than thirty years and seemed simply a collection of thank yous for parties, or dances or gifts. Various people telling Julia Martin she was kind.
None an actual love letter. Her father had written to thank her for a tie. There was an old one from her husband before they married, asking her to meet him for dinner. It was pleasant, complimentary. All of them were. Affectionate, grateful, polite. But no more.
“Why did she keep them?” Gamache mumbled, almost to himself. Then he picked up the more recent notes, the ones crumpled and found in the grate. “And why did she throw these away?”
As he read them again something struck him.
“Do you notice something unusual about this note?” He pointed to one.
You are very kind. I know you won’t tell anyone what I said. I could get into trouble!
Beauvoir and Lacoste studied it, but saw nothing.
“Not in the words, but in the punctuation,” said Gamache. “The exclamation mark.”
They looked at him blankly and he smiled. But he also knew there was something there. Something important. As so often happened, the message wasn’t in the words but in how they were put.
“I found something else in my search,” said Agent Lacoste, getting up from the table. “I’d like to show you before the Morrows finish dinner.”
All three climbed the stairs to the guest rooms and Isabelle Lacoste led them to the Garden Room. Knocking, she waited a moment then opened the door.
Gamache and Beauvoir stepped forward then stopped.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Agent Lacoste asked.
Gamache shook his head. In thirty years as an investigator he’d certainly seen more disturbing things, more frightening things, more grotesque things. But he’d never seen anything quite like this.
“Why would a child have so many clocks?” asked Beauvoir, surveying Marianna and Bean Morrow’s room. There were clocks on every surface.
“How do you know they’re Bean’s?” asked Gamache.
“Because the kid’s screwed up. Wouldn’t you