British Columbia.”
“Is that right? We didn’t talk about that.”
He was lying. He did it well, a skill that came with practice. But his eyes instead of shifting met Gamache’s and held them, too long, too hard.
“Thank you for the coffee,” said Gamache, breaking the moment. Elliot was perplexed, then smiled and left. Gamache watched his retreat and thought of what Elliot had said. Madame Martin noticed. And he thought that was probably true.
Is that what killed her? Not something buried in the past, but something fresh and vigorous? And deadly. Something she’d seen or heard here at the Manoir?
Settling into the chair on the wooden dock Gamache sipped coffee and stared at the lake and the forested mountains all around. He cradled the delicate cup in his large hands and let his mind wander. Instead of forcing himself to focus on the case he tried to open his mind, to empty it. And see what came to him.
What came to him was a bird, a footless bird. Then Ulysses and the whirlpool, and Scylla, the monster. The white pedestal.
He saw young Bean, earthbound and trapped among the stuffed heads in the attic. They might have been Morrows, meant more as trophies than children. All head, all stuffed and staring.
But mostly he saw Charles Morrow, looming over this case. Hard, burdened, bound.
“Am I disturbing you?”
Gamache twisted in the chair. Bert Finney was standing on the shore, at the foot of the dock. Gamache struggled out of the chair and lifted the tray, indicating the seat next to him. Monsieur Finney hobbled forward, long and uncoordinated, all gangling arms and legs like a puppeteer’s poor first attempt. And yet he stood erect. It looked an effort.
“Please.” Gamache pointed to the chair.
“I’d rather stand.”
The old man was shorter than the Chief Inspector, though not by much and Gamache thought he’d probably been taller before age and gravity got him. Now Bert Finney pulled himself even more erect and faced Gamache. His eyes were less willful this morning, and his nose less red. Or perhaps, Gamache thought, I’ve grown accustomed to him as one grows accustomed to chipping paint or a dent in a car. For the first time Gamache noticed there was a pair of binoculars hanging like an anchor round Finney’s bony neck.
“I’m afraid I shocked you last night. I didn’t mean to.” Finney looked directly at Gamache, or at least his wandering eyes paused on him.
“You surprised me, it’s true.”
“I’m sorry.”
It was said with such dignity, such simplicity, it left Gamache speechless for a moment.
“It’s been a while since I’ve heard people talk about my father. Did you know him personally?” Gamache again indicated the chair and this time Finney bent into it.
“Coffee?”
“Please. Black.”
Gamache poured a cup for Monsieur Finney and refreshed his own, then brought over the basket with croissants and rested it on the generous arm of his chair, offering one to his unexpected guest.
“I met him at the end of the war.”
“You were a prisoner?”
Finney’s mouth twisted into what Gamache thought was a smile. Finney stared across the water for a moment then closed his eyes. Gamache waited.
“No, Chief Inspector, I’ve never been a prisoner. I wouldn’t allow it.”
“Some people have no choice, monsieur.”
“You think not?”
“How did you know my father?”
“I’d just returned to Montreal and your father was giving speeches. I heard one of them. Very passionate. I spoke to him afterward and we struck up an acquaintance. I was so sorry to hear he’d been killed. Car accident, was it?”
“With my mother.”
Armand Gamache had trained his voice to sound neutral, as though delivering news. Just facts. It was a long time ago. More than forty years. His father was now dead longer than he’d lived. His mother as well.
But Gamache’s right hand lifted slightly off the warming wood and curled upward, as though lightly holding another, a larger, hand.
“Terrible,” said Finney. They sat quietly, each in his own thoughts. The mist was slowly burning off the lake and every now and then a bird skimmed the surface, hungry for insects. Gamache was surprised how companionable it felt to be alone with this quiet man. This man who knew his father, and hadn’t yet said what most people did. This man, Gamache realized, who would be almost exactly his father’s age, had he lived.
“It feels like our own world, doesn’t it?” Finney said. “I love this time of day. So pleasant to sit and think.”
“Or not,” said Gamache and both men smiled. “You came here last night