“The family wants to know the same thing,” said Beauvoir, entering the room with Lacoste. “I just told them we think it’s murder.”

“And?” Gamache asked.

“You know what it’s like. One moment they believe it, the next they don’t,” said Beauvoir. “Can’t say I blame them. I’ve told them they can leave the Great Room, but not the grounds. And of course the crime site itself is out of bounds. Peter and Clara Morrow have asked to see you,” he said to the Chief Inspector.

“Good. I want to speak to them as well. Tell me what you know.”

Agent Lacoste sat in the wing chair across from Reine-Marie while the two men sat together on the leather sofa, heads almost touching as Beauvoir bent over his notebook and Gamache bent over him. They looked, Reine-Marie thought, a bit like Russian matrioshka dolls, nesting. Large powerful Armand hovering almost protective over smaller, younger Beauvoir.

She’d spoken to their son Daniel while Armand had been supervising the crime site. He was anxious to speak to his father about the name they’d chosen for their child. He knew, as she did, what Honoré meant to his father. And while he’d never hurt his father, he was determined to use that name. But how did Armand feel about another Honoré Gamache? And his own grandson at that?

“How did the Morrows account for themselves last night?” asked Gamache.

Beauvoir consulted his notebook. “The family was together all through dinner, sharing a table. After dinner they split up. Peter and Clara came in here and had drinks. They said you were with them.”

“Most of the time,” said Reine-Marie. “We were on the terrasse. But we could see them through the window.”

Beauvoir nodded. He liked clarity.

“Monsieur and Madame Finney stayed at the table for their coffee.” Isabelle Lacoste picked up the story. “Thomas and Sandra Morrow went into the Great Room. Thomas played the piano and Marianna took her child upstairs.”

“Bean,” said Reine-Marie.

“Been?” asked Beauvoir. “Been what?”

“Bean Morrow, I suppose.”

They looked at each other, confused, then Reine-Marie smiled.

“Bean is the child’s name,” she explained, spelling it for him.

“As in coffee?” he asked.

“If you wish,” said Reine-Marie.

He didn’t. What he wished was that this would all go away. Jean Guy Beauvoir already suspected most Anglos were nuts. And now a Bean to prove it. Who called their child after a legume?

“And Julia?” asked Gamache. “What did they say about her movements last night?”

“Thomas and Sandra Morrow say she went into the garden for a walk,” said Lacoste.

“She came into the library through the screen door from the garden,” Reine-Marie remembered. “We were all in here by then. Thomas and Sandra Morrow had joined us. So had Marianna. The Finneys had just gone to bed.”

“Did they go to bed before or after Julia appeared?” Gamache asked his wife.

They stared at each other, then each shook their head.

“Can’t remember,” said Reine-Marie. “Does it matter?”

“Movements just before a murder always matter.”

“But you can’t really think they killed Julia?” Reine-Marie asked, then regretted questioning her husband in front of his staff. But he didn’t seem to care.

“Stranger things have happened,” he said, and she knew that was true.

“What was your impression of Julia Martin, sir?” Lacoste asked.

“She was elegant, sophisticated, well educated. She was self-deprecating and charming and she knew it. Is that fair?” He turned to his wife, who nodded. “She was very polite. It made a contrast to the rest of her family. Almost too polite. She was very nice, kind, and I thought that was the impression she wanted to make.”

“Don’t most people?” asked Lacoste.

“Most people want to make a good impression, it’s true,” said Gamache. “We’re taught to be polite. But with Julia Martin it seemed more than a desire. It seemed a need.”

“That was my impression too,” said Reine-Marie. “But there was something manipulative about her, I felt. She told you that story, about her first job.”

Gamache told Beauvoir and Lacoste about Julia’s first job and her mother’s reaction.

“What a terrible thing to say to a daughter,” said Lacoste. “Making her feel she has no role in life, except to be docile and grateful.”