Gamache nodded. It was closed now but it’d been the favorite cocktail lounge for generations of Montreal Anglos. It was in the basement of the Ritz.

“Well, Julia Morrow gives good head was written in the men’s washroom of the Oyster Bar. According to Marianna her father saw it then heard a bunch of his friends laughing about it. He went ballistic.”

“Who put it there?” Gamache asked.

“I don’t know,” said Lacoste. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask Marianna.

Their breakfasts arrived. Scrambled eggs with spinach and Brie for the Chief Inspector. A few maple-cured rashers of bacon lay over the eggs and a small fruit salad garnished the plate. Lacoste had ordered eggs Benedict and Beauvoir had the largest dish on the menu. A platter heaped with crêpes, eggs, sausages and back bacon sat in front of him.

A waiter left a basket of croissants along with a tray of homemade wild strawberry and blueberry confitures, and honey.

“Someone had it in for her,” said Lacoste, the hollandaise sauce dripping from her fork. “Girls who don’t give out are often labelled sluts by disappointed boys.”

“It’s a terrible thing to do to a girl,” said Gamache, thinking of wispy Julia. “How old would she have been? Twenty?”

“Twenty-two,” said Lacoste.

“I wonder if Thomas could have written it,” said Gamache.

“Why him?” asked Beauvoir.

“It would need to be someone who knew the phone number, knew Charles Morrow’s habits, and knew Julia. And it would need to be someone cruel.”

“According to Marianna they’re all cruel,” said Beauvoir.

“Could’ve been Thomas,” said Lacoste. She reached for a croissant, still warm from the oven, and cracking it open she spread golden honey on it. “But that’s thirty-five years ago. We can’t judge the man by what the boy did.”

“True, but Thomas lied and told Julia we were talking about men’s toilets when we weren’t,” said Gamache. “We were talking about washrooms in general. He wanted her to react. He wanted to hurt her, I know that now. And he did. He’s still cruel.”

“Maybe it’s a joke to him. Families have lots of in jokes,” said Beauvoir.

“Jokes are funny,” said Gamache. “This was meant to hurt.”

“It’s a form of abuse,” said Lacoste and beside her Beauvoir groaned. She turned to him. “You think only a fist in a woman’s face is abuse?”

“Look, I know all about verbal and emotional abuse, and I understand,” he said and meant. “But where does it end? The guy teased his sister about an event from years ago, and it’s supposed to be abuse?”

“Some families have long memories,” said Gamache, “especially for slights.”

He dipped a spoon into the honey and drizzled it on a warm croissant. He tasted it and smiled.

It tasted of fragrant summer flowers.

“According to Marianna their father wasn’t so worried about whether Julia gave good head, but that everyone believed it,” said Lacoste.

“And Julia left because of that?” said Gamache. “It’s not trivial, I know, but was it actually enough to send her across the continent?”

“Hurt feelings,” said Lacoste. “I’d rather have a bruise any day.”

Beauvoir felt his nose throbbing, and knew she was right.

Gamache nodded, trying to imagine the scene. Julia, who’d probably never put a step wrong her whole life, is suddenly humiliated in front of all Montreal Anglo society. It might not be large, it might not be as powerful as it pretended, but it was where the Morrows lived. And suddenly Julia Morrow was branded a slut. Humiliated.

But the worst was to come. Instead of defending her, Charles Morrow, upright and upstanding and as immovable then as now, had attacked her as well, or at least failed to defend her. She’d loved him, and he’d stepped aside and let the hyenas have at her.

Julia Morrow had left. Gone as far from her family as she could. To British Columbia. Married David Martin, a man her father disapproved of. Divorced. Then come home. And been murdered.

“I spoke to Peter last night,” said Gamache and told them about his conversation.

“So he thinks Bert Finney killed Julia,” said Lacoste, “for the insurance?”

“OK, suppose he did it,” said Beauvoir, after swallowing a piece of savory sausage, dripping maple syrup. “Again, he’s like, a hundred and fifty. He’s older than he weighs. How could he shove that huge statue off the pedestal? You might as well say that kid did it.”