A Rule Against Murder

She’d rarely seen Pierre so upset by one of the young workers. She herself liked Elliot. Everyone did, as far as she could tell. Was that why the maître d’ was so upset? Was he jealous?



She watched him for a moment, his slim fingers arranging the tray.



No, she thought. It wasn’t jealousy. It was something else.



“He just doesn’t listen,” said Pierre, setting the tray aside and sitting across from her. They were alone in the kitchen now. The washing up was done, the dishes away, the surfaces scrubbed. It smelled of espresso and mint and fruit. “He came here to learn, and he won’t listen. I just don’t understand.” He uncorked the cognac and poured.



“He’s young. It’s his first time away from home. And you’ll only make it worse by pushing. Let it go.”



Pierre sipped, and nodded. It was relaxing being around Chef Véronique, though he knew she scared the crap out of the new employees. She was huge and beefy, her face like a pumpkin and her voice like a root vegetable. And she had knives. Lots of them. And cleavers and cast-iron pans.



Seeing her for the first time new employees could be excused for thinking they’d taken a wrong turn on the dirt road into the woods, and ended up at a lumber camp instead of the refined Manoir Bellechasse. Chef Véronique looked like a short-order cook in a cantine.



“He needs to know who’s in charge,” said Pierre firmly.



“He does know. He just doesn’t like it.”



The maître d’ had had a hard day, she could see. She took the largest truffle from the tray and handed it to him.



He ate it absently.



“Ilearned French late in life,” Mrs. Finney said, examining her son’s cards.



They’d switched to the library and to French and now the elderly woman was slowly circling the card table, peering into each hand. Occasionally she’d reach out a gnarled finger and tap a certain card. At first she’d limited her help to her son and his wife, but tonight she’d included the Gamaches in her rounds. It was a friendly game, and no one seemed to mind, certainly not Armand Gamache, who could use the help.



The room was lined with books, broken only by the huge river-stone fireplace and the wall of French doors, looking into the darkness. They were open, to catch what little breeze the hot Quebec evening had to offer, which wasn’t much. What it did offer was a constant trill of calls from the wild.



Worn oriental carpets were scattered about the old pine floor and comfortable chairs and sofas were grouped together for intimate conversations or a private read. Arrangements of fresh flowers were placed here and there. The Manoir Bellechasse managed to be both rustic and refined. Rough-hewn logs on the outside and fine crystal within.



“You live in Quebec?” Reine-Marie spoke slowly and distinctly.



“I was born in Montreal but now live in Toronto. Closer to my friends. Most left Quebec years ago, but I stayed. Back then we didn’t need French. Just enough to speak to our maids.”



Mrs. Finney’s French was good, but heavily accented.



“Mother.” Thomas reddened.



“I remember those days,” said Reine-Marie. “My mother cleaned houses.”



Mrs. Finney and Reine-Marie chatted about hard work and raising families, about the Quiet Revolution in the 1960s, when the Québécois finally became “maîtres chez nous.” Masters in their own house.



“Though my mother still cleaned the houses of the English in Westmount,” said Reine-Marie, organizing her cards. “One no trump.”



Madame Finney beetled over to look, nodding approval. “I hope her employers were kinder to her. I’m ashamed to say I had to learn that too. It was almost as hard as the subjunctive.”



“It was a remarkable time,” said Gamache. “Thrilling for most French Canadians, but I know it came at a terrible price for the English.”



“We lost our children,” said Mrs. Finney, moving round the table to peer into his hand. “They went away to find jobs in a language they could speak. You might have become masters, but we became foreigners, unwelcome in our own home. You’re right. It was terrible.”



She tapped the ten of clubs in his hand, his highest card. Her voice was without sentiment or self-pity. But with, perhaps, a bit of reproach.



“Pass,” said Gamache. He was partnered with Sandra, and Reine-Marie was playing with Thomas.



“I leave Quebec,” said Thomas, who seemed to understand French better than he spoke it, which was certainly better than the other way round. “Went far to university and settle on Toronto. Quebec hard.”