A Rule Against Murder

Reine-Marie watched as he flicked his head around to rid his phantom hair of the lake water, as he’d done the first time they’d visited. And for years after that, until there was no longer any need. But still he did it, and still she watched, and still it stopped her heart.



“Come on in,” he called, and watched as she dived, graceful, though her legs always parted and she’d never mastered the toe-point, so there was always a fin of bubbles as her feet slapped the water. He waited to see her emerge, face to the sun, hair gleaming.



“Was there a splash?” she asked, treading water as the waves headed into the shore.



“Like a knife you went in. I barely even knew you dived.”



“There, breakfast time,” said Reine-Marie ten minutes later as they hauled themselves up the ladder back onto the dock.



Gamache handed her a sun-warmed towel. “What’ll you have?”



They walked back describing for each other impossible amounts of food they’d eat. At the Manoir he stopped and took her off to the side.



“I want to show you something.”



She smiled. “I’ve already seen it.”



“Not this,” he chuckled and then stopped. They were no longer alone. There, at the side of the Manoir, someone was hunched over, digging. The movement stopped and slowly the figure turned to face them.



It was a young woman, covered in dirt.



“Oh, hello.” She seemed more startled than they. So startled she spoke in English rather than the traditional French of the Manoir.



“Hello.” Reine-Marie smiled reassuringly, speaking English back.



“Désolée,” the young woman said, smearing more dirt onto her perspiring face. It turned to mud instantly, so that she looked a little like a clay sculpture, animated. “I didn’t think anyone was up yet. It’s the best time to work. I’m one of the gardeners.”



She’d switched to French and she spoke easily with only a slight accent. A whiff of something sweet, chemical, and familiar came their way. Bug spray. Their companion was doused in it. The scents of a Quebec summer. Cut grass and bug repellent.



Gamache and Reine-Marie looked down and noticed holes in the ground. She followed their gaze.



“I’m trying to transplant all those before it gets too hot.” She waved to a few drooping plants. “For some reason all the flowers in this bed’re dying.”



“What’s that?” Reine-Marie was no longer looking at the holes.



“That’s what I wanted to show you,” said Gamache.



There, off to the side and slightly hidden by the woods, was the huge marble cube. At least now there was someone to ask.



“Not a clue,” was the gardener’s answer to his question. “A huge truck dropped it here a couple of days ago.”



“What is it?” Reine-Marie touched it.



“It’s marble,” said the gardener, joining them as they stared.



“Well here we are,” said Reine-Marie eventually, “at the Manoir Bellechasse, surrounded by woods and lakes and gardens and you and I,” she took her husband’s hand, “are staring at the one unnatural thing for miles around.”



He laughed. “What are the chances?”



They nodded to the gardener and returned to the Manoir to change for breakfast. But Gamache found it interesting that Reine-Marie had the same reaction to the marble cube he’d had the night before. Whatever it was, it was unnatural.



The terrasse was mottled with shade and not yet scorching hot, though by noon the stones would be like coals. Both Reine-Marie and Gamache wore their floppy sun hats.



Elliot brought their café au lait and breakfasts. Reine-Marie poured Eastern Townships maple syrup onto her wild blueberry crêpe and Gamache speared his eggs Benedict, watching the yolk mix with the hollandaise sauce. By now the terrasse was filling with Finneys.



“It doesn’t really matter,” they heard a woman’s voice behind them, “but if we could have the nice table under the maple tree that would be great.”



“I believe it’s already taken, madame,” said Pierre.



“Oh really? Well, it doesn’t matter.”



Bert Finney was already down, as was Bean. They both read the paper. He had the comics while Bean read the obituaries.



“You look worried, Bean,” the old man said, lowering the comics.



“Have you noticed that more people seem to be dying than are being born?” Bean asked, handing the section to Finney, who took it and nodded solemnly.



“That means there’s more for those of us still here.” He handed the section back.