A Rule Against Murder

“No,” Madame Dubois admitted. “We never lock. Pierre’s been trying to convince me for a few years that we should, but I’m a little hesitant.”



“Pig-headed,” said the maître d’.



“Perhaps a little. But we’ve never had a problem and we’re in the middle of nowhere. Who’s going to break in? A bear?”



“It’s a different world,” said Pierre.



“Today I believe you.”



“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Gamache said. “Julia Martin would still be dead no matter how many doors were locked.”



“Because whoever did this was already inside,” said Madame Dubois. “What happened here last night isn’t allowed.”



It was such an extraordinary thing to say it actually stopped the ravenous Beauvoir from taking another bite of his roast beef on baguette.



“You have a rule against murder?” he asked.



“I do. When my husband and I bought the Bellechasse we made a deal with the forest. Any death that wasn’t natural wasn’t allowed. Mice are caught alive and released. Birds are fed in the winter and even the squirrels and chipmunks are welcome. There’s no hunting, not even fishing. The pact we made was that everything that stepped foot on this land would be safe.”



“An extravagant promise,” said Gamache.



“Perhaps.” She managed a small smile. “But we meant it. Nothing would deliberately die at our hands, or the hands of anyone living here. We have an attic filled with reminders of what happens when creatures turn against each other. It scared that poor child half to death and well it should scare us all. But we’ve grown used to it, we tolerate the taking of lives. But it’s not allowed here. You must find out who did this. Because I know one thing for sure. If a person would kill once, they’d kill again.”



She nodded briskly and left, followed silently by Pierre.



Gamache watched the door close. He knew the same thing.



THIRTEEN



“Mrs. Morrow, would you like some lunch?”



“No, Claire, thank you.”



The elderly woman sat on the sofa next to her husband, as though her spine had fused. Clara held out a small plate with a bit of poached salmon, delicate mayonnaise and paper-thin cucumbers and onion in vinegar. One of Peter’s mother’s favorite lunches, she knew, from the times she’d asked for it at their place when all they had to offer was a simple sandwich. Two struggling artists rarely ran to salmon.



Normally when Mrs. Morrow called her Claire Clara was livid. For the first decade she’d presumed Peter’s mother simply didn’t hear well and genuinely thought her name was Claire. Sometime in the second decade of her marriage to Peter Clara realized her mother-in-law knew perfectly well what her name was. And what her profession was, though she continued to ask about her job at some mythical shoe store. It was, of course, possible Peter had actually told his mother Clara worked in a shoe store. Anything, she knew, was possible with the Morrows. Especially if it meant keeping the truth from each other.



“A drink, perhaps?” she asked.



“My husband will look after me, thank you.”



Clara was dismissed. She glanced at her watch. Past noon. Could they leave soon? She hated herself for the thought, but she hated staying even more. And another thought she hated still more. That Julia’s death was a massive inconvenience. More than that, it was a pain in the ass. There. She’d said it.



She wanted to go home. To be surrounded by her own things, her own friends. To work on her solo show. In peace.



She felt like shit.



Turning to look back she saw Bert Finney with his eyes closed. Sleeping.



He’s fucking sleeping. The rest of us are trying to deal with this tragedy and he’s napping. She opened her mouth to invite Peter onto the terrasse. She longed for some fresh air, maybe a little walk through the mist. Anything to escape this stifling atmosphere.



But Peter had gone again. Into his own world. He was focused only on the movement of his pencil. Art had been his sanity growing up. The only place where nothing happened unless he made it happen. Lines appeared and disappeared according to his will alone.



But when does the lifeboat become the prison ship? When does the drug start working against you? Had her beloved, gentle, wounded husband escaped too far?



What was that called? She tried to remember conversations with her friend Myrna Landers in Three Pines. The former psychologist sometimes talked about that. People who were delusional, disconnected.



Insane.



No, she shoved the shard of a word away. Peter was wounded, hurt, brilliant for having found a coping mechanism that soothed as well as provided an income. He was one of the most respected artists in Canada. Respected by everyone, except his own family.