A Rule Against Murder

The sky was made of marshmallow, and it was falling.



Over coffee Chief Inspector Gamache put on his half-moon glasses and read the bundle of letters, handing each to Beauvoir as he finished. After a few minutes he lowered his glasses and stared out of the window.



He was beginning to know Julia Martin. To know her facts, her history. He felt the rich, thick notepaper in his hands.



It was almost nine in the evening and still bright. They’d only just passed the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. The mist was disappearing, though some hovered lightly over the calm lake. The clouds were breaking up and a hint of red and purple was in the sky. It was going to be a magnificent sunset.



“What do you think?” he asked, tapping his glasses on the stack of letters.



“They’re the strangest collection of love letters I’ve ever seen,” said Beauvoir. “Why’d she keep them?”



Agent Lacoste picked up the letters and the velvet ribbon.



“They were important to her, for some reason. More than important, they were crucial. So much so she kept them with her. But . . .”



She seemed lost for words and Gamache knew how she felt. The notes spanned more than thirty years and seemed simply a collection of thank yous for parties, or dances or gifts. Various people telling Julia Martin she was kind.



None an actual love letter. Her father had written to thank her for a tie. There was an old one from her husband before they married, asking her to meet him for dinner. It was pleasant, complimentary. All of them were. Affectionate, grateful, polite. But no more.



“Why did she keep them?” Gamache mumbled, almost to himself. Then he picked up the more recent notes, the ones crumpled and found in the grate. “And why did she throw these away?”



As he read them again something struck him.



“Do you notice something unusual about this note?” He pointed to one.



You are very kind. I know you won’t tell anyone what I said. I could get into trouble!



Beauvoir and Lacoste studied it, but saw nothing.



“Not in the words, but in the punctuation,” said Gamache. “The exclamation mark.”



They looked at him blankly and he smiled. But he also knew there was something there. Something important. As so often happened, the message wasn’t in the words but in how they were put.



“I found something else in my search,” said Agent Lacoste, getting up from the table. “I’d like to show you before the Morrows finish dinner.”



All three climbed the stairs to the guest rooms and Isabelle Lacoste led them to the Garden Room. Knocking, she waited a moment then opened the door.



Gamache and Beauvoir stepped forward then stopped.



“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Agent Lacoste asked.



Gamache shook his head. In thirty years as an investigator he’d certainly seen more disturbing things, more frightening things, more grotesque things. But he’d never seen anything quite like this.



“Why would a child have so many clocks?” asked Beauvoir, surveying Marianna and Bean Morrow’s room. There were clocks on every surface.



“How do you know they’re Bean’s?” asked Gamache.



“Because the kid’s screwed up. Wouldn’t you be if your name was Bean and nobody knew if you were a boy or girl?”



They stared at him. He hadn’t told them this yet.



“What do you mean?” asked Lacoste.



“Marianna Morrow’s kept Bean’s sex a secret.”



“Even from her mother?”



“Especially from her mother. From everyone. How fucked up is that?”



Gamache picked up a Mickey Mouse clock and nodded. What parents did to their kids, he thought, looking at the room and listening to the ticking, ticking, ticking. He examined Mickey then picked up a few other clocks.



Why had Bean set them all for seven in the morning?



EIGHTEEN



Peter Morrow stood alone just outside the yellow ribbon. The ground held a Julia-sized indent.



In life she’d torn the family apart and now she was doing it in death. Selfish, greedy and yes, cruel. He’d meant every word.



His mother had cried for her. Had only good things to say about Julia. She’d become perfect Julia, beautiful Julia, kind and loving Julia. Well, who’d stayed and looked after Mother? Who visited her and had her for dinners? Who phoned her and sent cards and gifts?



He stared at the hole and tried to feel something. Tried to remember Julia as a girl. His older sister. Born between the boys, like being born between the wars. Trodden upon and mauled as the boys tried to get at each other. They’d squashed and trampled her in the middle. Flat.