A Rule Against Murder

Gamache twisted in the chair. Bert Finney was standing on the shore, at the foot of the dock. Gamache struggled out of the chair and lifted the tray, indicating the seat next to him. Monsieur Finney hobbled forward, long and uncoordinated, all gangling arms and legs like a puppeteer’s poor first attempt. And yet he stood erect. It looked an effort.



“Please.” Gamache pointed to the chair.



“I’d rather stand.”



The old man was shorter than the Chief Inspector, though not by much and Gamache thought he’d probably been taller before age and gravity got him. Now Bert Finney pulled himself even more erect and faced Gamache. His eyes were less willful this morning, and his nose less red. Or perhaps, Gamache thought, I’ve grown accustomed to him as one grows accustomed to chipping paint or a dent in a car. For the first time Gamache noticed there was a pair of binoculars hanging like an anchor round Finney’s bony neck.



“I’m afraid I shocked you last night. I didn’t mean to.” Finney looked directly at Gamache, or at least his wandering eyes paused on him.



“You surprised me, it’s true.”



“I’m sorry.”



It was said with such dignity, such simplicity, it left Gamache speechless for a moment.



“It’s been a while since I’ve heard people talk about my father. Did you know him personally?” Gamache again indicated the chair and this time Finney bent into it.



“Coffee?”



“Please. Black.”



Gamache poured a cup for Monsieur Finney and refreshed his own, then brought over the basket with croissants and rested it on the generous arm of his chair, offering one to his unexpected guest.



“I met him at the end of the war.”



“You were a prisoner?”



Finney’s mouth twisted into what Gamache thought was a smile. Finney stared across the water for a moment then closed his eyes. Gamache waited.



“No, Chief Inspector, I’ve never been a prisoner. I wouldn’t allow it.”



“Some people have no choice, monsieur.”



“You think not?”



“How did you know my father?”



“I’d just returned to Montreal and your father was giving speeches. I heard one of them. Very passionate. I spoke to him afterward and we struck up an acquaintance. I was so sorry to hear he’d been killed. Car accident, was it?”



“With my mother.”



Armand Gamache had trained his voice to sound neutral, as though delivering news. Just facts. It was a long time ago. More than forty years. His father was now dead longer than he’d lived. His mother as well.



But Gamache’s right hand lifted slightly off the warming wood and curled upward, as though lightly holding another, a larger, hand.



“Terrible,” said Finney. They sat quietly, each in his own thoughts. The mist was slowly burning off the lake and every now and then a bird skimmed the surface, hungry for insects. Gamache was surprised how companionable it felt to be alone with this quiet man. This man who knew his father, and hadn’t yet said what most people did. This man, Gamache realized, who would be almost exactly his father’s age, had he lived.



“It feels like our own world, doesn’t it?” Finney said. “I love this time of day. So pleasant to sit and think.”



“Or not,” said Gamache and both men smiled. “You came here last night too. You have a lot to think about?”



“I do. I come here to do my sums. It’s a natural place for it.”



It seemed an unnatural place for counting to Gamache. And Finney didn’t seem to have a notebook or ledger. What had Peter said the night before? The old accountant had married his mother for the money, and killed Julia for money as well. And now the elderly man was sitting on a dock in a remote lake, counting. Greed didn’t lessen with age, Gamache knew. If anything it grew, fueled by fear of not having enough, of things left undone. Of dying destitute. Though it might not be money he was counting. It might be birds.



“You birdwatch?”



“I do,” said Finney, bringing his hand up to finger the binoculars. “I have quite a life-list. Sparrows, of course, and cardinals. Black-crested bulbul and white-throated babbler. Marvellous names. I’ve seen most of the birds here before, but you never know what you might find.”



They sipped their coffee and ate their croissants, batting away hungry flies. Dragonflies skimmed the water around the dock, graceful and bright as the sun caught their wings and luminous bodies.



“Do you know of a bird without feet?”



“Without feet?” Instead of laughing Finney considered the question carefully. “Why would a bird have no feet?”