A Rule Against Murder

Gamache watched as the elderly man twisted his torso, mimicking the movements of almost eighty years ago.



“Then my brother hushed me and pointed. Two chipmunks were playing at the base of a tree. My brother pointed to my rifle. I lifted it, took aim, and fired.”



Whiz. Plop. Tick, tick, tick.



“I got him.”



Bert Finney turned to Gamache, his eyes wild now, going every which way. It was hard to imagine this man being able to shoot anything.



“My brother cheered and I ran up excitedly. Very proud. I could hardly wait to tell my father. But the thing wasn’t dead. It was gravely hurt, I could tell. It cried and clawed the air, then it stopped and just whimpered. I heard a sound and looked over. The other chipmunk was watching.”



“What did you do?” Gamache asked.



“I shot it again. Killed it.”



“Was that the last time you killed something?”



“For a long time, yes. My father was disappointed I wouldn’t hunt with him after that. I never told him why. Perhaps I should have.”



They watched the man in the boat, the man, Gamache guessed, from the cabin across the lake.



“But I eventually killed again,” said Finney.



Bean galloped by again then disappeared into the woods.



“Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,” said Finney, watching the last flap of the bathing towel as it disappeared into the forest.



“Are they surly bonds?” asked Gamache.



“For some,” said Finney, still looking at the spot where Bean had been.



The fisherman’s rod suddenly arched and the boat rocked slightly as the man, surprised, leaned back in his seat and started reeling in. The line protested, screaming.



Gamache and Finney watched, willing the fish to flick its head just right. To dislodge the hook tearing its mouth.



“How well did you know Charles Morrow?”



“He was my best friend.” Finney broke away, reluctantly, from the scene on the lake. “We went through school together. Some people you lose track of, but not Charles. He was a good friend. Friendship mattered to him.”



“What was he like?”



“Forceful. He knew what he wanted and he generally got it.”



“What did he want?”



“Money, power, prestige. The usual.” Finney was drawn back to the fisherman and his arching rod. “He worked hard and built a strong company. Actually, to be fair, he took over the family company. It was a small but respected investment firm. But Charles built it into something else. Opened offices across Canada. He was a driven man.”



“What was it called?”



“Morrow Securities. I remember he came to work one day laughing because little Peter had asked where his gun was. He thought his dad was a security guard. Very disappointed to find out he wasn’t.”



“You worked for him?”



“All my life. He finally sold the company.”



“Why didn’t he pass it on to his children?”



For the first time Bert Finney appeared uncomfortable.



The fisherman was leaning over the side of his boat, a net in hand, dipping it into the water.



“I believe he wanted to, but he just didn’t think any of them would be suitable. Peter had far too much imagination, it would have killed him, said Charles, though he believed Peter would’ve been willing to try. He loved that boy’s loyalty and his willingness to help. He was a very kind boy, Charles always said. Julia was already gone, off to B.C. and engaged to David Martin. Charles had very little time for poor Julia’s husband, so that wasn’t an option. Marianna? Well, he thought she could do it one day. He always said she had the best mind of any of them. Not, perhaps, the best brain. But the best mind. But she was busy having fun.”



“And Thomas?”



“Ah, Thomas. Charles thought he was smart and canny, both important.”



“But?”



“But he thought the boy was missing something.”



“What?”



“Compassion.”



Gamache thought about that. “It doesn’t seem like the first quality you’d look for in an executive.”



“But it is in a son. Charles didn’t want Thomas quite that close.”



Gamache nodded. He’d finally gotten it out of Finney, but had Finney wanted him to ask, to push? Was this the reason Finney was sitting here? To steer the Chief Inspector toward his stepson?



“When did Charles Morrow die?”



“Eighteen years ago. I was with him. By the time we got him to the hospital he was dead. Heart attack.”