A Rule Against Murder

Gamache, who did make a habit of running, intercepted Thomas just as he was about to tackle Peter. Thomas writhed in Gamache’s arms and suddenly Beauvoir was there, also gripping Thomas and finally wrestling him to the ground. Thomas scrambled up and flung himself again at Peter, who was now hiding behind the Chief Inspector.



“Stop it,” Gamache ordered, catching Thomas’s shoulders in a jarring grip. He spoke with such authority it stopped Thomas more effectively than a punch.



“Give them to me, Peter,” Thomas growled, trying to catch Peter’s eyes where he was cowering behind Gamache. “So help me, I’ll kill you.”



“Enough,” said the Chief Inspector. “Back away, Mr. Morrow.”



His deep voice was hard and even and meant to be obeyed.



Thomas Morrow backed up.



“What’s this about?” Gamache looked from brother to brother. In his peripheral vision he saw Lacoste arrive. She and Beauvoir placed themselves behind respective brothers, ready to grab if need be. He also saw Bert Finney creak down the lawn beside Peter’s mother. They stood behind Peter, out of his sight.



“He took my cufflinks.” Thomas pointed a trembling finger at Peter, but his eyes looked beyond his brother. To their mother.



“That’s ridiculous. Why would I?”



“Oh, you don’t really want me to answer that, do you, Spot? You stole them. They were in my room before you visited and now they’re gone.”



“Is this true?” a voice behind Peter demanded.



Peter’s expression went from rage to resignation and he closed his eyes slowly. Then he turned and faced his mother.



“I don’t have them.”



Mrs. Finney stared at him then slowly shook her head. “Why? Why would you do this to us, Peter? I don’t know how much more I can take. I’ve just lost my daughter and all you can think to do is fight with Thomas?”



“Mother.” Peter started forward then stopped.



“You’re in my prayers.”



It was the insult she reserved for people beyond hope, and Peter knew it.



“Leave it, Thomas. If the cuffs are more important to him than family let him have them. I’ll get you new ones.”



“That wasn’t the point, Mother,” said Thomas, joining her.



“Not for you, no.” Mrs. Finney walked back up to the Manoir, her husband on one side, her son on the other. And Peter left behind.



He tried to readjust his clothes then gave up and stopped moving completely. He seemed almost catatonic.



“We need to talk,” said Gamache, leading him by the elbow to a grove of trees and into the cool and restful shade. He sat Peter on a bench then sat beside him. “You threw them into the lake.”



It wasn’t a question, and Peter seemed almost relieved not to have to lie yet again.



“Why?”



Peter shook his head and shrugged. Words seemed too heavy, too much of a burden to produce. But Gamache waited. He was a patient man. His father had taught him that. Poetry and patience, and much else beside.



“Thomas always wore them,” said Peter finally, speaking to his hands clasped weakly between his knees. “Clara once said that they were like Wonder Woman’s bracelets, you know?”



Gamache actually did know. Another perk of having a daughter. He brought his arms up and crossed his wrists. Peter smiled a little.



“Power and protection was Clara’s theory. She says everyone has them, but none more obviously than the Morrows. Marianna wears her shawls, Thomas has his cufflinks, Clara repeats her mantras, Mother wears her make-up, her ‘mask’ as she calls it.”



“And you?”



Peter raised his hands. “Did you not think it strange that this paint wouldn’t come off?”



Gamache hadn’t even thought about it, but now that he did it was true. All paint would come off skin, if you tried hard enough. None would stain permanently.



“When a family reunion comes along I stop scrubbing with turpentine and use normal soap. The oil paint stays on. After the reunion, when I’m back in Three Pines, I wash it off.”



Back in Three Pines, thought Gamache, picturing the peaceful village. Safe.



“Power and protection?”



Peter nodded. “When Thomas or Marianna or Mother or anyone is getting at me I just look down at my hands,” he did so now, “and I’m reminded that there’s one thing I do well. Do better than anyone else in the family.” Except, came the whisper in his head, Clara. Now Clara is a better artist than you. “I think maybe it’s stopped working.”