A Rule Against Murder

“And you wanted to get rid of Thomas’s charms too?”



Peter said nothing. It was close enough to the truth.



Gamache reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and carefully unfolded an old piece of paper. Peter reached out but Gamache withdrew it, not trusting the man with something so precious.



Peter’s hand hovered in the air.



“Where’d you get that?”



Far from being angry or accusatory, his voice was full of wonder. He sounded like a little boy shown a pirate’s treasure map, one hunted for and dreamed of for weeks and months, or, in the case of a grown man, years.



“From the artist who sculpted your father.”



Peter was barely listening, riveted on the drawing. It showed a noble, lively bird, its head cocked at an impertinent angle, its eyes gleaming. It threatened to fly off the yellowed page. Yet for all its vitality it was unfinished. It had no feet.



“You drew this,” said Gamache, softly, not wanting to break too far into Peter’s reverie.



Peter seemed to have entered the drawing and disappeared completely. Where ever it had taken him, it seemed a good place. Peter was smiling, his face relaxed for the first time in days.



“You must have been young when you drew this,” Gamache prompted.



“I was,” agreed Peter at last. “I was maybe eight. I did it for Dad’s birthday.”



“You were eight when you did this?” Now it was Gamache’s turn to stare at the drawing. It was simple, elegant, not unlike Picasso’s iconic dove. Almost a single line. But he’d captured flight, and life and curiosity.



“Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,” whispered Gamache.



Freedom.



Once, Peter knew, he had flown. Before the world grew too heavy. Now his art, instead of taking flight, did the opposite.



He looked again at the bird. The very first drawing he’d done on his own, without tracing. He’d given it to his father and his dad had picked him up and hugged him, and taken him all round the restaurant where they were eating, and shown the drawing to perfect strangers. Mother had made him stop but not before Peter had developed two addictions, to art and to praise. And specifically to the praise and approval of his father.



“When my father died I asked Mother if I could have that back,” said Peter, gesturing to the drawing. “She told me he’d thrown it away.” Peter looked into Gamache’s eyes. “Where did you say you found this?”



“The sculptor, the one who did the statue of your father. Your father kept it. What is it?”



“It’s just a bird. Nothing special.”



“It has no feet.”



“I was eight, what do you want?”



“I want the truth. I think you’re lying to me.”



Gamache rarely lost his temper, and he didn’t now, but his voice held an edge and a warning that even a Morrow couldn’t miss.



“Why would I lie about a forty-year-old drawing of a bird?”



“I don’t know, but I know you are. What kind of a bird is it?”



“A sparrow, a robin, I don’t know.”



Peter was sounding exasperated. Gamache stood up abruptly and refolding the paper he placed it carefully back in his breast pocket.



“You know I’ll find the truth. Why are you trying to stop me?”



Peter shook his head and remained seated. Gamache started to walk away then remembered a question he’d meant to ask.



“You say you all have your talismans or mantras. What Clara called your power and protection. You didn’t tell me what Julia’s was.”



Peter shrugged. “I don’t know.”



“For God’s sake, Peter.”



“Really.” Peter stood and faced Gamache. “I didn’t know her well enough. She hardly ever came back to reunions. This was unusual.”



Gamache continued to stare at him, then turned and walked out of the cool shade.



“Wait,” Peter called after him. Gamache stopped and let him catch up. “Look, I have to tell you. I stole those cufflinks and threw them into the lake because my father gave them to Thomas. They went from first son to first son. I always thought maybe he’d give them to me. I know, it was stupid, but I’d hoped. Anyway, he didn’t. I knew how much the cufflinks meant to Thomas.”



Peter hesitated, but plunged ahead anyway. It felt like walking off a cliff.



“They were the most important thing he has. I wanted to hurt him.”



“The way you wanted to hurt me just now when you talked about my own father?”