A Rule Against Murder

“So many things come back to him.” Beauvoir circled Martin’s name. It was easy, since it was the only name on the page so far. “She was only here because of the divorce.”



“And his conviction,” said Lacoste. “What was the case about anyway?”



They both turned to Gamache.



“You’ll have to double-check all this because it’s been a few months since it was in the papers, but David Martin ran the Royale Assurance Company, a very old, very proud Canadian company that specialized in marine insurance. It started, I believe, in Nova Scotia more than a century ago, but moved to Vancouver as the shipping trade grew with the Pacific Rim.”



“Only shipping?”



“Not under Martin. He did two things, if I’m remembering right. He expanded into buildings and infrastructure. Bridges, dams, roads. But the most brilliant thing he did, and his downfall, was he decided to spread the risks. He created a thing called Partners.”



“Surely not the first business person to have partners,” Lacoste smiled.



“Very astute of you.” Gamache smiled back. “But he spelled his with a capital P. It was like a pyramid scheme, though all perfectly legal, at first. He’d insure a bridge project, let’s say, and get a bunch of companies to take some of the risk. They in turn would sell interests to smaller companies, and they’d sell on to individuals. All called Royale Partners.”



“And what would they get in return?” Lacoste asked, her lobster salad forgotten for a moment. This sort of Byzantine dealing fascinated her.



“They paid no money,” said Gamache, leaning toward her, remembering as he went. “And they got a share of the company profits, which were huge. Most of the Partners became millionaires many times over.”



“But?” said Beauvoir.



“But they had to guarantee they’d pay for any loss.”



Beauvoir was lost. But Lacoste was with him.



“I understand,” she said. “He sold some of the profits and all the risk. He was making hundreds of millions and wasn’t in any danger if there was ever a huge claim.”



“Exactly. It worked for years, with everyone, even the smallest Partner, making a great deal of money. People were falling all over themselves to invest.”



“Did you?” Beauvoir asked.



“We were invited, but said no.”



“Smart,” said Lacoste.



“I’d like to think so, but it was really just fear. I can talk about it, and on some level I think I understand it, but honestly I don’t. What I did understand was that if something went wrong we’d be ruined.”



“And something eventually went wrong?” asked Lacoste.



“Cigarettes,” said Gamache. “One of the first things Royale Assurance under Martin expanded into was insuring the tobacco companies. They made enormous amounts of money out of the deals. Fortunes. But ten years ago a woman in Oregon sued Jubilee Tobacco after she developed emphysema. She was sixty. Family history, her mother had died of it. The tobacco company won the first round and the woman died, but her husband took it further, and eventually it became a class action suit and two years ago the Supreme Court ruled that Jubilee Tobacco was liable.”



The door to the library opened and Sandra Morrow stepped in. Beauvoir deftly stepped in front of their lists and Gamache got to his feet and went across to her.



“May I help you?” he asked.



“No, thank you. I’m just here to find a book and settle in.”



She made to go around the Chief Inspector, who stepped in front of her.



“Excuse me,” she said, her voice frigid.



“I’m sorry, madame, but this room is no longer available for guests. I thought that was clear. If not, I’m terribly sorry for the confusion, but we need it as our headquarters.”



“Headquarters? You make it sound very grand. We’re paying guests. And I paid to use this room too.”



“That won’t be possible,” said Gamache, his voice firm but friendly. “I understand your frustration, and I know it’s a difficult time, but you’ll have to go elsewhere.”



She gave him a look of such loathing it surprised even Beauvoir, who’d given and received a few of those looks in his life.



“I understand you need to investigate the death of my sister-in-law but you don’t need this particular room. There must be bedrooms. Hers even. Smaller rooms. Surely the Manoir has a back office you could use. These are public rooms, for the guests.”



“Goodbye, Madame Morrow,” he said and held out his arm to indicate the door.