Peter felt the last restraints tear apart. He wanted to warn Gamache, to tell him to run, to flee from him, to hide in the forest until this riot had passed. Until the writhing, stinking, armed escapees had burned and violated everything in sight and moved on to another target. But it was too late, and he knew the man in front of him would never run.
Morrows ran and hid in smiling cynicism and dark sarcasm.
This man stood his ground.
“And your father?” Gamache asked, as though Peter hadn’t sprayed his face with spittle. “What did he say to you?”
“My father? But you already know what he said. Never use the first stall in a public washroom. Who fucking says that to a ten-year-old? You know the other lesson we were taught? Beware the third generation.”
“What does that mean?”
“The first generation makes the money, the second appreciates it, having witnessed the sacrifice, and the third squanders it. We’re the third generation. The four of us. Our father hated us, thought we’d steal his money, ruin the family. He was so afraid of spoiling us he never gave us anything, except stupid advice. Words. That was all.”
Was that the burden Gamache had seen etched in that stone face? Not sacrifice, but fear? Was Charles Morrow afraid his own children would betray him? Had he created the very thing he was so afraid of? Unhappy, unloving, ungrateful children? Children capable of stealing from their father, and killing each other?
“Who do you think killed your sister?”
It took Peter a minute to be able to speak again, to change direction.
“I think it was Bert Finney.”
“Why would he kill Julia?” It was almost dark now.
“For money, always for money. I’m sure my mother’s the beneficiary of her insurance. He married my mother for money and now he’ll get more than he dreamed.”
They continued their walk down to the dock and the two Adirondack chairs reclining on the gray, weathered wood. Peter was drained. Their feet echoed on the slats and water gently lapped against the wharf.
As they approached one of the chairs moved. The men stopped.
The wooden chair grew before their eyes, outlined against the last of the light.
“Monsieur Gamache?” the chair said.
“Oui.” Gamache took a step forward though Peter reached out to grab him back.
“Armand Gamache? That is your name, didn’t you say?”
“Oui.”
“I knew your father,” said Bert Finney. “His name was Honoré. Honoré Gamache.”
NINETEEN
After dropping his bombshell Bert Finney had simply departed, jerking past the two men without another word.
“What did he mean by that?” Peter asked. “He knew your father?”
“They’d be of an age,” said Gamache, his mind hurrying. He’d picked it, and his heart, up from the dock and shoved them back into his body.
“Has your father ever mentioned him? Bert Finney?” As though Gamache didn’t know who’d spoken.
“My father died when I was a child.”
“Murdered?” Peter asked.
Gamache turned to him. “Murdered? Why would you say that?”
Peter, who’d bunched up into Gamache’s personal space in an effort to hide, took a step back. “Well, you’re in homicide, I thought maybe . . .” Peter’s voice trailed off. There was silence then, except the gentle lap of the water. “He must have been young,” Peter finally said.
“He was forty-eight.” And five months, and fourteen days.
Peter nodded, and though he longed to leave he stayed with Gamache while the large man stared out into the lake.
And seven hours. And twenty-three minutes.
And once all the light had gone, the two men walked back to the Manoir, in silence.
Gamache’s alarm went off at five thirty the next morning and after a refreshing shower he dressed, picked up his notebook and left. The summer sun was just up and wandering in the lace-curtained windows. Nothing stirred, except a loon calling across the lake.
As he descended the wide stairs he heard a noise in the kitchen. Poking his head in he saw a young woman and the waiter Elliot going about their work. The young man was arranging plates and she was putting bread in the oven. There was a smell of strong coffee.
“Bonjour, monsieur l’inspecteur,” said the girl in French with a thick English accent. She must have been fairly new, Gamache thought. “You’re up early.”
“And so are you. Hard at work already. I wonder if I might have some coffee?” he said slowly and clearly in French.