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Across the Great Room Thomas’s gray head was also bowed. Over the piano. The notes had been slow, tentative, but after a few moments Clara recognized them. Not Bach, for once. But Beethoven. “Für Elise.” It was a spry and chipper tune. And relatively easy to play. She’d even managed to peck out the first few notes herself.

But Thomas Morrow played it as a dirge. Each note hunted for as though the tune was hiding. It filled the grieving room with an ache that finally brought tears to Clara’s eyes. They burned with the effort of concealment, but the tears were out and obvious.Advertisement

Sandra cried shortbread, scarfing the cookies one after another while Marianna sat beside Bean, a shawled arm round the child’s shoulder as Bean read. They were silent now, though a few minutes earlier Thomas, Sandra and Marianna had been huddled together, whispering. Clara had approached, to offer her condolences, but they’d fallen silent and eyed her suspiciously. So she left.

Not everyone makes the boat, she thought. But HMCS Morrow was sinking. Even Clara could see that. It was a steamboat in the age of jets. They were old money in a meritocracy. The alarms were sounding. But even Peter, her lovely and thoughtful husband, clung to the wreckage.

Clara knew something the Morrows didn’t. Not yet. They’d lost more than a sister and a daughter that morning. The police were at the door and the Morrows were about to lose whatever delusions had kept them afloat. And then they’d be like everyone else.

Peter’s mother was sitting erect on the sofa, motionless. Staring.

Should she say something, Clara wondered. Do something? She racked her brains. Surely there was some way to offer comfort to this elderly woman who’d just lost her daughter.

What? What?

The door opened and Armand Gamache appeared. The music stopped and even Peter looked up. Behind Gamache came Inspector Beauvoir, Agent Lacoste and the young Sûreté officer.

“You bastard,” said Thomas, standing so abruptly the piano bench fell over.

He started toward Gamache.

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“Thomas,” his mother commanded. He stopped. Mrs. Finney rose and walked a few paces into the center of the room. “Have you arrested this man?” She spoke to Beauvoir and nodded toward Gamache.

“I’d like to introduce Chief Inspector Gamache, the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec,” said Beauvoir.

The Morrows, except Peter and Clara, stared at the open door, expecting the great man to appear. Slowly, excruciatingly, their gaze fell back. To the large man in front of them. To the shopkeeper.

“Him?” said Marianna.

“Is this a joke?” With each word Sandra expelled shortbread crumbs onto the carpet.

“Bonjour.” He bowed solemnly. “I’m afraid he does mean me.”

“You’re a cop?” asked Thomas, trying to grasp that the chief suspect had become the Chief Inspector. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I didn’t think it mattered. We were guests together, nothing more. Until this morning.” He turned to Mrs. Finney. “Would you still like to see your daughter? I couldn’t allow it before because we had to secure the site. But I must warn you—”

“No need for warning, Chief Inspector. I know it won’t be pleasant. Take me to Julia.”

She walked determinedly past him and Clara was impressed by her ability, even in grief, to change course. To accept Gamache as the Chief Inspector when Thomas and Marianna still stared, open-mouthed and suspicious. And she, first among them, seemed to have accepted that Julia was indeed dead. But was it too quick, Clara wondered.

Gamache watched Mrs. Finney move toward the door. But he wasn’t fooled any more. Earlier that morning, in the instant before he’d told her about Julia, he’d seen her avian glance, her flight around the room to see who was there, and who was gone. Which child was loved, now lost. He’d seen what she kept hidden.

“I’m going to have to ask the rest of you to stay here,” said Gamache, though no one else had made any move. Except Bert Finney.

He stopped a foot away from Gamache, his eyes focusing on a lamp and a bookcase. “I’m afraid I have to insist,” the old man said.

Gamache hesitated. The face was craven, ashen, almost inhuman. But the action was noble. He nodded.

They left the young officer behind and Gamache wondered who’d gotten the more gruesome assignment.

As they approached the yellow circle of ribbon they were again joined by the notes of “Für Elise.” The rain had all but stopped and a mist tugged at the mountains. Everything was shades of gray-green and between the notes they could hear rain dripping from the leaves. pqdm.com