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Gamache watched as the young, fresh faces closed slightly, as fear and suspicion entered this room where just moments ago they’d known they were safe. And now these young men and women knew something even their parents probably didn’t fully appreciate.

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“She was killed last night, just before the storm. Did any of you see Madame Martin after the coffee service? That would’ve been about ten thirty.”

There was a movement off to his left. He glanced over and saw Colleen and Madame Dubois sitting at the table. The young waiter Elliot was standing beside them and behind him was someone else. Given her age and costume it could only be the head chef, the famous Chef Véronique.

One of them had moved. Not a crime, but while everyone else was too stunned to budge, one of them wasn’t. Who?

“You’ll all be interviewed, of course, and I want to make something clear. You need to be honest. If you saw something, anything, you must tell us.”

The silence continued.

“Every day I look for murderers, and most of the time we find them. It’s what we do, my team and I. It’s our job. Your job is to tell us everything you know, even if you think it’s not important.”

“You’re wrong.” Elliot stepped forward.

“Elliot,” the maître d’ warned, also coming forward, but Gamache stopped him with a raised hand and turned to the young man.

“Our job is to wait tables and make beds and serve drinks. To smile at people who insult us, who treat us like furniture. Our job isn’t to help you find a murderer, and I sure as hell am not being paid enough to keep waiting on these people. I mean,” he appealed to the rest of the staff, “one of them killed her. Do you want to stay and serve them? Did you ever?”

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“Elliot,” said the maître d’ again, “that’s enough. I know you’re upset, son, we all are—”

“Don’t call me son.” Elliot rounded on him. “You’re pathetic. These people won’t thank you. They never do. They don’t even know who you are. They’ve been coming here for years and has any of them even asked your last name? Do you think if you left and someone else took over they’d even notice? You’re nothing to them. And now you’d risk your life to keep feeding them cucumber sandwiches? And you’d have us do the same?”

His face was bright red as though burned.

“It’s our job,” repeated the maître d’.

“Ours is but to do and die, is that it?” Elliot offered a mocking salute.

“Pierre Patenaude’s a remarkable man,” Chef Véronique said, speaking to Elliot but heard by all. “You’d do well to learn from him, Elliot. And the first lesson could be knowing who’s on your side. And who isn’t.”

“You’re right,” said the maître d’ to Elliot. “I will stay to feed them cucumber sandwiches or whatever they want and Chef Véronique makes. And I do it happily. Sometimes people are rude and insensitive and insulting. That’s their problem, not mine. Everyone who comes here is treated with respect. Not because they’ve earned it, but because it’s our job. And I do my job well. They’re our guests, true. But they’re not our superiors. One more outburst like that and you won’t have to worry about staying on.” He turned to the rest of the room. “If any of you want to leave I’ll understand. I for one am staying.”

“So am I,” said Chef Véronique.

Gamache noticed Colleen’s furtive glances at Elliot, then over to the maître d’.

“They’re welcome to quit, Patron,” said Gamache, who’d found this exchange interesting, “but they’re not welcome to leave. You need to stay at the Manoir at least for the next few days.” He let this sink in then smiled reassuringly. “If you have to stay, you might as well be paid.”

There were nods of agreement. Chef Véronique moved to the cutting board and handed bunches of herbs to a couple of the kitchen staff and soon the air was ripe with the scent of rosemary. A small murmur of conversation picked up. A few of the guys shoved Elliot, playfully. But the young man wasn’t ready to be jollied out of his rage.

Chief Inspector Gamache left the kitchen wondering about the scene he’d witnessed. He knew that behind rage was fear. That young waiter was very afraid of something.

“So it was murder, Armand,” said Reine-Marie, shaking her head in disbelief. They were alone in the library and he’d just brought her up to speed. “But how could someone push that statue over with their bare hands?” pqdm.com