Chef Véronique had cut them each a wedge of poire Hélène. Beauvoir watched as she put plump almost purple raspberries and coulis on each plate. One was larger than the other. Had more fruit, more custard. More rich pear pie on a dark chocolate base.
She’d put the plates in front of them. The larger one in front of the maître d’.
Jean Guy Beauvoir had felt himself grow cold. In the hot kitchen, on a hot summer’s evening, he felt himself freeze over.
Now, in the bright, fresh, warm morning he felt hungover, as though he’d been drunk on emotion. Drunk and sick. But still, as he descended the wide stairs he felt himself pulled once again to the door into the kitchen. He stood outside for a moment, willing himself to turn round, to go into the dining room, or the library, or into his car and head home and make love with his wife.
The door suddenly swung open, knocking Beauvoir square in the face.
He fell back, swallowing with a massive effort the swear words that sprang to mind and tongue, in case it was Véronique who’d done it. For some reason, around her, he couldn’t bring himself to swear. He shut his eyes against the pain and his hand flashed up and held his nose, feeling something trickle between his fingers.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
It was the maître d’.
Beauvoir opened his eyes and his mouth at the same time. “Chalice, look at this.” He stared down at his hand, covered in blood. Suddenly he felt a little lightheaded.
“Here, let me help.” The maître d’ took Beauvoir’s arm, but he shook it away.
“Tabernacle! Leave me alone,” he shouted, nasally, hemorrhaging swear words and blood.
“It wasn’t his fault.”
Beauvoir stood still, not wanting this to be happening.
“You shouldn’t be standing right in front of a kitchen door at mealtime. Monsieur Patenaude was simply doing his job.”
The foghorn voice was unmistakable, as was the tone. A woman defending someone she cared about. More concerned about the attack on the maître d’ than the bleeding policeman. That hurt more, far more, than the hard door to the soft nose. Beauvoir turned and saw Chef Véronique towering behind him, sheaves of paper in her beefy hand. Her voice had been hard, censorious, like his teachers at Catholic school when he’d done something particularly stupid.
Chalice, had he said chalice? And tabernacle? Now he felt really nauseous.
“Désolé,” he said, cupping the blood as it poured off his chin. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s happened?”
Beauvoir turned and saw Gamache walk through the door. He felt relief, as he always did when Gamache was in the room.
“It was my fault,” said Pierre. “I opened the door and hit him.”
“What’s going on?” Madame Dubois waddled over, concern on her face.
“Are you all right?” Gamache looked into Beauvoir’s eyes. The younger man nodded. Gamache gave the Inspector his handkerchief and asked for more towels. After a moment he examined the damage, his large, sure fingers prodding Beauvoir’s nose and forehead and chin.
“Right, nothing too bad. Your nose isn’t broken, just bruised.”
Beauvoir shot a look of loathing at the maître d’. Somehow, Beauvoir knew, the man had done it on purpose. Somehow.
He went off and cleaned himself up, hoping to see in the mirror a heroic sports figure or a boxer wounded in the ring. What he saw was an idiot. A bloody idiot. After he’d changed he met the others for breakfast in the dining room. The Morrows were off in one corner, the police in another.
“Better?” asked Gamache.
“It’s nothing,” said Beauvoir, catching Lacoste’s amused look and wondering if everyone knew. Their café au lait arrived and they ordered.
“What have you found out?” Gamache asked Lacoste first.
“You were wondering, Chief, why Julia Martin exploded at the mention of a public washroom? I asked Marianna Morrow last night. Seems Julia had a huge blow-up with her father about that.”
“About a toilet?”
“Uh huh. It was the reason she went to BC. Seems someone wrote on the men’s room wall in the Ritz that Julia Morrow gave good head. They even wrote the phone number. The family number.”
Beauvoir grimaced. He could just imagine how Mama and Papa Morrow would react to that. Men calling at all hours asking how much for a blow job.
“Apparently Charles Morrow saw it himself. Whoever did it knew exactly where to put it. You know the Oyster Bar?”