A Rule Against Murder

Marianna looked at the child, strange by even her family’s standards.

Syphilis.

Marianna smiled. Perfect.

Syphilis Morrow. Leads to madness.

Jean Guy Beauvoir leaned back in his chair in the library and looked around. Not really taking in his surroundings, but feeling at ease. Normally he’d be making notes on his computer, checking messages, sending messages, surfing the Web. Googling.

But there was no computer. Just a pen and paper. He chewed the pen and stared ahead, using his brain to make connections.

He’d spent much of the afternoon going over writing samples, trying to find out who’d written those notes to Julia. Someone had reached out to her, and from what little they were gathering about the lonely woman, she’d be almost incapable of not reaching back.

Had it killed her? Had she been murdered by her needs?

Beauvoir had had a need of his own. For the first hour and a half he’d concentrated on one suspect. The man he knew had done it. Pierre Patenaude. Far from being difficult to find, samples of his writing were everywhere. Notes on menus, staff rotation lists, evaluation forms and even French tests he’d given the young staff, trying to teach them that the night wasn’t a strawberry and flaming mice wasn’t a menu option. It seemed the only thing the maître d’ hadn’t written were the notes to Julia Martin.

But after another hour of digging and comparing, of leaning over an old-fashioned magnifying glass taken from a display of butterflies, Beauvoir had his answer. He knew beyond doubt who’d written to Julia.

Bert Finney drew the curtains to block out the sun and watched as his wife undressed for her nap. Not a moment of any day went by when he wasn’t astonished by his good fortune. He was rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

He was patient, but then he’d learned that years ago. And it had paid off. He was even willing to pick up after her, since it got him what he wanted. He gathered the clothes from the floor where she dropped them, trying not to notice the little gasps of pain coming from this tiny woman. Who felt so much, but mostly felt she couldn’t show it. The only argument they’d ever had, and that only once, had been when he’d tried to persuade her to explain all this to the children. She’d refused.

And now Irene Finney stood naked in the center of the dim room, tears streaming down her cheeks. He knew they would end soon. They always did. But lately they’d been going on longer.

“What is it?” he asked, and knew immediately how ridiculous it sounded.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.” He picked up her slip and bra and underwear and looked up into her face.

“It’s the smell.”

And that might be true, but he thought it was more than that.

Irene Morrow stood at the Manoir Bellechasse sink, her young, pink hands ladling lukewarm water over Julia. Tiny Julia, so much more petite than Thomas, who was already bathed and in a huge white towel in Charles’s arms. Now it was his baby sister’s turn. Their room at the Manoir hadn’t changed since she’d been going there as a girl herself. The same taps, the same black rubber stopper, the same buoyant Ivory soap.

Now her hands supported her baby in the sink, protecting her from the hard taps, holding her secure so she didn’t slip. Making certain even the mild soap didn’t get into the trusting eyes.

It would be perfect, if it hadn’t been for the pain. Neuralgia they’d later diagnose, a women’s problem her doctors had told Charles at the time. He’d believed them. So had she. After Thomas. But the pain had grown after Julia until she could barely stand to be touched, though she’d never admit that to Charles. Her Victorian parents had made clear two things: the husband must be obeyed, and she must never show weakness, especially to that husband.

And so she’d bathed her beautiful baby, and cried. And Charles had mistaken those tears as a sign of joy. And she’d let him.

And now Julia was gone, and Charles was gone and even the ruse of joy was gone, not even pretended to any more.

And all that was left was pain and a sink and old taps and the scent of Ivory soap.

“Bonjour, is this the clogging queen?”

“Oui, c’est la reine du clogging,” sang the cheery voice down the phone line. She sounded so far away and yet she was just over the line of mountains on the other side of the lake. In the next valley.

“Is that the stable boy?” Reine-Marie asked.

“Oui, mademoiselle.” Gamache could feel the laughter start. “I understand your handsome husband has been called away on very important state business.”