A Rule Against Murder

“Wood?”

Pelletier nodded. Gamache remembered reaching out and stroking Charles Morrow, trying to avoid the mud and grass and blood. He again felt the hard gray surface, undulating. It felt like sagging skin. But hard, like stone.

“Wood,” he said again, looking back at the sculptor. “Fossilized wood.”

“All the way from British Columbia. Petrified.”

Agent Lacoste got off the phone with the coroner, made her notes, then opened the strong box with the evidence. There wasn’t much. Out of the box she pulled the packet of letters, tied with yellow ribbon, and the two crumpled notes on Manoir Bellechasse paper. Smoothing them out, she decided to start there.

She found Madame Dubois first, behind her huge desk calling guests and cancelling reservations. After a minute or two the tiny hand replaced the receiver.

“I’m trying not to tell the truth,” she explained.

“What’re you saying?”

“That there was a fire.”

Seeing Agent Lacoste’s surprise she nodded agreement. “It might have been better had I thought about it. Fortunately, it was a small, though inconvenient, fire.”

“That is lucky.” She glanced down at the rates card on the desk, and raised her eyebrows. “I’d love to come back with my husband, one day. Perhaps for our golden wedding anniversary.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Agent Lacoste thought perhaps she would. “We found these in the grate in Julia Martin’s room.” She handed over the slips of paper. “Who do you think wrote them?”

The two slips sat on the desk between the women.

I enjoyed our conversation. Thank you. It helped.

You are very kind. I know you won’t tell anyone what I said. I could get into trouble!

“Perhaps one of her family?”

“Maybe,” said Lacoste. She’d thought about what the chief had said. About the exclamation mark. She’d spent much of the morning thinking about it. Then she had it.

“The words, certainly, could have been written by almost anyone,” Lacoste admitted to Madame Dubois. “But this wasn’t.”

She pointed to the exclamation mark. The elderly proprietor looked down then up, polite but unconvinced.

“Can you see any of the Morrows writing an exclamation mark?”

The question surprised Madame Dubois and she thought about it then shook her head. That left one option.

“One of the staff,” she said, reluctantly.

“Possibly. But who?”

“I’ll call the chambermaid assigned to her room.” Madame Dubois spoke into a walkie-talkie and was assured a young woman named Beth was on her way.

“They’re young, you know, and most have never worked in jobs like these. It takes a while to understand what’s appropriate, especially if the guests themselves aren’t clear. We tell them not to be too familiar with the guests, even if the guests invite it. Especially then.”

After a longish wait a blonde girl, energetic and confident, though momentarily worried, came down.

“Désolée,” she said in slightly accented French, “but Madame Morrow in the Lake Room stopped to talk to me. I think she might want to speak to you too.”

The proprietor looked weary. “Another complaint?”

Beth nodded. “Her sister-in-law’s room was cleaned before hers and she wanted to know why. I told her it depended which end of the lodge we started at. She also thinks it’s too hot.”

“I hope you told her that was Monsieur Patenaude’s department?”

Beth smiled. “I will next time.”

“Bon. Beth, this is Agent Lacoste, she’s investigating the death of Julia Martin. She has a few questions for you.”

The girl looked disconcerted. “I didn’t do anything.”

It’s not my fault, thought Lacoste. The cry of the young. And the immature. Still, she felt for the kid. Not more than twenty and being interviewed as a murder suspect. One day it’ll make a great story, but not today.

“I don’t think you did,” said Lacoste in good English. The girl relaxed a little, reassured by both the words and the language. “But I’d like you to look at these.”

Beth did, then looked up, puzzled.

“I’m not sure what you want.”

“Did you write them?”

She looked astonished. “No. Why would I?”

“Did you check the grate in Mrs. Martin’s room?”

“Not closely. Some guests light their fires even in summer. It’s romantic. So I’ve gotten in the habit of just scanning it, making sure I don’t need to lay another fire. Hers hadn’t been lit. None of them have.”