“Would you notice if something had been put in there?”
“Depends. I’d notice if it was a Volkswagen or a sofa.”
Lacoste smiled at this unexpected humor. The girl suddenly reminded her of herself at twenty. Just finding her way. Vacillating between being impertinent and being obsequious. “How about these, balled up?” Lacoste pointed to the papers on the desk.
Beth stared at them, considering. “I might.”
“And what would you have done, if you’d seen them?”
“Cleaned them up.”
She thought Beth was telling the truth. She didn’t think the Manoir kept workers who were lazy. The question was, would Beth have noticed the papers or could they have sat there for days, even weeks, left there by long-departed guests?
But she didn’t think they had.
Why did Julia put most garbage into the wastepaper basket, but toss these into the grate? It was a bit like littering and Agent Lacoste suspected the Morrows thought themselves above that. They might murder, but they’d never litter. And Julia Martin was nothing if not courteous, to a fault.
So if she didn’t put them there, somebody else had. But who?
And why?
Gamache, Beauvoir and the sculptor Pelletier sat in the shade of a huge tree, grateful for the few degrees’ relief it gave from the pounding heat. Beauvoir slapped at his neck and his hand came away with a smear of blood and a tiny black leg. He knew he was covered in bug bodies. You’d think, he thought, other bugs would get the message. But there was probably a reason blackflies didn’t rule the world. Torment it, yes, but nothing else.
He slapped at his arm.
A rose bush planted beside a headstone looked in need of watering, its leaves droopy and yellowing. Pelletier followed Gamache’s gaze.
“Thought that might happen soon. Tried to warn the family when they planted it.”
“Roses don’t grow well here?” Gamache asked.
“Not now. Nothing’ll grow now. It’s twenty-five years, you know.”
Beauvoir wondered whether decades of snorting cement dust hadn’t done something to this man’s brain.
“What is?” asked Gamache.
“This tree. It’s a black walnut.” The sculptor dragged his hammer hand over the furrowed bark. “It’s twenty-five years old.”