A Rule Against Murder

Cufflinks. Left there, he knew, to be seen.

“We have to do something, Spot.”

“What do you mean?” With alarm Peter noticed crumbs on his shirt and quickly brushed them off.

“Someone killed Julia and that idiot of a detective thinks it was one of us.”

Now was his chance to stand up for Gamache, to tell Thomas what a remarkable man he was, astute, courageous, kind.

“Mother thinks he’s trying to compensate for his father,” said Thomas. “Must be hard to have a traitor and a coward for a father. For all the stuff we could say about the pater, he was no coward. Bully, perhaps, but no coward.”

“Bullies are cowards,” said Peter.

“That would make your friend’s father both a bully and a coward. That’s not a very nice thing to say, Peter. It’s a wonder you have any friends at all. But I didn’t ask you here to chat about you. This is about Julia, so please focus. It’s obvious who killed her.”

“Finney,” said Peter, finding his voice again.

“Well done.” Thomas turned his back on Peter and looked out the window. “Not that he didn’t do us a favor.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t done the math. Four minus one?”

His voice was wheedling, insisting Peter answer a rhetorical question.

“What are you saying?”

“You’re not really this thick, are you?”

“Mother might leave all her money to Finney,” said Peter. “Julia’s death doesn’t mean we’ll get a bigger inheritance. Besides, I don’t care. Remember who turned down Father’s inheritance? Money means nothing to me.”

And he knew Thomas couldn’t argue. It was the one incontrovertible fact, bought for a million dollars. The thing that made him different, separated him from his siblings. They knew he’d refused the inheritance, but in true Morrow fashion had said nothing. And he’d said nothing, reserving the words for just this moment.

“Oh, come on,” said Thomas, his voice dripping reason. “If it meant nothing to you you’d have taken the inheritance.”

“You’re wrong,” said Peter, but the rock-solid ground beneath him shifted. The territory he’d bought in exchange for his inheritance, in exchange for security for himself and Clara, had proved worthless. He was sinking.

“Spot claiming not to care that Julia’s death makes us richer?” said Marianna, stepping in without knocking. “Three to inherit,” she sang to them.

“You’re late, Magilla,” said Thomas.

“It’s comforting, isn’t it, knowing you’ll be rich one day?” cooed Marianna. Peter could smell her stale perfume and powder and sweat. She smelled of decay.

“I don’t care about those things, never have.”

“Now, that might work with Gamache. It might even work with Clara,” said Thomas. “But we know you, Spot. We love fine things,” he looked around the room, “and I bet your room’s spartan compared to this.”

It was.

“But you’re still the greediest of us,” Marianna finished her brother’s thought.

“That’s not true.” Peter raised his voice.

“Ah ha.” Thomas waggled his finger at his brother then raised it to his lips.

“Of course it’s true,” said Marianna. “Why do you think we call you Spot?”

Peter turned astonished eyes on her. He brought up his hands, to show them the paint spots tattooed there.

“My painting,” he said. But he could see in their faces he was wrong. Had been wrong all his life. Or had he? Had he known the truth all along, and denied it?

“We call you Spot because of the way you used to follow Father around,” said Thomas, his voice calm, explaining nicely this devastating fact. “Like a puppy.”

“And what do puppies want?” Marianna asked.

“Affection,” said Thomas, “and stroking. They want to be cuddled and told how wonderful they are. But it wasn’t enough when Father said it to you. You wanted it all. Every ounce of affection he had. You hated it when he paid any attention to Julia. You were greedy then, Peter, and you’re greedy now. Love, attention, praise, Spot. Good boy, Spot. And after Father died you turned to Mother. Love me, love me, love me, pleeeease.”

“And you shit on us because all we want from Mother is her money. We at least ask for something she can give,” said Marianna.

“You’re wrong,” Peter exploded. His rage burst out of him with such force he thought the room would shake and tremble and shatter. “I never wanted anything from them. Nothing.”