“I’d like to speak to your son again, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Inspector. Would you like to come in?”
She was genteel and gracious. Unlike her son. Beneath his cheerful and friendly manner there peeked every now and then a condescension, an awareness that he had a lot and others had less. And somehow that made them less.
“I’ll just wait. It’s a small point.”
After she’d disappeared Beauvoir stood in the entrance admiring the fresh white paint, the polished furniture, the flowers in the hall beyond. The sense of order and calm and welcome. In the old Hadley house. He could hardly believe it. For all Marc Gilbert’s flaws, he’d been able to do all this. Light flooded through the window in the foyer and gleamed off the wooden floors.
Gleamed.
SIXTEEN
By the time Madame Gilbert and Marc returned Inspector Beauvoir had the area rug up and was examining the floor of the small entrance hall.
“What is it?” she asked.
Beauvoir looked up from where he was kneeling and gestured to them to stay where they were. Then he bent back down.
The floor had been Varathaned. It was smooth and hard and clear and glossy. Except for one small smudge. He stood up and brushed off his knees.
“Do you have a cordless phone?”
“I’ll get it,” said Marc.
“Perhaps your mother wouldn’t mind.” Beauvoir looked at Carole Gilbert who nodded and left.
“What is it?” Marc asked, leaning in and staring at the floor.
“You know what it is, Monsieur Gilbert. Yesterday your wife said you never used Varathane, that you were trying to be as eco-friendly as possible. But that wasn’t true.”
Marc laughed. “You’re right. We did use Varathane here. But that was before we knew there was something better to use. So we stopped.”
Beauvoir stared at Marc Gilbert. He could hear Carole returning with the phone, her heels clicking on the wooden floors.
“I use Varathane,” said the Inspector. “I’m not as environmentally aware as you, I guess. I know it takes about a day to set. But it really isn’t completely hard for a week or so. This Varathane isn’t months old. You didn’t start with it, did you? This was just done within the last week.”
Gilbert finally looked flustered. “Look, I Varathaned it one night when everyone else was asleep. It was last Friday. That’s good wood and it’s going to get more wear than any other place in the inn, so I decided to use Varathane. But just there. Nowhere else. I don’t think Dominique or Mama even know.”
“Don’t you use this door all the time? It is the main entrance, after all.”
“We park around the side and use the kitchen door. We never use the front. But our guests will.”
“Here’s the phone.” Carole Gilbert had reappeared. Beauvoir thanked her and called the bistro.
“Is Chief Inspector Gamache there, s’il vous plaît?” he asked Olivier.
“Oui?” He heard the Chief’s deep voice.
“I’ve found something. I think you need to come up. And bring a Scene of Crime kit, please.”
“Scene of Crime? What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Marc, getting irritated now.
But Beauvoir had stopped answering questions.
Within minutes Gamache and Morin arrived and Beauvoir showed them the polished floor. And the little scuff mark marring the perfect shine.
Morin took photographs, then, gloves on and tweezers ready, he took samples.
“I’ll get these to the lab in Sherbrooke right away.”
Morin left and Gamache and Beauvoir turned back to the Gilberts. Dominique had arrived home with groceries and had joined them.
“What is it?” she asked.
They were standing in the large hall now, away from the entrance, with its yellow police tape and rolled-up carpet.
Gamache was stern, all semblance of the affable man gone. “Who was the dead man?”
Three stunned people stared back.
“We’ve told you,” said Carole. “We don’t know.”
Gamache nodded slowly. “You did say that. And you also said you’d never seen anyone fitting his description, but you had. Or at least one of you had. And one of you knows exactly what that lab report will tell us.”
They stared at each other now.
“The dead man was here, lying in your entrance, on Varathane not quite hardened. He had it stuck to his sweater. And your floor has part of his sweater stuck to it.”
“But this is ridiculous,” said Carole, looking from Gamache to Beauvoir. She too could shape-shift, and now the gracious chatelaine became a formidable woman, her eyes angry and hard. “Leave our home immediately.”
Gamache bowed slightly and to Beauvoir’s amazement he turned to go, catching Beauvoir’s eye.
They walked down the dirt road into Three Pines.
“Well done, Jean Guy. Twice we searched that house and twice we missed it.”
“So why are we leaving? We should be up there, interviewing them.”
“Perhaps. But time is on our side. One of them knows we’ll have proof, probably before the day’s out. Let him stew. Believe me, it’s no favor I’ve done them.”
And Beauvoir, thinking about it, knew that to be true.
* * *
Just before lunch Marc Gilbert arrived at the Incident Room.
“May I speak to you?” he asked Gamache.
“You can speak to all of us. There’re no secrets anymore, are there, Monsieur Gilbert?”
Marc bristled but sat in the chair indicated. Beauvoir nodded to Morin to join them with his notebook.
“I’ve come voluntarily, you can see that,” said Marc.
“I can,” said Gamache.
Marc Gilbert had walked down to the old railway station, slowly. Going over and over what he’d tell them. It had sounded good when he’d talked to the trees and stones and the ducks flying south. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Look, I know this sounds ridiculous.” He started with the one thing he’d promised himself not to say. He tried to concentrate on the Chief Inspector, not that ferret of an assistant, or the idiot boy taking notes. “But I found the body just lying there. I couldn’t sleep so I got up. I was heading to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich when I saw him. Lying there by the front door.”
He stared at Gamache who was watching him with calm, interested brown eyes. Not accusing, not even disbelieving. Just listening.
“It was dark, of course, so I turned on a light and went closer. I thought it might be a drunk who’d staggered up the hill from the bistro, saw our place and just made himself comfortable.”
He was right, it did sound ridiculous. Still the Chief said nothing.
“I was going to call for help but I didn’t want to upset Dominique or my mother, so I crept closer to the guy. Then I saw his head.”
“And you knew he’d been murdered,” said Beauvoir, not believing a word of this.
“That’s it.” Marc turned grateful eyes to the Inspector, until he saw the sneer, then he turned back to Gamache. “I couldn’t believe it.”
“So a murdered man shows up in your house in the middle of the night. Didn’t you lock the door?” asked Beauvoir.