“Looking at your sculpture of Charles Morrow I thought of Rodin,” said Gamache. “Can you guess which one?”
“Not Victor Hugo, that’s for sure. The Gates of Hell, perhaps?”
But the sculptor was clearly not serious. Then he thought about it and after a moment spoke quietly. “The Burghers?”
Gamache nodded.
“Merci, Patron.” The strappy little man gave Gamache a small bow. “But if he was by Rodin, the rest of the family would be by Giacometti.”
Gamache knew the Swiss artist with the long, lean, almost stringy figures, but he couldn’t make out what Pelletier meant.
“Giacometti always began with a huge piece of stone,” Pelletier explained. “Then he’d work and work. Refining and smoothing and chipping away anything offensive, anything that wasn’t just right. Sometimes he did so much refining there wasn’t anything left. The sculpture disappeared completely. All he had left was dust.”
Gamache smiled, understanding it now.
On the outside the Morrows were healthy, attractive even. But you can’t diminish so many people without diminishing yourself. And the Morrows, inside, had all but disappeared. Empty.
But he wasn’t convinced the sculptor was right. He thought there might be quite a bit of the Burghers in all of them. He saw all the Morrows, trudging along, chained together, weighed down by expectation, disapproval, secrets. Need. Greed. And hate. After years of investigating murders Chief Inspector Gamache knew one thing about hate. It bound you forever to the person you hated. Murder wasn’t committed out of hate, it was done as a terrible act of freedom. To finally rid yourself of the burden.
The Morrows were burdened.
And one had tried to break free. By killing.
But how had the murderer managed it?
“How can a statue come off its pedestal?” he asked Pelletier.
“I was wondering when you’d ask. Here, come with me.”
They walked further into the cemetery to a sculpture of a child.
“I did that ten years ago. Antoinette Gagnon. Killed by a car.”
They looked at the gleaming, playing child. Always young, perpetually happy. Gamache wondered whether her parents ever came, and whether their hearts stopped each time they turned the corner and saw this.
“Try to knock her over,” Pelletier said to Beauvoir.
The Inspector hesitated. The thought of knocking over a cemetery monument disgusted him. And especially a child.
“Go on,” said the sculptor. Still Beauvoir hung back.
“I’ll try.” Gamache stepped forward and leaned against the small statue, expecting to feel the child scrape forward, or topple over.
She didn’t budge.
He leaned harder then turned his back and shoved, feeling sweat break out on his body. Still nothing. Eventually he stopped and wiping his brow with his handkerchief he turned back to Pelletier.
“Is it fixed in place? A rod down the center into the pedestal?”
“No. It’s just heavy. Far heavier than it looks. Marble is. And petrified wood is heavier still.”
Gamache stared at the statue, about a quarter the size and weight of Charles Morrow.
“If one person didn’t move the statue of Charles Morrow, could several?”
“At a guess I’d say you’d need twenty football players.”
The Morrows weren’t that.
“There’s one other thing,” said Gamache as they walked back to the car. “The marble pedestal wasn’t marked.”
Pelletier stopped. “I don’t understand.”
“I mean there were no marks on it,” said Gamache, watching the man’s face. He looked genuinely upset for the first time. “It was perfect, polished even.”
“The sides, you mean.”
“No, I mean the top. Where Charles Morrow stood.”
“But that’s not possible. Just placing the statue on top of the marble would mark it.” He was about to suggest Gamache hadn’t looked closely enough, but decided this commanding, quiet man would have. Instead he shook his head.
“So how could the statue fall?” Beauvoir repeated.
Pelletier tilted his palms toward the blue sky.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Beauvoir, suddenly annoyed. “God murdered Julia Martin?”
“He is a serial killer,” said Pelletier, without humor. After a moment’s thought he spoke again. “When I heard about what happened I asked myself the same question. The only way I know to get a statue that size off its pedestal is with ropes and a winch. Even in the time of Rodin that’s how they did it. Are you sure that wasn’t used to bring him down?”
