same thing. The play of light and dark. That’s what I see. A whole lot of light, but a whole lot of dark too. That’s what people miss in Clara’s works. The light is so obvious they get fooled by it. It takes some people a while to appreciate the shading. I think that’s one of the things that makes her brilliant. She’s very subtle, but very subversive. She has a lot to say, and takes her time revealing it.”
They started walking again. On the village green they noticed Clara plunking down beside Ruth. They watched as Ruth fired chunks of stale bread at the birds. It was unclear if she was trying to feed them or kill them.
Francois Marois’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the woman in Clara’s portrait,” he said.
“It is. Ruth Zardo.”
“The poet? I thought she was dead.”
“It’s a natural mistake,” said Gamache, waving at Ruth, who gave him the finger. “Her brain seems fine, it’s only her heart that’s stopped.”
The afternoon sun was directly on Francois Marois, forcing the dealer to squint. But behind him there extended a long and definite shadow.
“Why do you want both Morrows,” Gamache asked, “when you obviously prefer Clara’s works? Do you even like Peter Morrow’s paintings?”
“No, I don’t. I find them very superficial. Calculated. He’s a good artist, but I think he could be a great one, if he could use more instinct and less technique. He’s a very good draftsman.”
It was said without malice, making the cold analysis all the more damning. And perhaps true.
“You said you had only so much time and energy left,” persisted Gamache. “I can see why you’d choose Clara. But why Peter, an artist you don’t even like?”
Marois hesitated. “It’s just easier to manage. We can make career decisions for both of them. I want Clara to be happy, and I think she’s happiest if Peter is also looked after.”
Gamache looked at the art dealer. It was an astute observation. But it didn’t go far enough. Marois had made it about Clara and Peter’s happiness. Deflecting the question.
Then the Chief Inspector remembered the story Marois told, of his first client. The elderly artist whose wife overtook him. And, to protect her husband’s fragile ego the woman had never painted again.
Was that what Marois was afraid of? Losing his final client, his final find, because Clara’s love for Peter was greater than her love for art?
Or was it, again, even more personal? Did it have nothing to do with Clara, with Peter, with art? Was Francois Marois simply afraid of losing?
Andre Castonguay owned art. But Francois Marois owned the artists. Who was the more powerful? But also the more vulnerable?
Framed paintings couldn’t get up and leave. But the artists could.
What was Francois Marois afraid of? Gamache asked himself again.
“Why are you here?”
Marois looked surprised. “I’ve already told you, Chief Inspector. Twice. I’m here to try to sign Peter and Clara Morrow.”
“And yet you claim not to care if Monsieur Castonguay gets there first.”
“I can’t control other people’s stupidity,” smiled Marois.
Gamache considered the man, and as he did the art dealer’s smile wavered.
“I’m late for drinks, monsieur,” said Gamache pleasantly. “If we have nothing more to talk about I’ll be going.”
He turned and walked toward the bistro.
* * *
“Bread?” Ruth offered Clara what looked and felt like a brick.
They each hacked off pieces. Ruth tossed them at the robins, who darted away. Clara just pelted the ground at her feet.
Thump, thump, thud.
“I hear the critics saw something in your paintings I sure don’t see,” said Ruth.
“What d’you mean?”
“They liked them.”
Thud, thud, thud.
“Not all,” laughed Clara. “The
“Ahh, the
