A Rule Against Murder (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #4)

by Louise Penny

Villagers walked dogs and ran errands or, more precisely, strolled errands.

we’re putting together a clogging demonstration. I’ve signed you up.” “Please take me back to the place with the murderer,”

“Want a hand?” smirked Beauvoir with the ease of a man who hadn’t yet found his phobia.

The Manoir Bellechasse might be built of wood and wattle, but it was held together by gratitude. A powerful insulator against harsh elements.

with a love of Quebec, if not the subjunctive.

There was an ease about him. He was an adult, she realized. Not a child in adult’s clothing, like so many people she knew. This man was mature. It was relaxing to be around him.

There was order, calm, warmth about the Manoir Bellechasse, radiating from the three adults who ran it,

He’d warned them, but he knew kids’ brains didn’t seem to have receptacles for advice, or warnings.

Rarely when the chief spouted poetry did it clarify a situation for Beauvoir.

“The Morrows are mad,” Finney continued, either oblivious of the child or used to it, “because they’ve taken leave of their senses. They live in their heads and pay no heed to any other information flooding in.”

seemed destined for disaster. A puppy beside a highway.

Beauvoir hated weakness. Distrusted it. Murderers were weak, he knew.

“Hurt feelings,” said Lacoste. “I’d rather have a bruise any day.” Beauvoir felt his nose throbbing, and knew she was right.

The Morrows could be counted on to choose the right fork and the wrong word. Their comments were always casual. And when confronted they’d look hurt, offended, perplexed. How often had Clara apologized for being insulted?

she’d lost her daughter again. Julia. Now gone, but she’d taken disappointment with her. No more birthdays forgotten, no more empty Sundays waiting for phone calls that never came. Julia at least would never hurt her again. Julia was safe. Safe now to love. That was what the void had coughed up. A dead daughter. But a beloved one. Finally. Someone safe to love. Dead, true. But you can’t have everything.

It’s not my fault, thought Lacoste. The cry of the young. And the immature.

“Would you notice if something had been put in there?” “Depends. I’d notice if it was a Volkswagen or a sofa.”

She’s probably disinherited us long ago. That Finney got her to do it, Thomas thinks. So why’re we even bothering?” “Because she’s our mother?” Marianna gave him a look

It’s a shame that creativity and sloth look exactly the same.”

Now that was art. Or, if not actually art, it was definitely beautiful. It represented structure and order, and both those things thrilled the Inspector.

“He was a type I knew. I’d never have married him. Too wrapped up in work and society and right and wrong. Not morals, of course, but things like dessert forks and thank-you notes and proper clothing.”

“And beeswax for the furniture,”

Peter was wan and strained, his clothes dishevelled and his hair awry. Clara was immaculate, buttoned-down and impeccable. Reine-Marie didn’t know which was more disconcerting.

As they drove back Reine-Marie remembered where she’d seen Chef Véronique before. It was most extraordinary and unexpected.

The truth will set you free.” She seemed almost sorry. “I believe it,” he said. “But I also believe it’s not the truth about others that will set you free, but the truth about yourself.”

“The martlet,”

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