All this Madame Finney patiently explained to Gamache. Simply stating facts that should have been obvious, had the large man in front of her not been slightly dim, and dull, and also buried in Three Pines.

“If Peter’s finally escaped,” she said, “I won’t help you find him.”

Gamache nodded and broke eye contact to look at her walls. There he found immediate comfort in the images of rural Québec. The craggy, sinuous, rugged landscapes he knew so well.

“A remarkable collection,” he congratulated her. And his admiration was sincere. Madame Finney had an eye for art.

“Thank you.” She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the compliment and the truth. “Peter used to sit in front of them for hours as a child.”

“But you’ve put up none of his own works.”

“No. He hasn’t yet earned the right to be hung beside them.” She tilted her head toward the wall. “One day perhaps.”

“And what would he have to do to earn a spot?” Gamache asked.

“Ah, the age-old question, Chief Inspector? Where does genius come from?”

“Was that what I was asking?”

“Of course you were. I don’t surround myself with mediocrity. When Peter paints a masterpiece I’ll hang it. With the others.”

The works on the wall had taken on a different complexion. A. Y. Jackson, Emily Carr, Tom Thomson. They seemed imprisoned. Hung until dead. As a reminder to a disappointing son. Peter had sat in front of them as a boy, and dreamed of one day joining them. Gamache could almost see the boy, in proper shorts and immaculate hair, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Staring up at these works of genius. And longing to create a painting so fine it would warrant space in his mother’s home.

And failing.

The walls, the works, now seemed to close in on Gamache and he wanted to leave. But couldn’t. Not yet.

Madame Finney glared at him. How many had looked into those eyes, Gamache wondered. Within sight of the guillotine, the smoldering stake, the noose.

“All the works on your walls are landscapes,” Gamache pointed out, his eyes not leaving hers. “Most painted in Québec villages. These artists found inspiration there, were able to create their best works there. Are you suggesting that muses are confined to large cities? That creation isn’t possible in the countryside?”

“Don’t try to make a fool of me,” she snapped, the veneer cracking. “Every artist is different. I’m his mother. I know Peter. Some might thrive in the middle of nowhere, but Peter needs stimulation. She knew that, and she deliberately isolated him. Crippled him, instead of supporting and encouraging him and his art.”

“As you do?” Gamache asked.

Monsieur Finney’s pilgrim eyes came to an abrupt halt and he stared at the Chief. There was silence.

“I believe I’ve been more supportive of my son than your own parents were of you,” Madame Finney said.

“My parents didn’t have the chance, madame, as you know. They died when I was a child.”