“Foolish man, really,” said Finney. “Kind and generous with everyone else, but harsh with his own.”

“You think? I’ll tell you what I think. Yes, Charles Morrow was told by his own father to beware of the next generation, and he believed it. His one foolish decision. But sons tend to believe fathers. So Charles made another decision. A wise one this time. I think he decided to give his children something else, some other riches besides money. Something they couldn’t waste. While he showered his wife and his friends with wealth and gifts.” He bowed slightly to Finney, who acknowledged the gesture. “He decided to withhold that from his children. Instead he gave them love.”

Gamache could see the ropy muscles of Finney’s ill-shaven face clench.

“He thought a lot about wealth, you know,” said Finney finally. “Obsessed with it, in a way. He tried to figure out what money bought. He never really figured it out. The closest he came was knowing that he’d be miserable without it, but honestly?” Finney turned his ravaged face on Gamache. “He was miserable with it. It was all he could think of in the end. Would he have enough, was someone trying to steal it from him, would the children squander it? Made for very boring conversation.”

“And yet you yourself sit here and do your sums.”

“It’s true. But I do it privately and don’t impose on anyone.”

Gamache wondered if that was true. With Julia dead this man’s sums just got a whole lot more interesting. Killing Julia could be considered an imposition.

“So whether because he was miserly or wise Charles Morrow decided he’d shower his children with affection instead of cash,” continued the Chief Inspector.

“Charles went to McGill, you know. He played on their hockey team. The McGill Martlets.” Finney paused, acknowledging the admission. “He used to tell his children all about those games, but he’d tell them about the times he’d tripped on the ice or missed the pass or gotten smashed into the boards. All the times he’d messed up. To let the little ones know it was all right to fall, it was all right to fail.”

“They didn’t like to fall?” asked Gamache.

“Most don’t, but the Morrow kids less than most. So they risked nothing. The only one who could risk was Marianna.”

“The fourth child,” said Gamache.

“As it happens, yes. But of all of them Peter was the most fragile. He has an artist’s soul and a banker’s temperament. Makes for a very stressful life, being so in conflict with himself.”

“On the night she died Julia accused him of being a hypocrite,” Gamache remembered.

“They all are, I’m afraid. Thomas is the opposite of Peter. A banker’s soul but an artist’s temperament. Emotions squashed. That’s why his music’s so precise.”

“But without pleasure,” said Gamache. “Unlike Marianna’s.”

Finney said nothing.

“But I haven’t told you the most interesting part about the martlet,” said Gamache. “It’s always drawn without feet.”

This brought a grunt from the old man and Gamache wondered if he was in pain.

“The sculptor Pelletier etched a martlet into the statue of Charles Morrow,” Gamache continued. “Peter drew the same one for his father.”

Finney nodded and sighed. “I remember that drawing. Charles treasured it. Kept it with him always.”

“Julia learned that from him,” said Gamache. “Charles kept a few precious things with him and his daughter did the same thing. She kept a packet of notes with her always. They seem innocuous, mundane even, but to her they were her protection, her proof she was loved. She’d pull them out and read them when she felt unloved, which I imagine was often.”

Peter had said they all had armor, and this was Julia’s. A bunch of frayed thank-you notes.

“I know Charles was your best friend, but forgive me for saying this.” Gamache sat down so he could watch the older man’s face, though it was nearly impossible to read. “For all you say he loved his children, there doesn’t seem to be much love back. Monsieur Pelletier had the impression Charles Morrow wasn’t much missed.”

“You don’t yet know the Morrows, do you? You think you do, but you don’t, or you’d never have said that.”

It was said softly, without rancor, but the reprimand was clear.

“I was merely quoting the sculptor.”

Together they watched the dragonflies flitter and buzz around the dock.