The Brutal Telling

SEVENTEEN

“Dad?”

Marc stared from the shadow, darker than the shade, to his mother. The voice was unmistakable, indelible. The deep, calm voice that carried censure with a slight smile, so that the child, the boy, the man, had never really known where he stood. But he’d suspected.

“Hello, Marc.”

The voice held a hint of humor, as though this was in any way close to funny. As though Marc’s staggering shock was reason for mirth.

Dr. Vincent Gilbert walked out of the shed and out of the dead, into the light.

“Mom?” Marc turned to the woman beside him.

“I’m sorry, Marc. Come with me.” She tugged her only child out into the sun and sat him on a bale of hay. He felt it pricking into his bottom, uncomfortable.

“Can you get him something to drink?” Carole asked her daughter-in-law, but Dominique, hand to her face, seemed almost as stunned as her husband.

“Marc?” Dominique said.

Beauvoir looked at Gamache. This was going to be a long day if all they said was each other’s names.

Dominique recovered and walked quickly, breaking into a run, back to the house.

“I’m sorry, have I surprised you?”

“Of course you surprised him, Vincent,” snapped Carole. “How did you think he’d feel?”

“I thought he’d be happier than this.”

“You never think.”

Marc stared at his father, then he turned to his mother. “You told me he was dead.”

“I might have exaggerated.”

“Dead? You told him I was dead?”

She turned on her husband again. “We agreed that’s what I’d say. Are you senile?”

“Me? Me? Do you have any idea what I’ve done with my life while you played bridge?”

“Yes, you abandoned your family—”

“Enough,” said Gamache, and raised a hand. With an effort the two broke off and looked at him. “Let me be absolutely clear about this,” said Gamache. “Is he your father?”

Marc finally took a long hard look at the man standing beside his mother. He was older, thinner. It’d been almost twenty years, after all. Since he’d gone missing in India. Or at least that’s what his mother had told him. A few years later she said she’d had him declared dead, and did Marc think they should hold a memorial for him?

Marc had given it absolutely no thought. No. He had better things to do than help plan a memorial for a man missing all his life.

And so that had ended that. The Great Man, for that was what Marc’s father was, was forgotten. Marc never spoke of him, never thought of him. When he’d met Dominique and she’d asked if his father had been “that” Vincent Gilbert he’d agreed that, yes, he had. But he was dead. Fallen into some dark hole in Calcutta or Bombay or Madras.

“Isn’t he a saint?” Dominique had asked.

“That’s right. St. Vincent. Who raised the dead and buried the living.”

She hadn’t asked any more.

“Here.” Dominique had returned with a tray of glasses and bottles, not sure what the occasion called for. Never, in all the board meetings she’d chaired, all the client dinners she’d hosted, all the arbitrations she’d attended, had anything quite like this arisen. A father. Risen. But obviously not revered.

She put the drinks tray on a log and brought her hands to her face, softly inhaling the musky scent of horse, and felt herself relax. She dropped her hands, though not her guard. She had an instinct for trouble, and this was it.

“Yes, he’s my father,” said Marc, then turned to his mother again. “He isn’t dead?”

It was, thought Gamache, an interesting question. Not, He’s alive? but rather, He isn’t dead? There seemed a difference.

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’m standing right here, you know,” said Dr. Gilbert. “I can hear.”

But he didn’t seem put off by any of this, just amused. Gamache knew Dr. Vincent Gilbert would be a formidable opponent. And he hoped this Great Man, for that was what Gamache knew him to be, wasn’t also a wicked man.

Carole handed Marc a glass of water and took one herself, sitting on the hay beside him. “Your father and I agreed our marriage was over a long time ago. He went off to India as you know.”

“Why did you say he was dead?” Marc asked. If he hadn’t Beauvoir would have. He’d always thought his own family more than a little odd. Never a whisper, never a calm conversation. Everything was charged, kinetic. Voices raised, shouting, yelling. Always in each other’s faces, in each other’s lives. It was a mess. He’d yearned for calm, for peace, and had found it in Enid. Their lives were relaxed, soothing, never going too far, or getting too close.

He really should call her.

But odd as his family might be, they were nothing compared to this. In fact, that was one of the great comforts of his job. At least his family compared well to people who actually killed each other, rather than just thought about it.

“It seemed easier,” Carole said. “I was happier being a widow than a divorcee.”

“But what about me?” Marc asked.

“I thought it would be easier for you too. Easier to think your father had died.”

“How could you think that?”

“I’m sorry. I was wrong,” said his mother. “But you were twenty-five, and never close to your father. I really thought you wouldn’t care.”

“So you killed him?”

Vincent Gilbert, silent until now, laughed. “Well put.”

“Fuck off,” said Marc. “I’ll get to you in a minute.” He shifted on the prickly hay bale. His father really was a pain in the ass.

“He agreed, no matter how he’s rewritten it now. I couldn’t have done it without his cooperation. In exchange for his freedom he agreed to be dead.”

Marc turned to his father. “Is that right?”

Now Vincent Gilbert looked less regal, less certain. “I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t well. I’d gone to India to find myself and felt the best way to do that was to shed the old life completely. Become a new man.”

“So I just didn’t exist anymore?” Marc asked. “What a fucking great family. Where have you been?”

“The Manoir Bellechasse.”

“For twenty years? You’ve been at a luxury inn for twenty years?”

“Oh, well, no. I’ve been there off and on all summer. I brought you that.” He gestured to the package sitting on a shelf in the shed. “It’s for you,” he said to Dominique. She picked it up.

“Granola,” she said. “From the Bellechasse. Thank you.”

“Granola?” asked Marc. “You come back from the dead and bring breakfast cereal?”

“I didn’t know what you needed,” said his father. “I’d heard from your mother that you’d bought a place down here so I came and watched every now and then.”

“You’re the one Roar Parra spotted in the woods,” said Dominique.

“Roar Parra? Roar? Are you kidding? Is he the troll? The dark, stocky man?”

“The nice man helping your son turn this place around, you mean?” asked Carole.

“I say what I mean.”

“Will you two please stop it.” Dominique glared at Marc’s parents. “Behave yourselves.”

“Why’re you here?” Marc finally asked.

Vincent Gilbert hesitated than sat on a nearby hay bale. “I’d kept in touch with your mother. She told me about your marriage. Your job. You seemed to be happy. But then she said you’d quit your job and moved to the middle of nowhere. I wanted to make sure you were all right. I’m not a complete fool, you know,” said Vincent Gilbert, his handsome, aristocratic face somber. “I know what a shock this is. I’m sorry. I should never have let your mother do it.”

“Pardon?” said Carole.

“Still, I wouldn’t have contacted you, but then that body was found and the police showed up and I thought you might need my help.”

“Yes, what about that body?” Marc asked his father, who just stared. “Well?”

“Well what? Wait a minute.” Vincent Gilbert looked from his son to Gamache, watching with interest, then back again. He laughed. “You’re kidding? You think I had something to do with it?”

“Did you?” demanded Marc.

“Do you really expect me to answer that?” The genial man in front of them didn’t just bristle, he radiated. It happened so quickly even Gamache was taken aback by the transformation. The cultured, urbane, slightly amused man suddenly overflowed with a rage so great it engulfed him then spilled off him and swallowed everyone. Marc had poked the monster, either forgetting he was in there or wanting to see if he still existed. And he had his answer. Marc stood stock still, his only reaction being a slight, telltale widening of his eyes.

And what a tale those eyes told Gamache. In them he saw the infant, the boy, the young man, afraid. Never certain what he would find in his father. Would he be loving and kind and warm today? Or would he sizzle the skin off his son? With a look, a word. Leaving the boy naked and ashamed. Knowing himself to be weak and needy, stupid and selfish. So that the boy grew an outer hull to withstand assault. But while those skins saved tender young souls, Gamache knew, they soon stopped protecting and became the problem. Because while the hard outer shell kept the hurt at bay, it also kept out the light. And inside the frightened little soul became something else entirely, nurtured only in darkness.

Gamache looked at Marc with interest. He’d poked the monster in front of him, and sure enough, it came awake and lashed out. But had he also awakened a monster inside himself? Or had that happened earlier?

Someone had left a body on their doorstep. Was it father? Or son? Or someone else?

“I expect you to answer, monsieur,” said Gamache, turning back to Vincent Gilbert and holding his hard eyes.

“Doctor,” Gilbert said, his voice cold. “I will not be diminished by you or anyone else.” He looked again at his son, then back to the Chief Inspector.

“Désolé,” said Gamache and bowed slightly, never taking his deep brown eyes off the angry man. The apology seemed to further enrage Gilbert, who realized one of them was strong enough to withstand insult and one of them wasn’t.

“Tell us about the body,” Gamache repeated, as though he and Gilbert were having a pleasant conversation. Gilbert looked at him with loathing. Out of the corner of his eye Gamache noticed Marc the horse approaching from the fields. He looked like something a demon might ride, bony, covered with muck and sores. One eye mad, the other eye blind. Attracted, Gamache supposed, by something finally familiar. Rage.

The two men stared at each other. Finally Gilbert snorted derision and waved, dismissing Gamache and his question as trivial. The monster retreated into his cave.

But the horse came closer and closer.

“I know nothing about it. But I thought it looked bad for Marc so I wanted to be here in case he needed me.”

“Needed you to do what?” demanded Marc. “Scare everyone half to death? Couldn’t you just ring the doorbell or write a letter?”

“I didn’t realize you’d be so sensitive.” The lash, the tiny wound, the monster smiled and retreated. But Marc had had enough. He reached over the fence and bit Vincent Gilbert on the shoulder. Marc the horse, that is.

“What the hell?” Gilbert yelped and jumped out of the way, his hand on his slimy shoulder.

“Are you going to arrest him?” Marc asked Gamache.

“Are you going to press charges?”

Marc stared at his father, then at the wreck of a creature behind him. Black, wretched, probably half mad. And Marc the man smiled.

“No. Go back to being dead, Dad. Mom was right. It is easier.”

He turned and strode back to his home.

“What a family,” said Beauvoir. They were strolling into the village. Agent Morin had gone ahead to the Incident Room, and they’d left the Gilberts to devour each other. “Still, there does seem a sort of equilibrium about this case.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gamache. Off to their left he noticed Ruth Zardo leaving her home followed by Rosa wearing a sweater. Gamache had written a thank-you note for the dinner the night before and stuck it in her rusty mailbox during his morning stroll. He watched as she collected it, glanced at it, and stuck it into the pocket of her ratty old cardigan.

“Well, one man’s dead and another comes alive.”

Gamache smiled and wondered if it was a fair exchange. Ruth spotted them just as Beauvoir spotted her.

“Run,” he hissed to the Chief. “I’ll cover you.”

“Too late, old son. The duck’s seen us.”

And indeed, while Ruth seemed happy to ignore them, Rosa was waddling forward at an alarming pace.

“She appears to like you,” said Ruth to Beauvoir, limping behind the duck. “But then she does have a birdbrain.”

“Madame Zardo,” Gamache greeted her with a smile while Beauvoir glared.

“I hear that Gilbert fellow put the body in Olivier’s Bistro. Why haven’t you arrested him?”

“You heard that already?” asked Beauvoir. “Who told you?”

“Who hasn’t? It’s all over the village. Well? Are you going to arrest Marc Gilbert?”

“For what?” asked Beauvoir.

“Murder for one. Are you nuts?”

“Am I nuts? Who’s the one with a duck in a sweater?”

“And what would you have me do? Let her freeze to death when winter comes? What kind of man are you?”

“Me? Speaking of nuts, what was with that note you had Olivier give me? I can’t even remember what it said, but it sure didn’t make sense.”

“You think not?” the wizened old poet snarled.

“Maybe there’s something in all of this I missed.”

Gamache quoted the lines and Ruth turned cold eyes on him. “That was a private message. Not meant for you.”

“What does it mean, madame?”

“You figure it out. And this one too.” Her hand dived into her other pocket and came out with another slip of paper, neatly folded. She handed it to Beauvoir and walked toward the bistro.

Beauvoir looked at the perfect white square in his palm, then closed his fingers over it.

The two men watched Ruth and Rosa walk across the village green. At the far end they saw people entering the bistro.

“She’s crazy, of course,” said Beauvoir as they walked to the Incident Room. “But she did ask a good question. Why didn’t we arrest anyone? Between father and son we could’ve been filling out arrest sheets all afternoon.”

“To what end?”

“Justice.”

Gamache laughed. “I’d forgotten about that. Good point.”

“No, really sir. There was everything from trespassing to murder we could have charged them with.”

“We both know the victim wasn’t murdered in that foyer.”

“But that doesn’t mean Marc Gilbert didn’t kill him somewhere else.”

“And put him in his own house, then picked him up again and took him to the bistro?”

“The father could have done it.”

“Why?”

Beauvoir thought about that. He couldn’t believe that family wasn’t guilty of something. And murder seemed right up their alley. Though it seemed most likely they’d kill each other.

“Maybe he wanted to hurt his son,” said Beauvoir. But that didn’t seem right. They paused on the stone bridge over the Rivière Bella Bella and the Inspector stared over the side, thinking. The sun bounced off the water and he was momentarily mesmerized by the movement. “Maybe it’s just the opposite,” he began, feeling his way forward. “Maybe Gilbert wanted back in his son’s life but needed an excuse. For anyone else I would think that was ridiculous but he has an ego and it might not have let him just knock and apologize. He needed an excuse. I could see him killing a vagrant, someone he considered so far beneath him. Someone he could use for his purpose.”

“And what would that be?” asked Gamache, also staring into the clear waters beneath them.

Beauvoir turned to the Chief, noticing the reflected light playing on the man’s face. “To be reunited with his son. But he’d need to be seen as the savior, not just as some deadbeat dad crawling back to the family.”

Gamache turned to him, interested. “Go on.”

“So he killed a vagrant, a man no one would miss, put him in his son’s vestibule and waited for the fireworks, figuring he could sweep in and take command of the family when it needed help.”

“But then Marc moved the body and there was no excuse,” said Gamache.

“Until now. The timing is interesting. We discover the body was in the old Hadley house and an hour later dad appears.”

Gamache nodded, his eyes narrowing, and once again he looked into the flowing waters of the river. Beauvoir knew the Chief well enough to know he was walking slowly now through the case, picking his way along the slippery rocks, trying to make out a path obscured by deceit and time.

Beauvoir unfolded the paper in his hands.

“Who’s Vincent Gilbert, sir? You seemed to know him.”

“He’s a saint.”

Beauvoir laughed, but seeing Gamache’s serious face he stopped. “What do you mean?”

“There’re some people who believe that.”

“Seemed like an asshole to me.”

“The hardest part of the process. Telling them apart.”

“Do you believe he’s a saint?” Beauvoir was almost afraid to ask.

Gamache smiled suddenly. “I’ll leave you here. What do you say to lunch in the bistro in half an hour?”

Beauvoir looked at his watch. Twelve thirty-five. “Perfect.”

He watched the Chief walk slowly back across the bridge and into Three Pines. Then he looked down again, at the rest of what Ruth had written.

Someone else was watching Gamache. Inside the bistro Olivier was looking out the window while listening to the sweet sounds of laughter and the till. The place was packed. The whole village, the whole countryside, had emptied into his place, for lunch, for news, for gossip. To hear about the latest dramatic developments.

The old Hadley house had produced another body and spewed it into the bistro. Or at least, its owner had. Any suspicion of Olivier was lifted, the taint gone.

All round him Olivier heard people talking, speculating, about Marc Gilbert. His mental state, his motives. Was he the murderer? But one thing wasn’t debated, wasn’t in doubt.

Gilbert was finished.

“Who’s gonna wanna stay in that place?” he heard someone say. “Parra says they dumped a fortune into the Hadley place, and now this.”

There was general agreement. It was a shame. It was inevitable. The new inn and spa was ruined before it even opened. Olivier watched through the window as Gamache walked slowly toward the bistro. Ruth appeared at Olivier’s elbow. “Imagine being chased,” she said, watching the Chief Inspector’s steadfast approach, “by that.”

Clara and Gabri squeezed through the crowd to join them.

“What’re you looking at?” Clara asked.

“Nothing,” said Olivier.

“Him.” Ruth pointed at Gamache, apparently deep in thought, but making progress. Without haste, but also without hesitation.

“He must be pleased,” said Gabri. “I hear Marc Gilbert killed that man and put him here, in the bistro. Case closed.”

“Then why didn’t Gamache arrest him?” Clara asked, sipping her beer.

“Gamache’s an idiot,” said Ruth.

“I hear Gilbert says he found the body in his house,” said Clara. “Already dead.”

“Right, like that just happens,” said Olivier. His friends decided not to remind Olivier that was exactly what happened to him.

Clara and Gabri fought their way over to the bar to get more drinks.

The waiters were being run ragged. He’d give them a bonus, Olivier decided. Something to make up for two days of lost wages. Faith. Gabri was always telling him he had to have faith, trust that things would work out.

And they had worked out. Beautifully.

Beside him Ruth was tapping her cane rhythmically on the wooden floor. It was more than annoying. It was somehow threatening. So soft, but so unstoppable. Tap, tap, tap, tap.

“Scotch?”

That would get her to stop. But she stood ramrod straight, her cane lifting and dropping. Tap, tap, tap. Then he realized what she was tapping out.

Chief Inspector Gamache was still approaching, slowly, deliberately. And with each footfall came a beat of Ruth’s cane.

“I wonder if the murderer knows just how terrible a thing is pursuing him?” asked Ruth. “I feel almost sorry for him. He must feel trapped.”

“Gilbert did it. Gamache’ll arrest him soon.”

But the thumping of Ruth’s cane matched the thudding in Olivier’s chest. He watched Gamache approach. Then, miraculously, Gamache passed them by. And Olivier heard the little tinkle of Myrna’s bell.

“So, there was some excitement up at the old Hadley house.”

Myrna poured Gamache a coffee and joined him by the bookshelves.

“There was. Who told you?”

“Who didn’t? Everyone knows. Marc Gilbert was the one who put the body in the bistro. But what people can’t figure out is whether he killed the man.”

“What’re some of the theories?”

“Well.” Myrna took a sip of coffee and watched as Gamache moved along the rows of books. “Some think he must have done it, and dumped the body in the bistro to get back at Olivier. Everyone knows they dislike each other. But the rest think if he was really going to do that he’d kill the man in the bistro. Why kill him somewhere else, then move him?”

“You tell me. You’re the psychologist.” Gamache gave up his search of the shelves and turned to Myrna.

“Former.”

“But you can’t retire your knowledge.”

“Can’t crawl back into Paradise?” Taking their coffee to the armchairs in the bay window they sat and sipped while Myrna thought. Finally she spoke.

“Seems unlikely.” She didn’t look pleased with her answer.

“You want the murderer to be Marc Gilbert?” he asked.

“God help me, I do. Hadn’t thought about it before, really, but now that the possibility’s here it would be, well, convenient.”

“Because he’s an outsider?”

“Beyond the pale,” said Myrna.

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you know the expression, Chief Inspector?”

“I’ve heard it, yes. It means someone’s done something unacceptable. That’s one way of looking at murder, I suppose.”

“I didn’t mean that. Do you know where the expression comes from?” When Gamache shook his head she smiled. “It’s the sort of arcane knowledge a bookstore owner collects. It’s from medieval times. A fortress was built with thick stone walls in a circle. We’ve all seen them, right?”

Gamache had visited many old castles and fortresses, almost all in ruins now, but it was the brightly colored illustrations from the books he’d pored over as a child he remembered most vividly. The towers with vigilant archers, the crenellated stone, the massive wooden doors. The moat and drawbridge. And inside the circle of the walls was a courtyard. When attacked the villagers would race inside, the drawbridge would be raised, the massive doors closed. Everyone inside was safe. They hoped.

Myrna was holding out her palm, and circling it with a finger. “All around are walls, for protection.” Then her finger stopped its movement and rested on the soft center of her palm. “This is the pale.”

“So if you’re beyond the pale . . .”

“You’re an outsider,” said Myrna. “A threat.” She slowly closed her hand. As a black woman she knew what it meant to be “beyond the pale.” She’d been on the outside all her life, until she’d moved here. Now she was on the inside and it was the Gilberts’ turn.

But it wasn’t as comfortable as she’d always imagined the “inside” to be.

Gamache sipped his coffee and watched her. It was interesting that everyone seemed to know about Marc Gilbert moving the body, but no one seemed to know about the other Gilbert, risen from the dead.

“What were you looking for just now?” she asked.

“A book called Being.”

“Being? That’s the one about Brother Albert and the community he built?” She got up and walked toward the bookshelves. “We’ve talked about this before.”

She changed direction and walked to the far end of her bookstore.

“We did, years ago.” Gamache followed her.

“I remember now. I gave Old Mundin and The Wife a copy when Charles was born. The book’s out of print, I think. Shame. It’s brilliant.”

They were in her used-books section.

“Ah, here it is. I have one left. A little dog-eared, but the best books are.”

She handed Gamache the slim volume. “Can I leave you here? I told Clara I’d meet her in the bistro for lunch.”

Armand Gamache settled into his armchair and in the sunshine through the window he read. About an asshole. And a saint. And a miracle.

Jean Guy Beauvoir arrived at the crowded bistro and after ordering a beer from a harried Havoc he squeezed through the crowd. He caught snippets of conversation about the fair, about how horrible the judging was this year, really, the worst so far. About the weather. But mostly he heard about the body.

Roar Parra and Old Mundin were sitting in a corner with a couple of other men. They looked up and nodded at Beauvoir, but didn’t move from their precious seats.

Beauvoir scanned the room for Gamache, but knew he wasn’t there. Knew as soon as he’d walked in. After a few minutes he managed to snag a table. A minute later he was joined by the Chief Inspector.

“Hard at work, sir?” Beauvoir brushed cookie crumbs from the Chief’s shirt.

“Always. You?” Gamache ordered a ginger beer and turned his full attention to his Inspector.

“I Googled Vincent Gilbert.”

“And?”

“This is what I found out.” Beauvoir flipped open his notebook. “Vincent Gilbert. Born in Quebec City in 1934 into a prominent francophone family. Father a member of the National Assembly, mother from the francophone elite. Degree in philosophy from Laval University then medical degree from McGill. Specializing in genetics. Made a name for himself by creating a test for Down’s syndrome, in utero. So that they could be found early enough and possibly treated.”

Gamache nodded. “But he stopped his research, went to India, and when he returned instead of going back into the lab immediately and completing his research he joined Brother Albert at LaPorte.”

The Chief Inspector put a book on the table and slid it toward Beauvoir.

Beauvoir turned it over. There on the back was a scowling, imperious face. Exactly the same look Beauvoir had seen while kneeling on the man’s chest just an hour earlier.

“Being,” he read, then put it down.

“It’s about his time at LaPorte,” said Gamache.

“I read about it,” said Beauvoir. “For people with Down’s syndrome. Gilbert volunteered there, as medical director, when he got back from India. After that he refused to continue his research. I’d have thought working there he’d want to cure it even more.”

Gamache tapped the book. “You should read it.”

Beauvoir smirked. “You should tell me about it.”

Gamache hesitated, gathering his thoughts. “Being isn’t really about LaPorte. It’s not even about Vincent Gilbert. It’s about arrogance, humility and what it means to be human. It’s a beautiful book, written by a beautiful man.”

“How can you say that about the man we just met? He was a shit.”

Gamache laughed. “I don’t disagree. Most of the saints were. St. Ignatius had a police record, St. Jerome was a horrible, mean-spirited man, St. Augustine slept around. He once prayed, ‘Lord, give me chastity, but not just yet.’ ”

Beauvoir snorted. “Sounds like lots of people. So why’s one a saint and someone else just an asshole?”

“Can’t tell you that. It’s one of the mysteries.”

“Bullshit. You don’t even go to church. What do you really think?”

Gamache leaned forward. “I think to be holy is to be human, and Vincent Gilbert is certainly that.”

“You think more than that, though, don’t you? I can see it. You admire him.”

Gamache picked up the worn copy of Being. He looked over and saw Old Mundin drinking a Coke and eating cheese and pâté on a baguette. Gamache remembered Charles Mundin’s tiny hand grasping his finger. Full of trust, full of grace.

And he tried to imagine a world without that. Dr. Vincent Gilbert, the Great Man, would almost certainly have earned a Nobel Prize, had he continued his research. But he’d stopped his research and earned the scorn of his colleagues and much of the world instead.

And yet Being wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t even an explanation. It just was. Like Charles Mundin.

“Ready?” Gabri appeared. They ordered and just as Gabri was about to leave Agent Morin showed up.

“Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” said Gamache. Gabri took his order, and just as he was about to leave again Agent Lacoste arrived. Gabri ran his hand through his hair.

“Jeez,” said Beauvoir. “They’ll be coming out of the closet next.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Gabri, and took Lacoste’s order. “Is that it? Are you expecting the Musical Ride?”

“C’est tout, patron,” Gamache assured him. “Merci. I wasn’t expecting you,” he said to Lacoste when Gabri was out of earshot.

“I didn’t expect to come, but I wanted to talk in person. I spoke to both Olivier’s boss at the bank and his father.”

She lowered her voice and told them what the executive at the Banque Laurentienne had said. When she finished her salad had arrived. Shrimp, mango and cilantro, on baby spinach. But she looked with envy at the steaming plate of Portobello mushrooms, garlic, basil and Parmesan on top of homemade pasta in front of the Chief.

“So it wasn’t clear whether Olivier was going to steal the money or give it back,” said Beauvoir, eyeing his charcoal steak and biting into his seasoned thin fries.

“The man I talked to believed Olivier was making the money for the bank. Still, he’d probably have been fired, if he hadn’t quit.”

“Are they sure all the money he made in the Malaysian deal was given to the bank?” Gamache asked.

“They think it was, and so far we can’t find any other account for Olivier.”

“So we still don’t know where the money came from to buy all that property,” said Beauvoir. “What did Olivier’s father have to say?”

She told them about her visit to Habitat. By the time she finished their plates had been cleared away and dessert menus were placed in front of them.

“Not for me.” Lacoste smiled at Havoc Parra. He smiled back, motioned to another waiter to clear and set a nearby table.

“Who’ll share a profiterole with me?” asked Beauvoir. They’d have to solve this case soon or he’d need a whole new wardrobe.

“I will,” said Lacoste.

The choux pastries filled with ice cream and covered in warm chocolate sauce arrived. Gamache regretted not ordering some himself. He watched, mesmerized, as Beauvoir and Lacoste took spoonfuls of the now melting ice cream mixed with pastry and the warm, dark chocolate.

“So Olivier’s father’s never been here,” said Beauvoir, wiping his face with his napkin. “He has no idea where Olivier lives or what he’s doing. He doesn’t even know his son’s gay?”

“Can’t be the only son afraid to tell his father,” said Lacoste.

“Secrets,” said Beauvoir. “More secrets.”

Gamache noticed Morin’s face change as he looked out the window. Then the murmur of conversation in the bistro died away. The Chief followed his agent’s gaze.

A moose was galumphing down rue du Moulin, into the village. As it got closer Gamache rose. Someone was on its back, clinging to the massive neck.

“You, stay here. Guard the door,” he said to Agent Morin. “You come with me,” he said to the others. Before anyone else could react Gamache and his team were out the door. By the time anyone else wanted to follow Agent Morin was standing at the door. Short, weedy, but determined. No one was getting by him.

Through the glass panes they watched as the creature bore down, its long legs pumping, awkward and frantic. Gamache walked foward but it didn’t slow, its rider no longer in control. The Chief spread his arms to corral him and as it got closer they recognized it as one of the Gilbert animals. A horse, supposedly. Its eyes wild and white, and its hooves spastic and plunging. Beauvoir and Lacoste stood on either side of the Chief, their arms also out.

At his station by the door young Agent Morin couldn’t see what was happening outside. All he could see were the faces of the patrons as they watched. He’d been at enough accident scenes to know that at really bad ones people screamed. At the worst, there was silence.

The bistro was silent.

The three officers stood their ground and the horse came straight for them, then veered, shrieking like a creature possessed. The rider fell off onto the grass of the green and Agent Lacoste managed to grab the reins as the horse skidded and twisted. Beside her Gamache also grabbed the reins and between them they fought the horse to a halt.

Inspector Beauvoir was on his knees on the grass, bending over the fallen rider.

“Are you all right? Don’t move, just lie still.”

But like most people given that advice, the rider sat up and yanked off her riding helmet. It was Dominique Gilbert. Like the horse’s, her eyes were wild and wide. Leaving Lacoste to calm the skittish animal Gamache quickly joined Beauvoir, kneeling beside him.

“What’s happened?” asked Gamache.

“In the woods,” Dominique Gilbert gasped. “A cabin. I looked inside. There was blood. Lots of it.”