The Brutal Telling

THIRTY-ONE

It was getting late. Agent Lacoste had left and Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Morin were reporting on their day.

“We checked into the Parras, the Kmeniks, the Mackus. All the Czech community,” said Beauvoir. “Nothing. No one knew the Hermit, no one saw him. They’d all heard of that violinist guy—”

“Martinù,” said Morin.

“—because he’s some famous Czech composer, but no one actually knew him.”

“I spoke to the Martinù Institute and did background checks on the Czech families,” said Morin. “They’re what they claim to be. Refugees from the communists. Nothing more. In fact, they seem more law-abiding than most. No connection at all with Martinù.”

Beauvoir shook his head. If lies annoyed the Inspector the truth seemed to piss him off even more. Especially when it was inconvenient.

“Your impression?” Gamache asked Agent Morin, who glanced at Inspector Beauvoir before answering.

“I think the violin and the music have nothing to do with the people here.”

“You may be right,” conceded Gamache, who knew they’d have to look into many empty caves before they found their killer. Perhaps this was one. “And the Parras?” he asked, though he knew the answer. If there’d been anything there Beauvoir would have told him already.

“Nothing in their background,” Beauvoir confirmed. “But . . .”

Gamache waited.

“They seemed defensive, guarded. They were surprised that the dead man was Czech. Everyone was.”

“What do you think?” asked the Chief.

Beauvoir wiped a weary hand across his face. “I can’t put it all together, but I think it fits somehow.”

“You think there is a connection?” pressed Gamache.

“How can there not be? The dead man was Czech, the sheet music, the priceless violin, and there’s a big Czech community here including two people who could have found the cabin. Unless . . .”

“Yes?”

Beauvoir leaned forward, his nervous hands clasped together on the table. “Suppose we’ve got it wrong. Suppose the dead man wasn’t Czech.”

“You mean, that Olivier was lying?” said Gamache.

Beauvoir nodded. “He’s lied about everything else. Maybe he said it to take us off the trail, so that we’d suspect others.”

“But what about the violin and the music?”

“What about it?” Beauvoir was gaining momentum. “There’re lots of other things in that cabin. Maybe Morin’s right.” Though he said it in the same tone he’d use to say maybe a chimp was right. With a mixture of awe at witnessing a miracle, and doubt. “Maybe the music and violin have nothing to do with it. After all, there were plates from Russia, glass from other places. The stuff tells us nothing. He could’ve been from anywhere. We only have Olivier’s word for it. And maybe Olivier wasn’t exactly lying. Maybe the guy did speak with an accent, but it wasn’t Czech. Maybe it was Russian or Polish or one of those other countries.”

Gamache leaned back, thinking, then he nodded and sat forward. “It’s possible. But is it likely?”

This was the part of investigating he liked the most, and that most frightened him. Not the cornered and murderous suspect. But the possibility of turning left when he should have gone right. Of dismissing a lead, of giving up on a promising trail. Or not seeing one in his rush to a conclusion.

No, he needed to step carefully now. Like any explorer he knew the danger wasn’t in walking off a cliff, but in getting hopelessly lost. Muddled. Disoriented by too much information.

In the end the answer to a murder investigation was always devastatingly simple. It was always right there, obvious. Hiding in facts and evidence and lies, and the misperceptions of the investigators.

“Let’s leave if for now,” he said, “and keep an open mind. The Hermit might have been Czech, or not. Either way there’s no denying the contents of his cabin.”

“What did Superintendent Brunel have to say? Any of it stolen?” asked Beauvoir.

“She hasn’t found anything, but she’s still looking. But Jérôme Brunel’s been studying those letters under the carving and he thinks they’re a Caesar’s Shift. It’s a type of code.”

He explained how a Caesar’s Shift worked.

“So we just need to find the key word?” asked Beauvoir. “Should be simple enough. It’s Woo.”

“Nope. Tried that one.”

Beauvoir went to the sheet of foolscap on the wall and uncapped the magic marker. He wrote the alphabet. Then the marker hovered.

“How about violin?” asked Morin. Beauvoir looked at him again as at an unexpectedly bright chimp. He wrote violin on a separate sheet of paper. Then he wrote Martinù, Bohuslav.

“Bohemia,” suggested Morin.

“Good idea,” said Beauvoir. Within a minute they had a dozen possibilities, and within ten minutes they’d tried them all and found nothing.

Beauvoir tapped his Magic Marker with some annoyance and stared at the alphabet, as though it was to blame.

“Well, keep trying,” said Gamache. “Superintendent Brunel is trying to track down the rest of the carvings.”

“Do you think that’s why he was killed?” asked Morin. “For the carvings?”

“Perhaps,” said Gamache. “There’s not much some people wouldn’t do for things that valuable.”

“But when we found the cabin it hadn’t been searched,” said Beauvoir. “If you find the guy, find the cabin, go there and kill him, wouldn’t you tear the place apart to find the carvings? And it’s not like the murderer had to worry about disturbing the neighbors.”

“Maybe he meant to but heard Olivier returning and had to leave,” said Gamache.

Beauvoir nodded. He’d forgotten about Olivier coming back. That made sense.

“That reminds me,” he said, sitting down. “The lab report came in on the whittling tools and the wood. They say the tools were used to do the sculptures but not to carve Woo. The grooves didn’t match, but apparently the technique didn’t either. Definitely different people.”

It was a relief to have something definite about this case.

“But red cedar was used for all of them?” Gamache wanted to hear the confirmation.

Beauvoir nodded. “And they’re able to be more specific than that, at least with the Woo carving. They can tell by looking at water content, insects, growth rings, all sorts of things, where the wood actually came from.”

Gamache leaned forward and wrote three words on a sheet of paper. He slid it across the table and Beauvoir read and snorted. “You talked to the lab?”

“I talked to Superintendent Brunel.”

He told them then about Woo, and Emily Carr. About the Haida totem poles, carved from red cedar.

Beauvoir looked down at the Chief’s note.

Queen Charlotte Islands, he’d written.

And that’s what the lab had said. The wood that became Woo had started life as a sapling hundreds of years earlier, on the Queen Charlotte Islands.

Gabri walked, almost marched, up rue du Moulin. He’d made up his mind and wanted to get there before he changed it, as he had every five minutes all afternoon.

He’d barely exchanged five words with Olivier since the Chief Inspector’s interrogation had revealed just how much his partner had kept from him. Finally he arrived and looked at the gleaming exterior of what had been the old Hadley house. Now a carved wooden sign hung out front, swinging slightly in the breeze.

Auberge et Spa.

The lettering was tasteful, clear, elegant. It was the sort of sign he’d been meaning to have Old Mundin make for the B and B, but hadn’t gotten around to. Above the lettering three pine trees were carved in a row. Iconic, memorable, classic.

He’d thought of doing that for the B and B as well. And at least his place was actually in Three Pines. This place hovered above it. Not really part of the village.

Still, it was too late now. And he wasn’t here to find fault. Just the opposite.

He stepped onto the porch and realized Olivier had stood there as well, with the body. He tried to shove the image away. Of his gentle, kind and quiet Olivier. Doing something so hideous.

Gabri rang the bell and waited, noting the shining brass of the handle, the bevelled glass and fresh red paint on the door. Cheerful and welcoming.

“Bonjour?” Dominique Gilbert opened the door, her face the image of polite suspicion.

“Madame Gilbert? We met in the village when you first arrived. I’m Gabriel Dubeau.”

He put out his large hand and she took it. “I know who you are. You run that marvelous B and B.”

Gabri knew when he was being softened up, having specialized in that himself. Still, it was nice to be on the receiving end of a compliment, and Gabri never refused one.

“That’s right,” he smiled. “But it’s nothing compared to what you’ve done here. It’s stunning.”

“Would you like to come in?” Dominique stood aside and Gabri found himself in the large foyer. The last time he’d been there it’d been a wreck and so had he. But it was clear the old Hadley house no longer existed. The tragedy, the sigh on the hill, had become a smile. A warm, elegant, gracious auberge. A place he himself would book into, for pampering. For an escape.

He thought about his slightly worn B and B. What moments ago had seemed comfortable, charming, welcoming, now seemed just tired. Like a grande dame past her prime. Who would want to visit Auntie’s place when you could come to the cool kids’ inn and spa?

Olivier had been right. This was the end.

And looking at Dominique, warm, confident, he knew she couldn’t fail. She seemed born to success, to succeed.

“We’re just in the living room having drinks. Would you like to join us?”

He was about to decline. He’d come to say one thing to the Gilberts and leave, quickly. This wasn’t a social call. But she’d already turned, assuming his consent, and was walking through a large archway.

But for all the easy elegance, of the place and the woman, something didn’t fit.

He examined his hostess as she walked away. Light silk blouse, Aquascutum slacks, loose scarf. And a certain fragrance. What was it?

Then he had it. He smiled. Instead of wearing Chanel this chatelaine was wearing Cheval. And not just horse, but a haughty undercurrent of horse shit.

Gabri’s spirits lifted. At least his place smelled of muffins.

“It’s Gabriel Dubeau,” Dominique announced to the room. The fire was lit and an older man was standing staring into it. Carole Gilbert sat in an armchair and Marc was by the drinks tray. They all looked up.

Chief Inspector Gamache had never seen the bistro so empty. He sat in an armchair by the fire and Havoc Parra brought him a drink.

“Quiet night?” he asked as the young man put down the Scotch and a plate of Quebec cheese.

“Dead,” Havoc said and reddened a little. “But it’ll probably pick up.”

They both knew that wasn’t true. It was six thirty. The height of what should be the cocktail and predinner rush. Two other customers sat in the large room while a small squadron of waiters waited. For a rush that would never come. Not that night. Perhaps not ever again.

Three Pines had forgiven Olivier a lot. The body had been dismissed as bad luck. Even Olivier knowing about the Hermit and the cabin had been shrugged off. Not easily, granted. But Olivier was loved and with love there was leeway. They’d even managed to forgive Olivier’s moving the body. It was seen as a kind of grand mal on his part.

But that had ended when they’d found out that Olivier had secretly made millions of dollars off a recluse who was probably demented. Over the course of years. And then had quietly bought up most of Three Pines. He was Myrna’s, Sarah’s and Monsieur Béliveau’s landlord.

This was Olivierville, and the natives were restless. The man they had thought they knew was a stranger after all.

“Is Olivier here?”

“In the kitchen. He let the chef off and decided to do the cooking himself tonight. He’s a terrific cook, you know.”

Gamache did know, having enjoyed his private meals a number of times. But he also knew this decision to cook allowed Olivier to hide. In the kitchen. Where he didn’t have to see the accusing, unhappy faces of people who were his friends. Or worse still, see the empty chairs where friends once sat.

“I wonder if you could ask him to join me?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Please.”

In that one word Chief Inspector Gamache conveyed that while it might sound like a polite request, it wasn’t. A couple of minutes later Olivier lowered himself into the chair across from Gamache. They needn’t worry about keeping their voices down. The bistro was now empty.

Gamache leaned forward, took a sip of Scotch, and watched Olivier closely.

“What does the name Charlotte mean to you?”

Olivier’s brows went up in surprise. “Charlotte?” He thought for a few moments. “I’ve never known a Charlotte. I knew a girl named Charlie once.”

“Did the Hermit ever mention the name?”

“He never mentioned any name.”

“What did you talk about?”

Olivier heard again the dead man’s voice, not deep but somehow calming. “We talked about vegetable gardens and building and plumbing. He learned from the Romans, the Greeks, the early settlers. It was fascinating.”

Not for the first time Gamache wished there’d been a third chair in that cabin, for him. “Did he ever mention Caesar’s Shift?”

Once again Olivier looked perplexed, then shook his head.

“How about the Queen Charlotte Islands?” Gamache asked.

“In British Columbia? Why would he talk about them?”

“Is anyone in Three Pines from BC that you know?”

“People’re from all over, but I can’t remember anyone from British Columbia. Why?”

Gamache brought out the sculptures and placed them on the table so that the ship looked to be running from the cheese, and the cheese, runny, seemed to be chasing it.

“Because these are. Or at least, the wood is. It’s red cedar from the Queen Charlottes. Let’s start again,” Gamache said quietly. “Tell me what you know about these sculptures.”

Olivier’s face was impassive. Gamache knew that look. It was the look of a liar, caught. Trying to find the last way out, the back door, the crack. Gamache waited. He sipped his Scotch and smoothed a bit of cheese on the very excellent nut bread. He placed a slice in front of Olivier then prepared one for himself. He ate and waited.

“The Hermit carved them,” said Olivier, his voice even, flat.

“You’ve told us that already. You also told us he gave you some and you threw them into the forest.”

Gamache waited, knowing the rest would come out now. He looked through the window and noticed Ruth walking Rosa. The duck, for some reason, was wearing a tiny, red raincoat.

“I didn’t throw them away. I kept them,” Olivier whispered, and the world beyond the circle of light from the fireplace seemed to disappear. It felt as though the two men were in their own little cabin. “I’d been visiting the Hermit for about a year when he gave me the first.”

“Can you remember what it was?”

“A hill, with trees. More like a mountain really. And a boy lying on it.”

“This one?” Gamache brought out the photo Thérèse Brunel had given him.

Olivier nodded. “I remember it clearly because I didn’t know the Hermit did stuff like this. His cabin was packed with wonderful things, but things other people made.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I kept it for a while, but had to hide it so Gabri wouldn’t start asking questions. Then I figured it was just easier to sell it. So I put it up on eBay. It went for a thousand dollars. Then a dealer got in touch. Said he had buyers, if there were any more. I thought he was joking, but when the Hermit gave me another one eight months later I remembered the guy and contacted him.”

“Was it Denis Fortin?”

“Clara’s gallery owner? No. It was someone in Europe. I can give you his coordinates.”

“That would be helpful. What did the second carving look like?”

“Plain. Simple. On the surface. I was kind of disappointed. It was a forest, but if you looked closely beneath the canopy of trees you could see people walking in a line.”

“Was the boy one of them?”

“Which boy?”

“The one from the mountain.”

“Well, no. This was a different piece.”

“I realize that,” said Gamache, wondering if he was making himself clear. “But it seems possible the Hermit carved the same figures into each of his sculptures.”

“The boy?”

“And the people. Anything else?”

Olivier thought. There was something else. The shadow over the trees. Something loomed just behind them. Something was rising up. And Olivier knew what it was.

“No, nothing. Just a forest and the people inside. The dealer was pretty excited.”

“What did it sell for?”

“Fifteen thousand.” He watched for the shock on Gamache’s face.

But Gamache’s gaze didn’t waver, and Olivier congratulated himself on telling the truth. It was clear the Chief Inspector already knew the answer to that question. Telling the truth was always a crapshoot. As was the telling of lies. It was best, Olivier had found, to mingle the two.

“How many carvings did he make?”

“I thought eight, but now that you’ve found those, I guess he did ten.”

“And you sold all the ones he gave you?”

Olivier nodded.

“You’d told us he started out giving you other things from his cabin, as payment for food. Where did those go?”

“I took them to the antique stores on rue Notre Dame in Montreal. But then once I realized the stuff was valuable I found private dealers.”

“Who?”

“I haven’t used them in years. I’ll have to look it up. People in Toronto and New York.” He leaned back and looked around the empty room. “I suppose I should let Havoc and the others off for the night.”

Gamache remained quiet.

“Do you think people’ll come back?”

The Chief Inspector nodded. “They’re hurt by what you did.”

“Me? Marc Gilbert’s way worse. Be careful with him. He’s not what he seems.”

“And neither are you, Olivier. You’ve lied all along. You may be lying now. I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to think carefully about the answer.”

Olivier nodded and straightened up.

“Was the Hermit Czech?”

Olivier immediately opened his mouth but Gamache quickly brought up a hand to stop him. “I asked you to think about your answer. Consider it. Could you have been wrong? Maybe there was no accent,” Gamache watched his companion closely. “Maybe he spoke with an accent but it wasn’t necessarily Czech. Maybe you just assumed. Be careful what you say.”

Olivier stared at Gamache’s large, steady hand and as it lowered he switched his gaze to the large, steady man.

“There was no mistake. I’ve heard enough Czech over the years from friends and neighbors. He was Czech.”

It was said with more certainty than anything Olivier had said to Gamache since the investigation began. Still, Gamache stared at the slight man across from him. He examined his mouth, his eyes, the lines on his forehead, his coloring. Then the Chief Inspector nodded.

“Chilly night,” said Ruth, plopping onto the seat beside Gamache and managing to knock his knee quite hard with her muddy cane. “Sorry,” she said, then did it again.

She was completely oblivious of the conversation she was interrupting and the tension between the two men. She looked from Olivier to Gamache.

“Well, enough of this gay banter. Can you believe what Olivier did with that body? His idiocy eclipses even your own. Gives me a sense of the infinite. It’s almost a spiritual experience. Cheese?”

She took the last bite of Gamache’s Saint-André and reached for his Scotch, but he got there first. Myrna arrived, then Clara and Peter dropped by and told everyone about Denis Fortin. There was general commiserating and all agreed Clara had done the right thing. Then they agreed she should call in the morning and beg his forgiveness. Then they agreed she shouldn’t.

“I saw Rosa outside,” said Clara, anxious to change the subject. “She’s looking very smart in her rain jacket.” It had occurred to her to wonder why a duck might need a raincoat, but she supposed Ruth was just training Rosa to get used to wearing coats.

Eventually the conversation came back to Olivier, and the Hermit, dead, and the Hermit alive. Ruth leaned over and took Olivier’s hand. “It’s all right, dear, we all know you’re greedy.” Then she looked at Clara. “And we all know you’re needy, and Peter’s petty and Clouseau here,” she turned to Gamache, “is arrogant. And you’re . . .” She looked at Myrna, then turned back to Olivier, whispering loudly, “Who is that anyway? She’s always hanging around.”

“You’re a nasty, demented, drunken old fart,” said Myrna.

“I’m not drunk, yet.”

They finished their drinks and left, but not before Ruth handed Gamache a piece of paper, carefully, precisely folded, the edges sharpened. “Give this to that little fellow who follows you around.”

Olivier kept looking out into the village where Rosa was sitting quietly on the village green, waiting for Ruth. There was no sign of the one not there, the one Olivier longed to see.

Gabri was mostly curious to meet the saint. Vincent Gilbert. Myrna was in awe of him, and she wasn’t in awe of many people. Old Mundin and The Wife said he’d changed their lives with his book Being, and his work at LaPorte. And by extension, he’d changed little Charlie’s life.

“Bonsoir,” said Gabri, nervously. He looked over to Vincent Gilbert. Growing up in the Catholic Church he’d spent endless hours staring at the gleaming windows showing the wretched lives and glorious deaths of the saints. When Gabri had wandered from the Church he’d taken one thing with him. The certainty that saints were good.

“What do you want?” Marc Gilbert asked. He stood with his wife and mother by the sofa. Forming a semicircle. His father a satellite off to the side. Gabri waited for Vincent Gilbert to calm his son, to tell him to greet their guest nicely. To invite Marc to be reasonable.

Gilbert said nothing.

“Well?” said Marc.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been up sooner to welcome you.”

Marc snorted. “The Welcome Wagon’s already left us our package.”

“Marc, please,” said Dominique. “He’s our neighbor.”

“Not by choice. If he had his way we’d be long gone.”

And Gabri didn’t deny it. It was true. Their troubles arrived with the Gilberts. But here they were and something had to be said.

“I came to apologize,” he said, standing to his full six foot one. “I’m sorry I haven’t made you feel more welcome. And I’m very sorry about the body.”

Yes, that definitely sounded as lame as he’d feared. But he hoped it at least sounded genuine.

“Why isn’t Olivier here?” Marc demanded. “You didn’t do it. It’s not up to you to apologize.”

“Marc, really,” said Dominique. “Can’t you see how difficult this is for him?”

“No, I can’t. Olivier probably sent him hoping we won’t sue. Or won’t tell everyone what a psycho he is.”

“Olivier’s not a psycho,” said Gabri, feeling a kind of trill inside as his patience unraveled. “He’s a wonderful man. You don’t know him.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t know him if you think he’s wonderful. Does a wonderful man dump a body at a neighbor’s home?”

“You tell me.”

The two men advanced on each other.

“I didn’t take the body into a private home to scare the occupants half to death. That was a terrible thing to do.”

“Olivier was pushed to it. He tried to make friends when you first arrived but then you tried to steal our staff and open this huge hotel and spa.”

“Ten guest rooms isn’t huge,” said Dominique.

“Not in Montreal, but out here it is. This’s a small village. We’ve been here for a long time living quietly. You come here and change all that. Made no effort to fit in.”

“By ‘fit in’ you mean tug our forelocks and be grateful you’ve allowed us to live here?” Marc demanded.

“No, I mean being respectful of what’s here already. What people’ve worked hard to establish.”

“You want to raise the drawbridge, don’t you?” said Marc in disgust. “You’re in and you want to keep everyone else out.”

“That’s not true. Most of the people in Three Pines have come from somewhere else.”

“But you only accept people who follow your rules. Who do as you say. We came here to live our dream and you won’t let us. Why? Because it clashes with yours. You’re threatened by us and so you need to run us out of town. You’re nothing but bullies, with big smiles.”

Marc was almost spitting.

Gabri stared at him, amazed. “But you didn’t really expect us to be happy about it, did you? Why would you come here and deliberately upset people who were going to be your neighbors? Didn’t you want us as friends? You must’ve known how Olivier would react.”

“What? That he’d put a body in our home?”

“That was wrong. I’ve already said that. But you provoked him. All of us. We wanted to be your friends but you made it too difficult.”

“So, you’ll be friends with us as long as what? We’re just a modest success? Have a few guests, a couple of treatments a day? Maybe a small dining room, if we’re lucky? But nothing to compete with you and Olivier?”

“That’s right,” said Gabri.

That shut Marc up.

“Listen, why do you think we don’t make croissants?” Gabri continued. “Or pies? Or any baking? We could. It’s what I love to do. But Sarah’s Boulangerie was already here. She’d lived in the village all her life. The bakery belonged to her grandmother. So we opened a bistro instead. All our croissants, and pies, and breads are baked by Sarah. We adjusted our dreams to fit the dreams already here. It’d be cheaper and more fun to bake ourselves but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” asked Vincent Gilbert, speaking for the first time.

“The point isn’t to make a fortune,” said Gabri, turning to him gratefully. “The point is to know what’s enough. To be happy.”

There was a pause and Gabri silently thanked the saint for creating that space for reason to return.

“Maybe you should remind your partner of that,” said Vincent Gilbert. “You talk a good line but you don’t live it. It suits you to blame my son. You dress up your behavior as moral and kindly and loving, but you know what it is?”

Vincent Gilbert was advancing, closing in on Gabri. As he neared he seemed to grow and Gabri felt himself shrink.

“It’s selfish,” Gilbert hissed. “My son has been patient. He’s hired local workers, created jobs. This is a place of healing, and you not only try to ruin it, you try to make him out to be at fault.”

Vincent stepped next to his son, having finally found the price of belonging.

There was nothing more to say, so Gabri left.

Lights glowed at windows as he made his way back into the village. Overhead ducks flew south in their V formation, away from the killing cold that was gathering and preparing to descend. Gabri sat on a tree stump by the side of the road and watched the sun set over Three Pines and thought about les temps perdus and felt very alone, without even the certainty of saints for comfort.

A beer was placed on the table for Beauvoir and Gamache nursed his Scotch. They settled into their comfortable chairs and examined the dinner menu. The bistro was deserted. Peter, Clara, Myrna and Ruth had all gone and Olivier had retreated to his kitchen. Havoc, the last of the waiters, took their order then left them to talk.

Gamache broke up a small baguette and told his second in command about his conversation with Olivier.

“So, he still says the Hermit was Czech. Do you believe him?”

“I do,” said Gamache. “At least, I believe Olivier is convinced of it. Any luck with the Caesar’s Shift?”

“None.” They’d given up when they started putting their own names in. Both slightly relieved it didn’t work.

“What’s wrong?” Gamache asked. Beauvoir had leaned back in his seat and tossed his linen napkin onto the table.

“I’m just frustrated. It seems every time we make progress it gets all muddied. We still don’t even know who the dead man was.”

Gamache smiled. It was their regular predicament. The further into a case they went the more clues they gathered. There came a time when it seemed a howl, as though they had hold of something wild that screamed clues at them. It was, Gamache knew, the shriek of something cornered and frightened. They were entering the last stages of this investigation. Soon the clues, the pieces, would stop fighting, and start betraying the murderer. They were close.

“By the way, I’m going away tomorrow,” said the Chief Inspector after Havoc brought their appetizers and left.

“Back to Montreal?” Beauvoir took a forkful of chargrilled calamari while Gamache ate his pear and prosciutto.

“A little further than that. The Queen Charlotte Islands.”

“Are you kidding? In British Columbia? Up by Alaska? Because of a monkey named Woo?”

“Well, when you put it like that . . .”

Beauvoir speared a blackened piece of calamari and dipped it in garlic sauce. “Voyons, doesn’t it strike you as, well, extreme?”

“No, it doesn’t. The name Charlotte keeps repeating.” Gamache ticked the points off on his fingers. “The Charlotte Brontë first edition, Charlotte’s Web first edition, the Amber Room panel? Made for a princess named Charlotte. The note the Hermit kept about the violin was written by a Charlotte. I’ve been trying to figure out what they could all mean, this repetition of the name Charlotte, then this afternoon Superintendent Brunel gave me the answer. The Queen Charlotte Islands. Where Emily Carr painted. Where the wood for the carvings came from. It might be a dead end, but I’d be a fool not to follow this lead.”

“But who’s doing the leading? You or the murderer? I think they’re leading you away. I think the murderer is here, in Three Pines.”

“So do I, but I think the murder began on the Queen Charlotte Islands.”

Beauvoir huffed, exasperated. “You’re taking a bunch of clues and putting them together to suit your purpose.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Beauvoir needed to watch himself now. Chief Inspector Gamache was more than his superior. They had a relationship that went deeper than any other Beauvoir had. And he knew Gamache’s patience had its limits.

“I think you see what you want to see. You see things that aren’t really there.”

“You mean just aren’t visible.”

“No, I mean aren’t there. To leap to one conclusion isn’t the end of the world, but you’re leaping all over the place and where does it take you? The end of the fucking world. Sir.”

Beauvoir glanced out the window, trying to cool down. Havoc removed their plates and Beauvoir waited for him to leave before continuing. “I know you love history and literature and art and that the Hermit’s cabin must seem like a candy shop, but I think you’re seeing a whole lot more in this case than exists. I think you’re complicating it. You know I’d follow you anywhere, we all would. You just point, and I’m there. I trust you that much. But even you can make mistakes. You always say that murder is, at its core, very simple. It’s about an emotion. That emotion is here, and so’s the murderer. We have plenty of clues to follow without thinking about a monkey, a hunk of wood and some godforsaken island to hell and gone across the country.”

“Finished?” Gamache asked.

Beauvoir sat upright and took a deep breath. “There may be more.”

Gamache smiled. “I agree with you, Jean Guy, the murderer is here. Someone here knew the Hermit, and someone here killed him. You’re right. When you strip away all the shiny baubles it’s simple. A man ends up with antiquities worth a fortune. Perhaps he stole them. He wants to hide so he comes to this village no one knows about. But even that isn’t enough. He takes it a step further and builds a cabin deep in the woods. Is he hiding from the police? Maybe. From something or someone worse? I think so. But he can’t do it on his own. If nothing else he needs news. He needs eyes and ears on the outside. So he recruits Olivier.”

“Why him?”

“Ruth said it tonight.”

“More Scotch, asshole?”

“Well, that too. But she said Olivier was greedy. And he is. So was the Hermit. He probably recognized himself in Olivier. That greed. That need to own. And he knew he could have a hold over Olivier. Promising him more and better antiques. But over the years something happened.”

“He went nuts?”

“Maybe. But maybe just the opposite. Maybe he went sane. The place he built to hide became a home, a haven. You felt it. There was something peaceful, comforting even, about the Hermit’s life. It was simple. Who doesn’t long for that these days?”

Their dinners arrived and Beauvoir’s gloom lifted as the fragrant boeuf bourguignon landed in front of him. He looked across at the Chief Inspector smiling down at his lobster Thermidor.

“Yes, the simple life in the country.” Beauvoir lifted his red wine in a small toast.

Gamache tipped his glass of white toward his Inspector, then took a succulent forkful. As he ate he thought of those first few minutes in the Hermit’s cabin. And that moment when he realized what he was looking at. Treasures. And yet everything was put to purpose. There was a reason for everything in there, whether practical or pleasure, like the books and violin.

But there was one thing. One thing that didn’t seem to have a purpose.

Gamache slowly laid his fork down and stared beyond Beauvoir. After a moment the Inspector also put his fork down and looked behind him. There was nothing there. Just the empty room.

“What is it?”

Gamache put up a finger, a subtle and gentle request for quiet. Then he reached into his breast pocket and bringing out a pen and notebook he wrote something down, quickly, as though afraid it would get away. Beauvoir strained to read it. Then, with a thrill, saw what it was.

The alphabet.

Silently he watched his Chief write the line beneath. His face opened in wonder. Wonder that he could have been so stupid. Could have missed what now seemed obvious.

Beneath the alphabet, Chief Inspector Gamache had written: SIXTEEN.

“The number above the door,” whispered Beauvoir, as though he too was afraid he might scare this vital clue away.

“What were the code letters?” asked Gamache, in a hurry now. Anxious to get there.

Beauvoir scrambled in his pocket and brought out his notebook.

“MRKBVYDDO under the people on the shore. And OWSVI under the ship.”

He watched as Gamache worked to decode the Hermit’s messages.

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

S I X T E E N A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S

Gamache read the letters out as he found them. “T, Y, R, I, something . . .”

“Tyri,” Beauvoir mumbled. “Tyri . . .”

“Something, K, K, V.” He looked up at Beauvoir.

“What does it mean? Is it a name? Maybe a Czech name?”

“Maybe it’s an anagram,” said Gamache. “We have to rearrange the letters.”

They tried that for a few minutes, taking bites of their dinner as they worked. Finally Gamache put his pen down and shook his head. “I thought I had it.”

“Maybe it’s right,” said Beauvoir, not ready to let go yet. He jotted more letters, tried the other code. Rearranged letters and finally staggered to the same conclusion.

The key wasn’t “seventeen.”

“Still,” said Beauvoir, dipping a crusty baguette into his gravy, “I wonder why that number’s up there.”

“Maybe some things don’t need a purpose,” said Gamache. “Maybe that’s their purpose.”

But that was too esoteric for Beauvoir. As was the Chief Inspector’s reasoning about the Queen Charlotte Islands. In fact, Beauvoir wouldn’t call it reasoning at all. At best it was intuition on the Chief’s part, at worst it was a wild guess, maybe even manipulated by the murderer.

The only image Beauvoir had of the moody archipelago at the very end of the country was of thick forests and mountains and endless gray water. But mostly it was mist.

And into that mist Armand Gamache was going, alone.

“I almost forgot, Ruth Zardo gave me this.” Gamache handed him the slip of paper. Beauvoir unfolded it and read out loud.

There was, at least, a full stop after “paradise.” Was this, finally, the end?