The Brutal Telling (28 page)

that the deity who kills for pleasure

will also heal,

S
omeone 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.

S
o, 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.

J
ean 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.”