The Brutal Telling (33 page)

“Could that be his name?” Beauvoir asked, but without enthusiasm.

“Monsieur Woe?” asked Lacoste. “That might also explain why he lived alone in a cabin.”

“Why would someone carve that for himself?” Gamache put down
his knife and fork. “And you found nothing else in the cabin that looked as though it had been whittled?”

“Nothing,” said Beauvoir. “We found axes and hammers and saws. All well used. I think he must have made that cabin himself. But he sure didn’t whittle it.”

Woe, thought Gamache, picking up his knife and fork again. Was the Hermit that sad?

“Did you notice our photographs of the stream, sir?” Lacoste asked.

“I did. At least now we know how the dead man kept his groceries cool.”

Agent Lacoste, on investigating the stream, had found a bag anchored there. And in it were jars of perishable foods. Dangling in the cold water.

“But he obviously didn’t make his own milk and cheese, and no one remembers seeing him in the local shops,” said Beauvoir. “So that leaves us with one conclusion.”

“Someone was taking him supplies,” said Lacoste.

“Everything all right?” asked Olivier.

“Fine,
patron, merci
,” said Gamache with a smile.

“Do you need more mayonnaise or butter?” Olivier smiled back, trying not to look like a maniac. Trying to tell himself that no matter how many condiments or warm buns or glasses of wine he brought it would make no difference. He could never ingratiate himself.

“
Non, merci
,” said Lacoste, and reluctantly Olivier left.

“We at least have prints from the cabin. We should find out something tomorrow,” said Beauvoir.

“I think we know why he was killed just now,”
said Gamache.

“The paths,” said Lacoste. “Roar Parra was cutting riding paths for Dominique. One path was almost at the cabin. Close enough to see it.”

“Which Madame Gilbert did,” said Beauvoir. “But we have only her word that she didn’t find the cabin on an earlier ride.”

“Except that they didn’t have the horses then,” said Lacoste. “They didn’t arrive until the day after the murder.”

“But she might have walked the old paths,” suggested Gamache, “in preparation for the horses, and to tell Roar which ones he should open.”

“Roar might have walked them too,” said Beauvoir. “Or that son of his. Havoc. Parra said he was going to help him.”

The other two thought. Still, there seemed no very good reason why either Parra would walk the old riding paths before clearing them.

“But why kill the recluse?” Lacoste said. “Even supposing one of the Parras or Dominique Gilbert found him. It makes no sense. Killing for the treasure, maybe. But why leave it all there?”

“Maybe it wasn’t,” said Beauvoir. “We know what we found. But maybe there was more.”

It struck Gamache like a ton of bricks. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He’d been so overwhelmed by what was there, he’d never even considered what might be missing.

A
gent Morin lay in the bed and tried to get comfortable. It felt strange to be sleeping in a bed made by a dead man.

He closed his eyes. Turned over. Turned back. Opening his eyes he stared at the firelight flickering in the hearth. The cabin was less frightening. In fact, it was almost cozy.

He punched the pillow a few times to fluff it up, but something resisted.

Sitting up he took the pillow and scrunched it around. Sure enough, there was something besides feathers inside. He got up and lighting an oil lamp he took the pillow out of its case. A deep pocket had been sewn inside. Carefully, feeling like a vet with a pregnant horse, he slipped his arm in up to the elbow. His hand closed over something hard and knobby.

Withdrawing it he held an object to the oil lamp. It was an intricate carving. Of men and women on a ship. They were all facing the bow. Morin marveled at the workmanship. Whoever carved this had captured the excitement of a journey. The same excitement Morin and his sister had felt as kids when they took family car trips to the Abitibi or the Gaspé.

He recognized the happy anticipation on the shipboard faces. Looking closer he saw most had bags and sacks and there was a variety of ages, from newborns to the very old and infirm. Some were ecstatic, some expectant, some calm and content.

All were happy. It was a ship full of hope.

The sails of the ship were, incredibly, carved of wood shaved thin. He
turned it over. Something was scratched into the bottom. He took it right up to the lamp.

OWSVI

Was it Russian? Agent Lacoste thought the dead man might be Russian because of the icons. Was this his name? Written in that strange alphabet they use?

Then he had an idea. He went back to the bed and tried the other pillow, which had been below the first. There was something hard in there too. Pulling it out he held another sculpture, also of wood, equally detailed. This one showed men and women gathered at a body of water, looking out at it. Some seemed perplexed, but most appeared content to just be there. He found letters scratched on the bottom of that one too.

MRKBVYDDO

Righting it again he placed it on the table beside the other one. There was a sense of joy, of hope, about these works. He stared at them with more fascination than he ever got from TV.

But the more he looked the more uneasy he became until it felt as though something was watching him. He looked into the kitchen then quickly scanned the room. Turning back to the carvings he was surprised to find the sense of foreboding was coming from them.

He felt a creeping up and down his back and turned quickly into the dark room, instantly regretting not putting on more lamps. A glittering caught his attention. Up high. In the farthest corner of the cabin. Was it eyes?

Picking up his piece of wood he crept closer, crouching down. As he approached the corner the glitter began to form a pattern. It was a spider’s web, just catching the soft glow of the lamp. But there was something different about it. As his eyes adjusted the hair on the back of his neck rose.

A word had been woven into the web.

Woe.

Everyone was already around the table next morning when Morin arrived, more than a little disheveled. They glanced at him, and Agent Lacoste indicated the seat next to her, where, miraculously for the hungry young agent, there waited a bowl of strong
café au lait
along with a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and thick-cut toast with jams.

Morin wolfed down the food and listened to the reports, and then it was his turn.

He placed the two carvings on the table and moved them slowly to the center. So lively were the sculptures it looked as though the ship had taken sail and was moving on its own. And it looked as though the people on the shore were eagerly awaiting the arrival of the ship.

“What are those?” asked Gamache, rising from his chair and moving round the table for a closer look.

“I found them last night. They were hidden in the pillows on the bed.”

The three officers looked stunned.

“You’re kidding,” said Lacoste. “In the pillows?”

“Sewn into the pillows on the bed. Well hidden, though I’m not sure whether he was hiding them or protecting them.”

“Why didn’t you call?” demanded Beauvoir, tearing his eyes from the carvings to look at Morin.

“Should I have?” He looked stricken, his eyes bouncing among the officers. “I just thought there was nothing we could do until now anyway.”

He’d longed to call; only a mighty effort had stopped him from dialing the B and B and waking them all up. But he didn’t want to give in to his fear. But he could see by their faces he’d made a mistake.

All his life he’d been afraid, and all his life it had marred his judgment. He’d hoped that had stopped, but apparently not.

“Next time,” the Chief said, looking at him sternly, “call. We’re a team, we need to know everything.”

“
Oui, patron.
”

“Have these been dusted?” Beauvoir asked.

Morin nodded and held up an envelope. “The prints.”

Beauvoir grabbed it out of his hand and took it to his computer to scan in. But even from there his eyes kept going back to the two carvings.

Gamache was leaning over the table, peering at them through his half-moon glasses

“They’re remarkable.”

The joy of the little wooden travelers was palpable. Gamache knelt down so that he was at eye level with the carvings, and they were sailing toward him. It seemed the carvings were two halves of a whole. A ship full of people sailing toward a shore. And more happy people waiting.

So why did he feel uneasy? Why did he want to warn the ship to go back?

“There’s something written on the bottom of each,” Morin offered. He picked one up and showed it to the Chief who looked then handed it to Lacoste. Beauvoir picked up the other and saw a series of letters. It was nonsense, but of course it wasn’t really. It meant something. They just had to figure it out.

“Is it Russian?” Morin asked.

“No. The Russian alphabet is Cyrillic. This is the Roman alphabet,” said Gamache.

“What does it mean?”

The three more seasoned officers looked at each other.

“I have no idea,” admitted the Chief Inspector. “Most artisans mark their works, sign them in some way. Perhaps this is how the carver signed his works.”

“Then wouldn’t the lettering under each carving be the same?” asked Morin.

“That’s true. I’m at a loss. Perhaps Superintendent Brunel can tell us. She’ll be here this morning.”

“I found something else last night,” said Morin. “I took a picture of it. It’s still in my camera. You can’t see it too well, but . . .”

He turned on his digital camera and handed it to Beauvoir, who looked briefly at the image.

“Too small. I can’t make it out. I’ll throw it up onto the computer.”

They continued to discuss the case while Beauvoir sat at his computer, downloading the image.

“
Tabarnac
,” they heard him whisper.

“What is it?” Gamache walked to the desk. Lacoste joined him and they huddled round the flat screen.

There was the web, and the word.

Woe.

“What does it mean?” Beauvoir asked, almost to himself.

Gamache shook his head. How could a spider have woven a word? And why that one? The same word they’d found carved in wood and tossed under the bed.

“Some pig.”

They looked at Lacoste.

“
Pardon?
” Gamache asked.

“When I was in the outhouse yesterday I found a signed first edition.”

“About a girl named Jane?” Morin asked, then wished he hadn’t. They all looked at him as though he’d said “some pig.” “I found a book in the cabin,” he explained. “By a guy named Currer Bell.”

Lacoste looked blank, Gamache looked perplexed, and Morin didn’t even want to think what look Beauvoir was giving him.

“Never mind. Go on.”

“It was
Charlotte’s Web
, by E. B. White,” said Agent Lacoste. “One of my favorites as a child.”