The Brutal Telling (45 page)

“Sleep well?” she asked, handing him a mug.

“Not really. You?”

“Not bad. Why didn’t you?”

It was an overcast morning with a chill in the air. The first morning that really felt as though summer was over, and autumn on the way. She loved the fall. The brilliant leaves, the lit fireplaces, the smell of woodsmoke through the village. She loved huddling at a table outside the bistro, wrapped in sweaters and sipping
café au lait
.

Peter pursed his lips and looked down at his feet, in rubber boots to protect against the heavy dew.

“I was thinking about your question. What to do about Fortin.”

Clara grew still. “Go on.”

Peter had thought about it most of the night. Had got up and gone downstairs, pacing around the kitchen and finally ending up in his studio. His refuge. It smelled of him. Of body odor, and oil paint and canvas. It smelled faintly of lemon meringue pie, which he couldn’t explain. It smelled like no other place on earth.

And it comforted him.

He’d gone into his studio last night to think, and finally to stop thinking. To clear his mind of the howl that had grown, like something massive approaching. And finally, just before sunrise, he knew what he had to say to Clara.

“I think you should talk to him.”

There. He’d said it. Beside him Clara was silent, her hands grasping the warm cup of coffee.

“Really?”

Peter nodded. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to come with you?”

“I’m not even sure I’m going yet,” she snapped and walked a couple of paces away.

Peter wanted to run to her, to take it back, to say he was wrong. She should stay there with him, should say nothing. Should just do the show.

What had he been thinking?

“You’re right.” She turned back to him, miserable. “He won’t mind, will he?”

“Fortin? No. You don’t have to be angry, just tell him how you feel, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“I can just say that maybe I misheard. And that Gabri is one of our best friends.”

“That’s it. Fortin probably doesn’t even remember saying it.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind.” Clara walked slowly inside to call Fortin.

“Denis? It’s Clara Morrow. Yes, that was fun. Really, is that a good price? Sure, I’ll tell the Chief Inspector. Listen, I’m going to be in Montreal today and thought maybe we could get together again. I have . . . well, a few thoughts.” She paused. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. That sounds great. Twelve thirty at the Santropole on Duluth. Perfect.”

What have I done?
Peter asked himself.

B
reakfast at the B and B was a somber affair of burned toast, rubber eggs and black bacon. The coffee was weak and the milk seemed curdled, as did Gabri. By mutual, unspoken consent they didn’t discuss the case, but waited until they were back at the Incident Room.

“Oh, thank God,” said Agent Lacoste, as she fell on the Tim Hortons double double coffees Agent Morin had brought. And the chocolate-glazed doughnuts. “I never thought I’d prefer this to Gabri’s breakfasts.” She took a huge bite of soft, sweet doughnut. “If this keeps up we might have to solve the case and leave.”

“There’s a thought,” said Gamache, putting on his half-moon reading glasses.

Beauvoir went over to his computer to check messages. There, taped
to the monitor, was a scrap of paper with familiar writing. He ripped it off, scrunched it up and tossed it to the floor.

Chief Inspector Gamache also looked at his screen. The results of his Google search of “Charlotte.”

Sipping his coffee he read about Good Charlotte, the band, and Charlotte Brontë, and Charlotte Church and
Charlotte’s Web
, the city of Charlotte in North Carolina and Charlottetown on Prince Edward Island and the Queen Charlotte Islands on the other side of the continent, off British Columbia. Most of the places were named after Queen Charlotte, he discovered.

“Does the name Charlotte mean anything to you?” he asked his team.

After thinking for a moment, they shook their heads.

“How about Queen Charlotte? She was married to King George.”

“George the Third? The crazy one?” Morin asked. The others looked at him in amazement. Agent Morin smiled. “I was good at history in school.”

It helped, thought Gamache, that school for him wasn’t all that long ago. The phone rang and Agent Morin took it. It was the Martinù Conservatory, in Prague. Gamache listened to Morin’s side of the conversation until his own phone rang.

It was Superintendent Brunel.

“I arrived to find my office looking like Hannibal’s tent. I can barely move for your Hermit’s items, Armand.” She didn’t sound displeased. “But I’m not calling about that. I have an invitation. Would you like to join Jérôme and me for lunch at our apartment? He has something he’d like to show you. And I have news as well.”

It was confirmed he’d meet them at one o’clock at the Brunel apartment on rue Laurier. As he hung up the phone rang again.

“Clara Morrow for you, sir,” said Agent Morin.

“
Bonjour
, Clara.”

“
Bonjour.
I just wanted to let you know I spoke to Denis Fortin this morning. In fact, we’re having lunch today. He told me he’d found a buyer for the carvings.”

“Is that right? Who?”

“I didn’t ask, but he says they’re willing to pay a thousand dollars for the two. He seemed to think that was a good price.”

“That is interesting. Would you like a lift into town? I’m meeting someone myself.”

“Sure, thank you.”

“I’ll be by in about half an hour.”

When he hung up Agent Morin was off his call.

“They said Martinù had no children. They were aware of the violin, but it disappeared after his death in,” Morin consulted his notes, “1959. I told them we’d found the violin and an original copy of the score. They were very excited and said it would be worth a lot of money. In fact, it would be considered a Czech national treasure.”

There was that word again. Treasure.

“Did you ask about his wife, Charlotte?”

“I did. They were together a long time, but only actually married on his deathbed. She died a few years ago. No family.”

Gamache nodded, thinking. Then he spoke to Agent Morin again. “I need you to look into the Czech community here, especially the Parras. And find out about their lives in the Czech Republic. How they got out, who they knew there, their family. Everything.”

He went over to Beauvoir. “I’m heading into Montreal for the day to talk to Superintendent Brunel and follow some leads.”

“
D’accord.
As soon as Morin gets the information on the Parras I’ll go up there.”

“Don’t go alone.”

“I won’t.”

Gamache stooped and picked up the scrap of paper on the floor by Beauvoir’s desk. He opened it and read,
In the midst of your nightmare,

“
In the midst of your nightmare
,” he repeated, handing it to Beauvoir. “What do you think it means?”

Beauvoir shrugged and opened the drawer to his desk. A nest of balled-up words lay there. “I find them everywhere. In my coat pocket, pinned to my door in the morning. This one was taped to my computer.”

Gamache reached into the desk and chose a scrap at random.

that the deity who kills for pleasure

will also heal,

“They’re all like this?”

Beauvoir nodded. “Each crazier than the last. What’m I supposed to do with them? She’s just pissed off because we took over her fire hall. Do you think I can get a restraining order?”

“Against an eighty-year-old winner of the Governor General’s award, to stop her sending you verse?”

When put that way it didn’t sound likely.

Gamache looked again at the balls of paper, like hail. “Well, I’m off.”

“Thanks for your help,” Beauvoir called after him.

“
De rien
,” waved Gamache and was gone.

I
n the hour or so drive into Montreal Gamache and Clara talked about the people of Three Pines, about the summer visitors, about the Gilberts, who Clara thought might stay now.

“Old Mundin and Charles were in the village the other day. Old is very taken with Vincent Gilbert. He apparently knew it was him in the woods, but didn’t want to say anything.”

“How would he have recognized him?”

“
Being
,” said Clara.

“Of course,” said Gamache, merging onto the autoroute into Montreal. “Charles has Down’s syndrome.”

“After he was born Myrna gave them a copy of
Being.
Reading it changed their lives. Changed lots of lives. Myrna says Dr. Gilbert’s a great man.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t disagree.”

Clara laughed. “Still, I don’t think I’d like to be raised by a saint.”

Gamache had to agree. Most saints were martyrs. And they took a lot of people down with them. In companionable silence they drove past signs for Saint-Hilaire, Saint-Jean and a village named Ange Gardien.

“If I said ‘woo,’ what would you think?” Gamache asked.

“Beyond the obvious?” She gave him a mock-worried look.

“Does the word mean anything to you?”

The fact he’d come back to it alerted Clara. “Woo,” she repeated. “There’s pitching woo, an old-fashioned way of saying courting.”

“Old-fashioned for courting?” He laughed. “But I know what you mean. I don’t think that’s what I’m looking for.”

“Sorry, can’t help.”

“Oh, it probably doesn’t matter.” They were over the Champlain Bridge. Gamache drove up Boulevard Saint-Laurent, turned left then left again and dropped her at the Santropole restaurant for lunch.

Climbing the steps she turned and walked back. Leaning into the car window she asked, “If a person insulted someone you cared about, would you say something?”

Gamache thought about that. “I hope I would.”

She nodded and left. But she knew Gamache, and knew there was no “hope” about it.

After a luncheon of herbed cucumber soup, grilled shrimp and fennel salad and peach tarte Gamache and the Brunels settled into the bright living room of the second-floor apartment. It was lined with bookcases.
Objets trouvés
lay here and there. Pieces of aged and broken pottery, chipped mugs. It was a room that was lived in, where people read, and talked and thought and laughed.

“I’ve been researching the items in the cabin,” said Thérèse Brunel.

“And?” Gamache leaned forward on the sofa, holding his
demi-tasse
of espresso.

“So far nothing. Amazing as it sounds, none of the items has been reported stolen, though I haven’t finished yet. It’ll take weeks to properly trace them.”

Gamache slowly leaned back and crossed his long legs. If not stolen, then what? “What’s the other option?” he asked.

“Well, that the dead man actually owned the pieces. Or that they were looted from dead people, who couldn’t report it. In a war, for instance. Like the Amber Room.”