The Brutal Telling (50 page)

G
abri 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.

C
hief 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.