The Brutal Telling

by Louise Penny

  “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.

  Agent 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.

  TWENTY-ONE

  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.”

  “My daughter’s too,” said Gamache. He remembered reading the book over and over to the little girl who pretended she wasn’t afraid of the dark. Afraid of the closed closet, afraid of the creaks and groans of the house. He’d read to her every night until finally she’d fall asleep.

  The book that gave her the most comfort, and that he’d practically memorized, was Charlotte’s Web.

  “Some pig,” he repeated, and gave a low, rumbling laugh. “The book’s about a lonely piglet destined for the slaughterhouse. A spider named Charlotte befriends him and tries to save his life.”

  “By weaving things about him into her web,” explained Lacoste. “Things like ‘Some pig’ so the farmer would think Wilbur was special. The book in the outhouse is signed by the author.”

  Gamache shook his head. Incredible.

  “Did it work?” asked Morin. “Was the pig saved?”

  Beauvoir looked at him with disdain. And yet, he had to admit, he wanted to know as well.

  “He was,” said Gamache. Then his brows drew together. Obviously in real life spiders don’t weave messages into their webs. So who had put it there? And why? And why “woe?”

  He was itching to get back up there.

  “There’s something else.”

  All eyes once again turned to the simple-looking agent.

  “It’s about the outhouse.” He turned to Lacoste. “Did you notice anything?”

  “You mean besides the signed first edition and the stacks of money as toilet paper?”

  “Not inside. Outside.”

  She thought then shook her head.

  “It was probably too dark,” said Agent Morin. “I used it last night and didn’t notice then either. It wasn’t until this morning.”

  “What, for God’s sake?” Beauvoir snapped.

  “There’s a trail. It runs to the outhouse, but doesn’t stop there. It goes on. I followed it this morning and it came out here.”

  “At the Incident Room?” asked Beauvoir.

  “Well, not exactly. It wound through the woods and came out up there.”

  He waved toward the hill overlooking the village.

  “I marked the place it comes out. I think I can find it again.”

  “That was foolish of you,” said Gamache. He looked stern and his voice was without warmth. Morin instantly reddened. “Never, ever wander on your own into the woods, do you understand? You might have been lost.”

  “But you’d find me, wouldn’t you?”

  They all knew he would. Gamache had found them once, he’d find them again.

  “It was an unnecessary risk. Don’t ever let your guard down.” Gamache’s deep brown eyes were intense. “A mistake could cost you your life. Or the life of someone else. Never relax. There are threats all around, from the woods, and from the killer we’re hunting. Neither will forgive a mistake.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Right,” said Gamache. He got up and the rest jumped to their feet. “You need to show us where the path comes out.”

  Down in the village, Olivier stood at the window of the bistro, oblivious of the conversation and laughter of breakfasters behind him. He saw Gamache and the others walk along the ridge of the hill. They paused, then walked back and forth a bit. Even from there he could see Beauvoir gesture angrily at the young agent who always looked so clueless.

  It’ll be fine, he repeated to himself. It’ll be fine. Just smile.

  Their pacing stopped. They stared at the forest, as he stared at them.

  And a wave crashed over Olivier, knocking the breath he’d been holding for so long out of him. Knocking the fixed smile off his face.

  It was almost a relief. Almost.

  There it is,” said Morin.

  He’d tied his belt around a branch. It had seemed a clever solution when he’d done it, but now searching for a thin brown belt on the edge of a forest didn’t seem such a brilliant idea.

  But they found it.

  Gamache looked at the path. Once you knew it was there it was obvious. It almost screamed. Like those optical illusions deliberately placed in paintings that once found you couldn’t stop seeing. The tiger in the crockery, the spaceship in the garden.

  “I’ll join you at the cabin when I can,” said Gamache and watched with Lacoste as Beauvoir and Morin headed into the woods. Like nuns, he felt they were safe if not alone. It was, he supposed, a conceit. But it comforted him. He watched until he couldn’t see them anymore. But still he waited, until he could no longer hear them. And only then did he descend into Three Pines.

  Peter and Clara Morrow were both in their studios when the doorbell rang. It was an odd, almost startling sound. No one they knew ever rang the bell, they just came in and made themselves at home. How often had Clara and Peter found Ruth in their living room? Feet up on the sofa reading a book and drinking a martini at ten in the morning, Rosa nestled on the worn carpet beside her. They thought they’d have to call a priest to get rid of them.

  More than once they’d found Gabri in their bath.

  “Anybody home?” sang a man’s deep voice.

  “I’ll get it,” Clara called.

  Peter didn’t bother to answer. He was wandering around his studio, circling the work on the easel, getting close, then heading away. His mind might be on his art, as it always was, but his heart was elsewhere. Since word of Marc Gilbert’s treachery had hit the village Peter had thought of little else.

  He’d genuinely liked Marc. Was drawn to him in a way he felt drawn to cadmium yellow and marian blue, and Clara. He’d felt excited, almost giddy, at the thought of visiting Marc. Having a quiet drink together. Talking. Going for walks.

  Marc Gilbert had ruined that as well. Trying to ruin Olivier was one thing, a terrible thing. But secretly Peter couldn’t help but feel this was just as bad. Like taking a rusty nail to something lovely. And rare. At least for Peter.

  He hated Marc Gilbert now.

  Outside his studio he heard Clara talking, and a familiar voice replying.

  Armand Gamache.

  Peter decided to join them.

  “Coffee?” Clara offered the Chief Inspector, after he and Peter had greeted each other.

  “Non, merci. I can’t stay long. I’ve come on business.”

  Clara thought that was a funny way of putting it. Murder business.

  “You had a busy day yesterday,” said Clara, as the three of them sat at the kitchen table. “It’s all Three Pines can talk about. It’s hard to know what’s the most shocking. That Marc Gilbert was the one who moved the body, that Vincent Gilbert’s here or that the dead man seemed to be living in the forest all along. Did he really live there?”

  “We think so, but we’re just waiting for confirmation. We still don’t know who he was.”

  Gamache watched them closely. They seemed as puzzled as he was.

  “I can’t believe no one knew he was there,” said Clara.

  “We think someone knew. Someone was taking him food. We found it on the counter.”

  They looked at each other in amazement.

  “One of us? Who?”

  One of us, thought Gamache. Three short words, but potent. They more than anything had launched a thousand ships, a thousand attacks. One of us. A circle drawn. And closed. A boundary marked. Those inside and those not.

  Families, clubs, gangs, cities, states, countries. A village.

  What had Myrna called it? Beyond the pale.

  But it went beyond simple belonging. The reason “belonging” was so potent, so attractive, so much a part of the
human yearning, was that it also meant safety, and loyalty. If you were “one of us” you were protected.

  Was that what he was up against, Gamache wondered. Not just the struggle to find the killer, but the efforts of those on the inside to protect him? Was the drawbridge up? The pale closed? Was Three Pines protecting a killer? One of them?

  “Why would someone take him food then kill him?” asked Clara.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” agreed Peter.

  “Unless the murderer didn’t show up intending to kill,” said Gamache. “Maybe something happened to provoke him.”

  “Okay, but then if he lashed out and murdered the man, wouldn’t he have just run away? Why take the body all the way through the woods to the Gilbert place?” asked Clara.

  “Why indeed,” asked Gamache. “Any theories?”

  “Because he wanted the body found,” said Peter. “And the Gilberts’ is the nearest place.”

  The murderer wanted the body found. Why? Most murderers went to huge lengths to hide the crime. Why had this man advertised it?

  “Either the body found,” Peter continued, “or the cabin.”

  “We think it would have been found in a few days anyway,” Gamache said. “Roar Parra was cutting riding paths in that area.”

  “We’re not being much help,” said Clara.

  Gamache reached into his satchel. “I actually came by to show you something we found in the cabin. I’d like your opinions.”

  He brought out two towels and placed them carefully on the table. They looked like newborns, protected against a chilly world. He slowly unwrapped them.

  Clara leaned in.

  “Look at their faces.” She looked up directly into Gamache’s. “So beautiful.”

  He nodded. They were. Not just their features. It was their joy, their vitality, that made them beautiful.

  “May I?” Peter reached out and Gamache nodded. He picked up one of the sculptures and turned it over.

  “There’s writing, but I can’t make it out. A signature?”

  “Of sorts, perhaps,” said Gamache. “We haven’t figured out what the letters mean.”

  Peter studied the two works, the ship and the shore. “Did the dead man carve them?”