The Brutal Telling

by Louise Penny

  “But didn’t you know his name?”

  “He never told me and I never asked.”

  Gamache caught Beauvoir’s eye. The Inspector was looking both disappointed and disbelieving.

  “Go on,” said Gamache.

  “His hair was a little long and he looked a bit scruffy. Not the sort to do a lot of buying. But it was quiet and I talked to him. He came back a week later, and then about once a week for a few months. Finally he took me aside and said he had something he wanted to sell. That was pretty disappointing too. I’d been nice to the guy but now he was asking me to buy some piece of junk and it pissed me off. I almost asked him to leave, but by then he had the piece in his hand.”

  Olivier remembered looking down. They were at the back and the lighting wasn’t good, but it didn’t gleam or glitter. In fact it looked very dull. Olivier reached out for it but the Hermit drew his hand back. And then it caught the light.

  It was a miniature portrait. The two men walked to the window and Olivier got a good view.

  It was in a tarnished old frame and must have been painted with a single horse hair, so fine was the detail. It showed a man in profile, powdered wig, blowsy clothing.

  Even the memory made Olivier’s heart quicken.

  “How much do you want?”

  “Maybe some food?” the Hermit had asked, and the deal was sealed.

  Olivier looked at Gamache, whose thoughtful brown eyes never wavered.

  “And that’s how it started. I agreed to take the painting in exchange for a few bags of groceries.”

  “And what was it worth?”

  “Not much.” Olivier remembered carefully taking the miniature from its frame, and seeing the old lettering on the back. It was some Polish count. With a date. 1745. “I sold it for a few dollars.”

  He held Gamache’s eyes.

  “Where?”

  “Some antique place along rue Notre Dame in Montreal.”

  Gamache nodded. “Go on.”

  “After that the Hermit brought stuff to the shop every now and then and I’d give him food. But he became more and more paranoid. Didn’t want to come into the village anymore. So he invited me to his cabin.”

  “Why did you agree to go? It was quite an inconvenience.”

  Olivier had been afraid of that question.

  “Because the things he was giving me turned out to be quite good. Nothing spectacular, but decent quality and I was curious. When I first visited the cabin it took me a few minutes to realize what he had. It all just looked like it belonged, in a strange sort of way. Then I looked closer. He was eating off plates worth tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of dollars. Did you see the glasses?” Olivier’s eyes were gleaming with excitement. “Fantastique.”

  “Did he ever explain how he came to have items that were priceless?”

  “Never, and I never asked. I was afraid to scare him off.”

  “Did he know the value of what he had?”

  That was an interesting question, and one Olivier had debated himself. The Hermit treated the finest engraved silver the way Gabri treated Ikea flatware. There was no attempt to coddle anything. But neither was the Hermit cavalier. He was a cautious man, that much was certain.

  “I’m not sure,” said Olivier.

  “So you gave him groceries and he gave you near-priceless antiques?”

  Gamache’s voice was neutral, curious. It held none of the censure Olivier knew it could, and should.

  “He didn’t give me the best stuff, at least not at first. And I did more than take him groceries. I helped dig his vegetable garden, and brought the seeds to plant.”

  “How often did you visit?”

  “Every two weeks.”

  Gamache considered, then spoke. “Why was he living in the cabin away from everyone else?”

  “Hiding, I guess.”

  “But from what?”

  Olivier shook his head. “Don’t know. I tried to ask but he was having none of it.”

  “What can you tell us?” Gamache’s voice wasn’t quite as patient as it had been. Beauvior looked up from his notebook, and Olivier shifted in his seat.

  “I know the Hermit built the cabin over several months. Then he carried all the stuff in himself.” Olivier was studying Gamache, eager for his approval, eager for the thaw. The large man leaned forward slightly and Olivier rushed on. “He told me all about it. Most of his things weren’t big. Just the armchairs, really, and the bed. The rest anybody could’ve carried. And he was strong.”

  Still, Gamache was silent. Olivier squirmed.

  “I’m telling the truth. He never explained how he got all those things, and I was afraid to ask, but it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? He must have stolen them. Otherwise, why hide?”

  “So you thought they were stolen and you didn’t say anything?” asked Gamache, his voice still without criticism. “Didn’t call the police.”

  “No. I know I should have, but I didn’t.”

  For once Beauvoir didn’t sneer. This he found completely natural and understandable. How many people would, after all? It always amazed Beauvoir when he heard about people finding suitcases full of money, and turning it in. He had to wonder about the sanity of such people.

  For his part Gamache was thinking about the other end of the deal. The people who’d owned the things. The fabulous violin, the priceless glassware, the china and silver and inlaid wood. If the Hermit was hiding in the woods someone had chased him there. “Did he say where he was from?” Gamache asked.

  “No. I asked once but he didn’t answer.”

  Gamache considered. “What did he sound like?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “His voice.”

  “It was normal. We spoke in French.”

  “Quebec French, or France French?”

  Olivier hesitated. Gamache waited.

  “Quebec, but . . .”

  Gamache was still, as though he could wait all day. All week. A lifetime.

  “. . . but he had a slight accent. Czech, I think,” said Olivier in a rush.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He was Czech,” said Olivier in a mumble. “I’m sure.”

  Gamache saw Beauvoir make a note. It was the first clue to the man’s identity.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you knew the Hermit when the body was found?”

  “I should have, but I thought you might not find the cabin.”

  “And why would you hope that?”

  Olivier tried to take a breath, but the oxygen didn’t seem to reach his lungs. Or his brain. His compressed lips felt cold and his eyes burned. Hadn’t he told them enough? But still Gamache sat across from him, waiting. And Olivier could see it in his eyes. He knew. Gamache knew the answer, and still he demanded Olivier say it himself.

  “Because there were things in the cabin I wanted. For myself.”

  Olivier looked exhausted, as though he’d coughed up his insides. But Gamache knew there was more.

  “Tell us about the carvings.”

  Clara walked along the road from the Incident Room, over the bridge into Three Pines, and stood looking first one way then the other.

  What should she do?

  She’d just been to the Incident Room to return the carving.

  Fucking queers.

  Two words.

  Surely she could ignore them. Pretend Fortin hadn’t said it. Or, better still, maybe she could find someone who’d assure her what she’d done was quite right.

  She’d done nothing. Said nothing. She’d simply thanked Denis Fortin for his time, agreed this was exciting, agreed to keep in touch as the show approached. They’d shaken hands and kissed on both cheeks.

  And now she stood, lost, looking this way and that. Clara had considered talking to Gamache about it, then dismissed the idea. He was a friend, but he was also a cop, investigating a crime worse than nasty words.

  And yet, Clara wondered. Was that where most murders began? Did they start as words? Somet
hing said that lodged and festered. That curdled. And killed.

  Fucking queers.

  And she’d done nothing.

  Clara turned right and made for the shops.

  What carvings?”

  “This carving for one.” Gamache placed the sailing ship, with its miserable passenger hiding among the smiles, on the table.

  Olivier stared at it.

  They camped at the very edge of the world, crowded together, looking out to the ocean. Except the young man, who stared back. To where they’d come from.

  It was impossible to miss the lights in the dark sky now. And the sky was almost perpetually dark. There was no longer a distinction between night and day. And yet, such was the villagers’ joy and anticipation, they didn’t seem to notice, or care.

  The light sliced like a saber through the darkness, through the shadow thrown toward them. Almost upon them.

  The Mountain King had arisen. Had assembled an army made of Bile and Rage and led by Chaos. Their wrath carved the sky ahead of them, searching for one man, one young man. Barely more than a boy. And the package he held.

  They marched on, closer and closer. And the villagers waited on shore, to be taken to the world they’d been promised. Where nothing bad happened, and no one sickened or grew old.

  The young man ran here and there, trying to find a hiding place. A cave perhaps, somewhere he could curl up and hide, and be very, very small. And quiet.

  “Oh,” said Olivier.

  “What can you tell me about this?” asked Gamache.

  One small hill separated the dreadful army from the villagers. An hour, maybe less.

  Olivier heard the voice again, the story filling the cabin, even the dark corners.

  “Look,” one of the villagers shouted, pointing to the water. The young man turned, wondering what horror was coming from the sea. But instead he saw a ship. In full sail. Hurrying toward them.

  “Sent by the gods,” said his old aunt as she stepped on board. And he knew that was true. One of the gods had taken pity on them and sent a strong ship and a stronger wind. They hurried aboard and the ship left immediately. Out at sea the young man looked back in time to see, rising behind the final hill, a dark shape. It rose higher and higher and around its peak flew the Furies, and on its now naked flank there marched Sorrow and Grief and Madness. And at the head of the army was Chaos.

  As the Mountain spied the tiny vessel on the ocean it shrieked, and the howl filled the sails of the vessel so that it streaked across the ocean. In the bow the happy villagers searched for land, for their new world. But the young man, huddling among them, looked back. At the Mountain of Bitterness he’d created. And the rage that filled their sails.

  “Where did you find that?” Olivier asked.

  “In the cabin.” Gamache was watching him closely. Olivier seemed stunned by the carving. Almost frightened. “Have you seen it before?”

  “Never.”

  “Or others like it?”

  “No.”

  Gamache handed it to Olivier. “It’s a strange subject matter, don’t you think?”

  “How so?”

  “Well, everyone’s so happy, joyful even. Except him.” Gamache placed his forefinger on the head of the crouching figure. Olivier looked closer and frowned.

  “I know nothing about art. You’ll have to ask someone else.”

  “What did the Hermit whittle?”

  “Nothing much. Just pieces of wood. Tried to teach me once but I kept cutting myself. Not good with my hands.”

  “That’s not what Gabri says. He tells me you used to make your own clothes.”

  “As a kid.” Olivier reddened. “And they were crap.”

  Gamache took the carving from Olivier. “We found whittling tools in the cabin. The lab’s working on them and we’ll know soon enough if they were used to make this. But we both know the answer to that, don’t we?”

  The two men stared at each other.

  “You’re right,” said Olivier with a laugh. “I’d forgotten. He used to whittle these strange carvings, but he never showed me that one.”

  “What did he show you?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Gamache rarely showed impatience, but Inspector Beauvoir did. He slammed his notebook shut. It made a not very satisfactory sound. Certainly not nearly enough to convey his frustration at a witness who was behaving like his six-year-old nephew accused of stealing cookies. Denying everything. Lying about everything however trivial, as though he couldn’t help himself.

  “Try,” said Gamache.

  Olivier sighed. “I feel badly about this. He loved carving, and he asked me to get him the wood. He was very specific. Red cedar, from British Columbia. I got it from Old Mundin. But when the Hermit started handing me these I was pretty disappointed. Especially since he wasn’t giving me as many antiques from his cabin. Just those.” He flicked his hand at the carving.

  “What did you do with them?”

  “I threw them away.”

  “Where?”

  “Into the woods. When I walked home I tossed them into the forest. Didn’t want them.”

  “But he didn’t give you this one, or even show it to you?”

  Olivier shook his head.

  Gamache paused. Why did the Hermit hide this one, and the other? What was different about them? Maybe he suspected Olivier had thrown the others away. Maybe he realized his visitor couldn’t be trusted with his creations.

  “What does this mean?” The Chief Inspector pointed to the letters carved under the ship.

  OWSVI

  “I don’t know.” Olivier seemed perplexed. “The others didn’t have that.”

  “Tell me about woo,” said Gamache so quietly Olivier thought he’d misheard.

  Clara sat in the deep, comfortable armchair and watched Myrna serve Monsieur Béliveau. The old grocer had come in for something to read, but he wasn’t sure what. He and Myrna talked about it and she made some suggestions. Myrna knew everyone’s tastes, both the ones they declared and their actual ones.

  Finally Monsieur Béliveau left with his biographies of Sartre and Wayne Gretzky. He bowed slightly to Clara, who bowed back from her chair, never sure what to do when the courtly old man did that.

  Myrna handed Clara a cool lemonade and sat in the chair opposite. The afternoon sun poured through the bookshop window. Here and there they saw a dog chase a ball for a villager, or vice versa.

  “Didn’t you have your meeting this morning with Monsieur Fortin?”

  Clara nodded.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Do you smell smoke?” asked Myrna, sniffing. Clara, alarmed, looked around. “Oh, there it is,” Myrna pointed to her companion. “Your pants are on fire.”

  “Very funny.” But that was all the encouragement Clara needed. She tried to keep her voice light as she described the meeting. When Clara listed the people who would almost certainly be at the opening night at Fortin’s gallery Myrna exclaimed and hugged her friend.

  “Can you believe it?”

  “Fucking queer.”

  “Stupid whore. Is this a new game?” laughed Myrna.

  “You’re not offended by what I said?”

  “Calling me a fucking queer? No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I know you don’t mean it. Did you?”

  “Suppose I did?”

  “Then I’d be worried for you,” smiled Myrna. “What’s this about?”

  “When we were sitting in the bistro Gabri served us and as he left Fortin called him a fucking queer.”

  Myna took a deep breath. “And what did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  Myna nodded. Now it was her turn to say nothing.

  What?”

  “Woo,” repeated the Chief Inspector.

  “Woo?” Olivier seemed baffled, but he’d feigned that at every turn in this interview. Beauvoir had long stopped believing anything the man said.


  “Did the Hermit ever mention it?” Gamache asked.

  “Mention woo?” Olivier asked. “I don’t even know what you’re asking.”

  “Did you notice a spider’s web, in a corner of the cabin?”

  “A spider’s web? What? No, I never noticed one. But I’ll tell you something, I’d be surprised if there was one. The Hermit kept that cabin spotless.”

  “Propre,” said Gamache.

  “Propre,” Olivier repeated.

  “Woo, Olivier. What does it mean to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And yet it was the word on the piece of wood you took from the hand of the Hermit. After he’d been murdered.”

  It was worse than Olivier had imagined, and he’d imagined pretty bad. It seemed Gamache knew everything. Or at least almost everything.

  Pray God he doesn’t know it all, thought Olivier.

  “I picked it up,” Olivier admitted. “But I didn’t look at it. It was lying on the floor by his hand. When I saw there was blood on it I dropped it. It said Woo?”

  Gamache nodded and leaned forward, his powerful hands lightly holding each other as his elbows rested on his knees.

  “Did you kill him?”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Finally Myrna spoke. She leaned forward and took Clara’s hand.

  “What you did was natural.”

  “Really? Because it feels like shit.”

  “Well, most of your life is shit,” said Myrna, nodding her head sagely. “So it would feel natural.”

  “Har, har.”

  “Listen, Fortin is offering you everything you ever dreamed of, everything you ever wanted.”

  “And he seemed so nice.”

  “He probably is. Are you sure he wasn’t kidding?”

  Clara shook her head.

  “Maybe he’s gay himself,” suggested Myrna.

  Clara shook her head again. “I thought of that, but he has a wife and a couple of kids and he just doesn’t seem gay.”