The Brutal Telling

by Louise Penny

  Clara was a fault-magnet. Criticisms, critiques, blame flew through the air and clung to her. She seemed to attract the negative, perhaps because she was so positive.

  Well, she’d had enough. She sat up straighter in her seat. Fuck him. But, then again, maybe she should apologize and stand up for herself after the solo show.

  What an idiot she’d been. Why in the world had she thought it was a good idea to piss off the gallery owner who was offering her fame and fortune? Recognition. Approval. Attention.

  Damn, what had she done? And was it reversible? Surely she could have waited until the day after the opening, when the reviews were in the New York Times, the London Times. When his fury couldn’t ruin her, as it could now.

  As it would now.

  She’d heard his words. But more important, she’d seen it in Fortin’s face. He would ruin her. Though to ruin implied there was something built up to tear down. No, what he’d do was worse. He’d make sure the world never heard of Clara Morrow. Never saw her paintings.

  She looked at the time on Gamache’s dashboard.

  Ten to four. The heavy traffic out of the city was thinning. They’d be home in an hour. If they got back before five she could call his gallery and prostrate herself.

  Or maybe she should call and tell him what an asshole he was.

  It was a very long drive back.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Gamache asked after half an hour of silence. They’d turned off the highway and were heading toward Cowansville.

  “I’m not really sure what to say. Denis Fortin called Gabri a fucking queer yesterday in the bistro. Gabri didn’t hear it, but I did, and I didn’t say anything. I talked to Peter and Myrna about it, and they listened, but they pretty much left it up to me. Until this morning when Peter kinda said I should talk to Fortin.”

  Gamache turned off the main road. The businesses and homes receded and the forest closed in.

  “How did Fortin react?” he asked.

  “He said he’d cancel the show.”

  Gamache sighed. “I’m sorry about that, Clara.”

  He glanced over at her unhappy face staring out the window. She reminded him of his daughter Annie the other night. A weary lion.

  “How was your day?” she asked. They were on the dirt road now, bumping along. It was a road not used by many. Mostly just by people who knew where they were going, or had completely lost their way.

  “Productive, I think. I have a question for you.”

  “Ask away.” She seemed relieved to have something else to do besides watching the clock click closer to five.

  “What do you know about Emily Carr?”

  “Now, I’d never have bet that was the question,” she smiled, then gathered her thoughts. “We studied her in art school. She was a huge inspiration to lots of Canadian artists, certainly the women. She inspired me.”

  “How?”

  “She went into the wilderness where no one else dared to go, with just her easel.”

  “And her monkey.”

  “Is that a euphemism, Chief Inspector?”

  Gamache laughed. “No. Go on.”

  “Well, she was just very independent. And her work evolved. At first it was representational. A tree was a tree, a house a house. It was almost a documentary. She wanted to capture the Haida, you know, in their villages, before they were destroyed.”

  “Most of her work was on the Queen Charlotte Islands, I understand.”

  “Many of her most famous works are, yes. At some point she realized that painting exactly what could be seen wasn’t enough. So she really let go, dropped all the conventions, and painted not just what she saw, but what she felt. She was ridiculed for it. Ironically those are now her most famous works.”

  Gamache nodded, remembering the totem poles in front of the swirling, vibrant forest. “Remarkable woman.”

  “I think it all started with the brutal telling,” said Clara.

  “The what?”

  “The brutal telling. It’s become quite well known in artistic circles. She was the youngest of five daughters and very close to her father. It was apparently a wonderful relationship. Nothing to suggest it wasn’t simply loving and supportive.”

  “Nothing sexual, you mean.”

  “No, just a close father-daughter bond. And then in her late teens something happened and she left home. She never spoke to him or saw him again.”

  “What happened?” Gamache was slowing the car. Clara noticed this, and watched the clock approaching five to five.

  “No one knew. She never told anyone, and her family said nothing. But she went from being a happy, carefree child to an embittered woman. Very solitary, not very likeable apparently. Then, near the end of her life, she wrote to a friend. In the letter she said that her father had said something to her. Something horrible and unforgivable.”

  “The brutal telling.”

  “That’s how she described it.”

  They’d arrived. He stopped in front of her home and they sat there quietly for a moment. It was five past five. Too late. She could try, but knew Fortin wouldn’t answer.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “And so have you.”

  “I wish that was true.” He smiled at her. But, remarkably, she seemed to be feeling better. Clara got out of the car, and instead of going inside she paused on the road then slowly started to walk. Around the village green. Round and round she strolled, until the end met the beginning and she was back where she started. And as she walked she thought about Emily Carr. And the ridicule she’d endured at the hands of gallery owners, critics, a public too afraid to go where she wanted to take them.

  Deeper. Deeper into the wilderness.

  Then Clara went home.

  It was late at night in Zurich when an art collector picked up the odd little carving he’d paid so much for. The one he’d been assured was a great work of art, but more important, a great investment.

  At first he’d displayed it in his home, until his wife had asked him to move it. Away. So he’d put in into his private gallery. Once a day he’d sit in there with a cognac, and look at the masterpieces. The Picassos, the Rodins and Henry Moores.

  But his eyes kept going back to the jolly little carving, of the forest, and the happy people building a village. At first it had given him pleasure, but now he found it spooky. He was considering putting it somewhere else again. A closet perhaps.

  When the broker had called earlier in the day and asked if he’d consider sending it back to Canada for a police investigation he’d refused. It was an investment, after all. And there was no way he could be forced. He’d done nothing wrong and they had no jurisdiction.

  The broker, though, had passed on two requests from the police. He knew the answer to the first, but still he picked up the carving and looked at its smooth base. No letters, no signature. Nothing. But the other question just sounded ridiculous. Still, he’d tried. He was just about to replace the carving and e-mail that he’d found nothing when his eyes caught something light among the dark pines.

  He peered closer. There, deep in the forest, away from the village, he found what the police were looking for.

  A tiny wooden figure. A young man, not much more than a boy, hiding in the woods.

  THIRTY-ONE

  It was getting late. Agent Lacoste had left and Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Morin were reporting on their day.

  “We checked into the Parras, the Kmeniks, the Mackus. All the Czech community,” said Beauvoir. “Nothing. No one knew the Hermit, no one saw him. They’d all heard of that violinist guy—”

  “Martinù,” said Morin.

  “—because he’s some famous Czech composer, but no one actually knew him.”

  “I spoke to the Martinù Institute and did background checks on the Czech families,” said Morin. “They’re what they claim to be. Refugees from the communists. Nothing more. In fact, they seem more law-abiding than most. No connection at all wi
th Martinù.”

  Beauvoir shook his head. If lies annoyed the Inspector the truth seemed to piss him off even more. Especially when it was inconvenient.

  “Your impression?” Gamache asked Agent Morin, who glanced at Inspector Beauvoir before answering.

  “I think the violin and the music have nothing to do with the people here.”

  “You may be right,” conceded Gamache, who knew they’d have to look into many empty caves before they found their killer. Perhaps this was one. “And the Parras?” he asked, though he knew the answer. If there’d been anything there Beauvoir would have told him already.

  “Nothing in their background,” Beauvoir confirmed. “But . . .”

  Gamache waited.

  “They seemed defensive, guarded. They were surprised that the dead man was Czech. Everyone was.”

  “What do you think?” asked the Chief.

  Beauvoir wiped a weary hand across his face. “I can’t put it all together, but I think it fits somehow.”

  “You think there is a connection?” pressed Gamache.

  “How can there not be? The dead man was Czech, the sheet music, the priceless violin, and there’s a big Czech community here including two people who could have found the cabin. Unless . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Beauvoir leaned forward, his nervous hands clasped together on the table. “Suppose we’ve got it wrong. Suppose the dead man wasn’t Czech.”

  “You mean, that Olivier was lying?” said Gamache.

  Beauvoir nodded. “He’s lied about everything else. Maybe he said it to take us off the trail, so that we’d suspect others.”

  “But what about the violin and the music?”

  “What about it?” Beauvoir was gaining momentum. “There’re lots of other things in that cabin. Maybe Morin’s right.” Though he said it in the same tone he’d use to say maybe a chimp was right. With a mixture of awe at witnessing a miracle, and doubt. “Maybe the music and violin have nothing to do with it. After all, there were plates from Russia, glass from other places. The stuff tells us nothing. He could’ve been from anywhere. We only have Olivier’s word for it. And maybe Olivier wasn’t exactly lying. Maybe the guy did speak with an accent, but it wasn’t Czech. Maybe it was Russian or Polish or one of those other countries.”

  Gamache leaned back, thinking, then he nodded and sat forward. “It’s possible. But is it likely?”

  This was the part of investigating he liked the most, and that most frightened him. Not the cornered and murderous suspect. But the possibility of turning left when he should have gone right. Of dismissing a lead, of giving up on a promising trail. Or not seeing one in his rush to a conclusion.

  No, he needed to step carefully now. Like any explorer he knew the danger wasn’t in walking off a cliff, but in getting hopelessly lost. Muddled. Disoriented by too much information.

  In the end the answer to a murder investigation was always devastatingly simple. It was always right there, obvious. Hiding in facts and evidence and lies, and the misperceptions of the investigators.

  “Let’s leave if for now,” he said, “and keep an open mind. The Hermit might have been Czech, or not. Either way there’s no denying the contents of his cabin.”

  “What did Superintendent Brunel have to say? Any of it stolen?” asked Beauvoir.

  “She hasn’t found anything, but she’s still looking. But Jérôme Brunel’s been studying those letters under the carving and he thinks they’re a Caesar’s Shift. It’s a type of code.”

  He explained how a Caesar’s Shift worked.

  “So we just need to find the key word?” asked Beauvoir. “Should be simple enough. It’s Woo.”

  “Nope. Tried that one.”

  Beauvoir went to the sheet of foolscap on the wall and uncapped the magic marker. He wrote the alphabet. Then the marker hovered.

  “How about violin?” asked Morin. Beauvoir looked at him again as at an unexpectedly bright chimp. He wrote violin on a separate sheet of paper. Then he wrote Martinù, Bohuslav.

  “Bohemia,” suggested Morin.

  “Good idea,” said Beauvoir. Within a minute they had a dozen possibilities, and within ten minutes they’d tried them all and found nothing.

  Beauvoir tapped his Magic Marker with some annoyance and stared at the alphabet, as though it was to blame.

  “Well, keep trying,” said Gamache. “Superintendent Brunel is trying to track down the rest of the carvings.”

  “Do you think that’s why he was killed?” asked Morin. “For the carvings?”

  “Perhaps,” said Gamache. “There’s not much some people wouldn’t do for things that valuable.”

  “But when we found the cabin it hadn’t been searched,” said Beauvoir. “If you find the guy, find the cabin, go there and kill him, wouldn’t you tear the place apart to find the carvings? And it’s not like the murderer had to worry about disturbing the neighbors.”

  “Maybe he meant to but heard Olivier returning and had to leave,” said Gamache.

  Beauvoir nodded. He’d forgotten about Olivier coming back. That made sense.

  “That reminds me,” he said, sitting down. “The lab report came in on the whittling tools and the wood. They say the tools were used to do the sculptures but not to carve Woo. The grooves didn’t match, but apparently the technique didn’t either. Definitely different people.”

  It was a relief to have something definite about this case.

  “But red cedar was used for all of them?” Gamache wanted to hear the confirmation.

  Beauvoir nodded. “And they’re able to be more specific than that, at least with the Woo carving. They can tell by looking at water content, insects, growth rings, all sorts of things, where the wood actually came from.”

  Gamache leaned forward and wrote three words on a sheet of paper. He slid it across the table and Beauvoir read and snorted. “You talked to the lab?”

  “I talked to Superintendent Brunel.”

  He told them then about Woo, and Emily Carr. About the Haida totem poles, carved from red cedar.

  Beauvoir looked down at the Chief’s note.

  Queen Charlotte Islands, he’d written.

  And that’s what the lab had said. The wood that became Woo had started life as a sapling hundreds of years earlier, on the Queen Charlotte Islands.

  Gabri 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, h
aving 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.

  Chief Inspector Gamache had never seen the bistro so empty. He sat in an armchair by the fire and Havoc Parra brought him a drink.