by Louise Penny
“Where is he? I want to see him.”
Clearly “see” was a euphemism.
“Inspector Beauvoir’s with him in the barn.”
“Good,” said Marc and headed toward the door.
“Marc, wait.” His mother ran after him. “Maybe we should just leave this to the police.” Carole Gilbert looked frightened still. And with good reason, thought Gamache as he thought of the man in the barn.
“Are you kidding? This man’s been spying on us, maybe more.”
“What do you mean, ‘maybe more’?”
Gilbert hesitated.
“What aren’t you telling us?” his wife asked.
He shot a look at Gamache. “I think he might have killed that man and left his body in our house. As a threat. Or maybe he meant to kill one of us. Thought the stranger was one of us. I don’t know. But first the body shows up, then this guy tries to break in. Someone’s trying to hurt us. And I want to find out why.”
“Wait. Wait a minute.” Dominique had her hands up to stop her husband. “What are you saying? That body really was here?” She looked toward the vestibule. “In our home?” She looked at Gamache. “It’s true?” She looked back at her husband. “Marc?”
He opened and shut his mouth. Then took a deep breath. “He was here. The police were right. I found him when I got up in the middle of the night. I got scared and did something stupid.”
“You took the body to the bistro?” Dominique looked as though she’d been slapped by someone she loved, so great was her shock. His mother was staring at him as though he’d peed in the Château Frontenac dining room. He knew that look from when he was a boy and peed in the Château Frontenac dining room.
Gilbert’s lightning mind zipped all over the place, searching dark corners for someone else to blame. Surely it wasn’t his fault. Surely there were factors his wife didn’t appreciate. Surely this couldn’t be the act of complete idiocy her face accused him of.
But he knew it was.
Dominique turned to Gamache. “You have my permission to shoot him.”
“Merci, madame, but I’d need more than that to shoot him. A gun for instance.”
“Pity,” she said, and looked at her husband. “What were you thinking?”
He told them, as he had the cops, the reasoning that had appeared so obvious, so dazzling, at three in the morning.
“You did it for the business?” said Dominique when he’d finished. “Something’s very wrong when dumping bodies is part of our business plan.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly planned,” he tried to defend himself. “And yes, I made a terrible mistake, but isn’t there a bigger question?” He’d finally found something curled up in one of those dark corners. Something that would take the heat off him. “Yes, I moved the body. But who put it here in the first place?”
They’d obviously been so stunned by his admission they hadn’t even thought of that. But Gamache had. Because he’d noticed something else about the Varathaned floor. The shine, the mar. And the complete lack of blood. So had Beauvoir. Even if Marc Gilbert had scrubbed and scrubbed he’d never have gotten all the blood up. There’d be traces.
But there was nothing. Just some fluff from the dead man’s cardigan.
No, Gilbert might have killed the man, but he didn’t do it at his own front door. The man had already been dead when he’d been placed there.
Gilbert stood up. “That’s one of the reasons I want to see the man who tried to break in. I think he had something to do with it.”
His mother stood up and touched her son’s arm. “I really think you should leave this to the police. The man’s probably unwell.”
She looked to Gamache, but the Chief Inspector had no intention of stopping Marc Gilbert from confronting the intruder. Just the opposite. He wanted to see what happened.
“Come with me,” he said to Marc, then turned to the women. “You’re welcome to join us, if you like.”
“Well, I’m going,” said Dominique. “Maybe you should stay here,” she said to her mother-in-law.
“I’m coming too.”
As they approached the barn the horses looked up from the field. Beauvoir, who hadn’t seen them before, almost stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t seen that many horses in real life. On film, yes. And these didn’t look like any film horses. But then, most men didn’t look like Sean Connery and most women didn’t look like Julia Roberts. But even allowing for natural selection, these horses seemed, well, odd. One didn’t even look like a horse. They began to mosey over, one walking sideways.
Paul Morin, who had seen a lot of horses, said, “Nice cows.”
Dominique Gilbert ignored him. But she felt drawn to the horses. As their own lives so suddenly unraveled the horses’ calm attracted her. As did, she thought, their suffering. No, not their suffering, but their forbearance. If they could endure a lifetime of abuse and pain she could take whatever blow that barn had in store. As the others moved past her Dominique stopped and walked back to the paddock, where she stood on a bucket and leaned over the fence. The other horses, still shy, held back. But Buttercup, big, awkward, ugly and scarred, came forward. Buttercup’s broad, flat forehead pushed softly into Dominique’s chest, as though it fit there. As though it was the key. And as she walked away to join the others and confront whatever that shadow was they could see standing in the barn, she smelled horse on her hands. And felt the reassuring pressure between her breasts.
It took a moment or two for their eyes to adjust as they stepped into the dim barn. Then the shadow became solid, firm. Human. Before them appeared a tall, slender, graceful older man.
“You’ve kept me waiting,” the darkness said.
Marc, whose vision wasn’t quite as good as he pretended, could only just see the outline of the man. But the words, the voice, told him more than enough. He felt light-headed and reached out. His mother, standing next to him, took his hand and held him steady.
“Mother?” he whispered.
“It’s all right, Marc,” the man said.
But Marc knew it wasn’t all right. He’d heard the rumors about the old Hadley house, the ghouls that lived there. He’d loved the stories because it meant no one else had wanted the house, and they could get it dirt cheap.
Dirt to dirt. Something filthy had indeed risen. The old Hadley house had produced one more ghost.
“Dad?”
SEVENTEEN
“Dad?”
Marc stared from the shadow, darker than the shade, to his mother. The voice was unmistakable, indelible. The deep, calm voice that carried censure with a slight smile, so that the child, the boy, the man, had never really known where he stood. But he’d suspected.
“Hello, Marc.”
The voice held a hint of humor, as though this was in any way close to funny. As though Marc’s staggering shock was reason for mirth.
Dr. Vincent Gilbert walked out of the shed and out of the dead, into the light.
“Mom?” Marc turned to the woman beside him.
“I’m sorry, Marc. Come with me.” She tugged her only child out into the sun and sat him on a bale of hay. He felt it pricking into his bottom, uncomfortable.
“Can you get him something to drink?” Carole asked her daughter-in-law, but Dominique, hand to her face, seemed almost as stunned as her husband.
“Marc?” Dominique said.
Beauvoir looked at Gamache. This was going to be a long day if all they said was each other’s names.
Dominique recovered and walked quickly, breaking into a run, back to the house.
“I’m sorry, have I surprised you?”
“Of course you surprised him, Vincent,” snapped Carole. “How did you think he’d feel?”
“I thought he’d be happier than this.”
“You never think.”
Marc stared at his father, then he turned to his mother. “You told me he was dead.”
“I might have exaggerated.”
“Dead? You told him I was d
She turned on her husband again. “We agreed that’s what I’d say. Are you senile?”
“Me? Me? Do you have any idea what I’ve done with my life while you played bridge?”
“Yes, you abandoned your family—”
“Enough,” said Gamache, and raised a hand. With an effort the two broke off and looked at him. “Let me be absolutely clear about this,” said Gamache. “Is he your father?”
Marc finally took a long hard look at the man standing beside his mother. He was older, thinner. It’d been almost twenty years, after all. Since he’d gone missing in India. Or at least that’s what his mother had told him. A few years later she said she’d had him declared dead, and did Marc think they should hold a memorial for him?
Marc had given it absolutely no thought. No. He had better things to do than help plan a memorial for a man missing all his life.
And so that had ended that. The Great Man, for that was what Marc’s father was, was forgotten. Marc never spoke of him, never thought of him. When he’d met Dominique and she’d asked if his father had been “that” Vincent Gilbert he’d agreed that, yes, he had. But he was dead. Fallen into some dark hole in Calcutta or Bombay or Madras.
“Isn’t he a saint?” Dominique had asked.
“That’s right. St. Vincent. Who raised the dead and buried the living.”
She hadn’t asked any more.
“Here.” Dominique had returned with a tray of glasses and bottles, not sure what the occasion called for. Never, in all the board meetings she’d chaired, all the client dinners she’d hosted, all the arbitrations she’d attended, had anything quite like this arisen. A father. Risen. But obviously not revered.
She put the drinks tray on a log and brought her hands to her face, softly inhaling the musky scent of horse, and felt herself relax. She dropped her hands, though not her guard. She had an instinct for trouble, and this was it.
“Yes, he’s my father,” said Marc, then turned to his mother again. “He isn’t dead?”
It was, thought Gamache, an interesting question. Not, He’s alive? but rather, He isn’t dead? There seemed a difference.
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’m standing right here, you know,” said Dr. Gilbert. “I can hear.”
But he didn’t seem put off by any of this, just amused. Gamache knew Dr. Vincent Gilbert would be a formidable opponent. And he hoped this Great Man, for that was what Gamache knew him to be, wasn’t also a wicked man.
Carole handed Marc a glass of water and took one herself, sitting on the hay beside him. “Your father and I agreed our marriage was over a long time ago. He went off to India as you know.”
“Why did you say he was dead?” Marc asked. If he hadn’t Beauvoir would have. He’d always thought his own family more than a little odd. Never a whisper, never a calm conversation. Everything was charged, kinetic. Voices raised, shouting, yelling. Always in each other’s faces, in each other’s lives. It was a mess. He’d yearned for calm, for peace, and had found it in Enid. Their lives were relaxed, soothing, never going too far, or getting too close.
He really should call her.
But odd as his family might be, they were nothing compared to this. In fact, that was one of the great comforts of his job. At least his family compared well to people who actually killed each other, rather than just thought about it.
“It seemed easier,” Carole said. “I was happier being a widow than a divorcee.”
“But what about me?” Marc asked.
“I thought it would be easier for you too. Easier to think your father had died.”
“How could you think that?”
“I’m sorry. I was wrong,” said his mother. “But you were twenty-five, and never close to your father. I really thought you wouldn’t care.”
“So you killed him?”
Vincent Gilbert, silent until now, laughed. “Well put.”
“Fuck off,” said Marc. “I’ll get to you in a minute.” He shifted on the prickly hay bale. His father really was a pain in the ass.
“He agreed, no matter how he’s rewritten it now. I couldn’t have done it without his cooperation. In exchange for his freedom he agreed to be dead.”
Marc turned to his father. “Is that right?”
Now Vincent Gilbert looked less regal, less certain. “I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t well. I’d gone to India to find myself and felt the best way to do that was to shed the old life completely. Become a new man.”
“So I just didn’t exist anymore?” Marc asked. “What a fucking great family. Where have you been?”
“The Manoir Bellechasse.”
“For twenty years? You’ve been at a luxury inn for twenty years?”
“Oh, well, no. I’ve been there off and on all summer. I brought you that.” He gestured to the package sitting on a shelf in the shed. “It’s for you,” he said to Dominique. She picked it up.
“Granola,” she said. “From the Bellechasse. Thank you.”
“Granola?” asked Marc. “You come back from the dead and bring breakfast cereal?”
“I didn’t know what you needed,” said his father. “I’d heard from your mother that you’d bought a place down here so I came and watched every now and then.”
“You’re the one Roar Parra spotted in the woods,” said Dominique.
“Roar Parra? Roar? Are you kidding? Is he the troll? The dark, stocky man?”
“The nice man helping your son turn this place around, you mean?” asked Carole.
“I say what I mean.”
“Will you two please stop it.” Dominique glared at Marc’s parents. “Behave yourselves.”
“Why’re you here?” Marc finally asked.
Vincent Gilbert hesitated than sat on a nearby hay bale. “I’d kept in touch with your mother. She told me about your marriage. Your job. You seemed to be happy. But then she said you’d quit your job and moved to the middle of nowhere. I wanted to make sure you were all right. I’m not a complete fool, you know,” said Vincent Gilbert, his handsome, aristocratic face somber. “I know what a shock this is. I’m sorry. I should never have let your mother do it.”
“Pardon?” said Carole.
“Still, I wouldn’t have contacted you, but then that body was found and the police showed up and I thought you might need my help.”
“Yes, what about that body?” Marc asked his father, who just stared. “Well?”
“Well what? Wait a minute.” Vincent Gilbert looked from his son to Gamache, watching with interest, then back again. He laughed. “You’re kidding? You think I had something to do with it?”
“Did you?” demanded Marc.
“Do you really expect me to answer that?” The genial man in front of them didn’t just bristle, he radiated. It happened so quickly even Gamache was taken aback by the transformation. The cultured, urbane, slightly amused man suddenly overflowed with a rage so great it engulfed him then spilled off him and swallowed everyone. Marc had poked the monster, either forgetting he was in there or wanting to see if he still existed. And he had his answer. Marc stood stock still, his only reaction being a slight, telltale widening of his eyes.
And what a tale those eyes told Gamache. In them he saw the infant, the boy, the young man, afraid. Never certain what he would find in his father. Would he be loving and kind and warm today? Or would he sizzle the skin off his son? With a look, a word. Leaving the boy naked and ashamed. Knowing himself to be weak and needy, stupid and selfish. So that the boy grew an outer hull to withstand assault. But while those skins saved tender young souls, Gamache knew, they soon stopped protecting and became the problem. Because while the hard outer shell kept the hurt at bay, it also kept out the light. And inside the frightened little soul became something else entirely, nurtured only in darkness.
Gamache looked at Marc with interest. He’d poked the monster in front of him, and sure enough, it came awake and lashed out. But had he also awakened a monster inside himself? Or had that happened earlier?
Someone had left a body on their doorstep. Was it father? Or son? Or someone else?
“I expect you to answer, monsieur,” said Gamache, turning back to Vincent Gilbert and holding his hard eyes.
“Doctor,” Gilbert said, his voice cold. “I will not be diminished by you or anyone else.” He looked again at his son, then back to the Chief Inspector.
“Désolé,” said Gamache and bowed slightly, never taking his deep brown eyes off the angry man. The apology seemed to further enrage Gilbert, who realized one of them was strong enough to withstand insult and one of them wasn’t.
“Tell us about the body,” Gamache repeated, as though he and Gilbert were having a pleasant conversation. Gilbert looked at him with loathing. Out of the corner of his eye Gamache noticed Marc the horse approaching from the fields. He looked like something a demon might ride, bony, covered with muck and sores. One eye mad, the other eye blind. Attracted, Gamache supposed, by something finally familiar. Rage.
The two men stared at each other. Finally Gilbert snorted derision and waved, dismissing Gamache and his question as trivial. The monster retreated into his cave.
But the horse came closer and closer.
“I know nothing about it. But I thought it looked bad for Marc so I wanted to be here in case he needed me.”
“Needed you to do what?” demanded Marc. “Scare everyone half to death? Couldn’t you just ring the doorbell or write a letter?”
“I didn’t realize you’d be so sensitive.” The lash, the tiny wound, the monster smiled and retreated. But Marc had had enough. He reached over the fence and bit Vincent Gilbert on the shoulder. Marc the horse, that is.
“What the hell?” Gilbert yelped and jumped out of the way, his hand on his slimy shoulder.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Marc asked Gamache.
“Are you going to press charges?”
Marc stared at his father, then at the wreck of a creature behind him. Black, wretched, probably half mad. And Marc the man smiled.
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