Including perhaps the most valuable volume in Canada today.
An original Huguenot bible belonging to Samuel de Champlain.
That had brought groans from the board members, but no recriminations. They were beginning to band together, to shore up their differences.
Things are strongest when they’re broken, Agent Morin had said, and Armand Gamache knew it to be true. And he knew he was witnessing a broken community, fractured by unkind time and events, and a temperament not, perhaps, best suited to change.
But it was pulling together, mending, and it would be very strong indeed because it was so broken. As Ken Haslam had been broken, by years of hushing. As Elizabeth MacWhirter had been worn down by years of polishing the façade. As Porter Wilson and Winnie and Mr. Blake had been shattered watching family, friends, influence, institutions disappear.
Only young Tom Hancock was unscathed, for now.
“So when Augustin Renaud came to speak to us a week ago he wanted to dig?” asked Mr. Blake.
“I believe so. He was convinced Champlain was buried in your basement, put there by James Douglas and Father Chiniquy.”
“And he was right,” said Porter, all bravado gone. “What’ll they do to us when they find out we’ve been hiding Champlain all these years?”
“We didn’t hide him,” said Winnie. “We didn’t even know he was there.”
“Try convincing the tabloids of that,” said Porter. “And even if most believe us, the fact is, it was still an Anglo conspiracy.”
“A conspiracy of two,” said Mr. Blake. “More than a hundred years ago. Not the whole community.”
“And you think if James Douglas had asked the community they’d have disagreed?” demanded Porter, making a more coherent argument than Gamache had thought him capable of. One thing was certain, he knew his community, as did Mr. Blake, who accepted that Porter, finally, was right.
“This is a disaster,” said Winnie and no one contradicted her, except Gamache.
“Well, not entirely. The coffin was Champlain’s, but the body inside wasn’t.”
Now they gaped at him. Dying men thrown a rope, a slender hope.
They were hushed. And finally Ken Haslam spoke, his voice filling the room, squeezing them all into the corners.
“Who was he?”
“She. The body in the coffin appears to be female.”
“She? What was she doing in Champlain’s coffin?” Haslam shouted.
“We don’t know, but we will.”
Beside him Émile’s eyes slid from Haslam to Elizabeth MacWhirter. She looked sad and frightened. Her veneer cracking. Émile smiled at her slightly. An encouraging look from someone who knew what it felt like to be shattered.
“Things are strongest where they’re broken,” Agent Morin laughed. “Good thing too, since I’m always dropping things. Suzanne’s pretty clumsy too, you know. We’re going to have to put our babies in bubble wrap. Babies bounce, right?”
“Not twice,” said Gamache and Morin laughed again.
“Oh well, I guess we’ll have strong kids.”
“Without a doubt.”
“I started with the assumption that the killer had found one of the Hermit’s treasures in the antique shop,” said Beauvoir, “and traced it back here to Three Pines.”
The only sounds now in the bistro were the crackling of the log fire and snow hitting the windows.
Inside, the fireplaces threw odd shadows against the walls but none of them threatening. Not to Beauvoir, but he suspected at least one person in this room was beginning to find it close, tight, claustrophobic.
“But who could it be? The Gilberts had bought a lot of antiques from that very store. The Parras? They’d inherited a lot of things from their family in the Czech Republic and managed to get them out when the wall came down. By their own admission, they’d sold most of it to pay for their new home. Perhaps they sold the things through Les Temps Perdu. Old Mundin? Well, he restores antiques. Wouldn’t he also be drawn to the terrific shops on rue Notre-Dame?
“It hardly seemed to narrow the suspects, so I looked at another clue. Woo. Olivier had described the Hermit whispering the word when he was particularly distressed. It was upsetting to him. But what did ‘woo’ mean? Was it a name, a nickname?”
He looked over to the Gilbert table. Like the rest they were staring, entranced and guarded.
“Was ‘woo’ short-form for a name that was hard to say, particularly for a child? That’s when most nicknames are given, isn’t it? In childhood. I was at the Mundins’ and heard little Charlie speaking. Shoo, for chaud. Kids do that, trying to get their tongues around hard words. Like Woloshyn. Woo.”
Clara leaned in to Myrna and whispered, “That’s what I was afraid of. As soon as I heard her maiden name was Woloshyn.”
Myrna raised her brows and turned, with the rest of them, to look at Carole Gilbert.
Carole didn’t move but Vincent Gilbert did. He rose to his full height, his towering personality filling the room.
“Enough with these insinuations. If you have something to say come out with it.”
“And you,” Beauvoir rounded on him. “Sir. The magnificent Dr. Gilbert. The great man, the great healer.” As he spoke he knew the Chief Inspector would be handling this differently, would never employ sarcasm, would rarely lose his temper, as Beauvoir could feel himself doing. With an effort he pulled back from the edge. “One of the great mysteries of this case has always been why the murderer didn’t steal the treasure. Who could resist it? Even if it wasn’t the motive for murder, it was just sitting there. Who wouldn’t pick up a trinket? A rare book? A gold candlestick?”
“And what was your brilliant conclusion?” Dr. Gilbert asked, his voice filled with contempt.
“There seemed only one. The killer had no need of it. Did that apply to Olivier? No. He was about as greedy as they come. Marc, your son? Same thing. Greedy, petty. He’d have stripped the cabin.”
He could see Marc Gilbert struggling, wanting to defend himself, but recognizing that these insults actually helped clear him of suspicion.
“The Parras? A landscaper, a waiter? Not exactly rolling in money. Even one of the Hermit’s pieces would make a huge difference in their lives. No, if one of them had killed the Hermit they’d have stolen something. Same with Old Mundin. A carpenter’s income is fine for now, but what happens when Charlie gets older? He’ll need to be provided for. The Mundins would have stolen the treasure if not for themselves then for their son.”
Now he turned back to Vincent Gilbert.
“But one person, sir, didn’t need the treasure. You. You’re already wealthy. Besides, I don’t think money’s important to you. You have another motivation, another master. Money was never the currency that counted. No. It’s compliments you collect. Respect, admiration. You collect the certainty that you’re better than anyone else. A saint, even. It’s your ego, your self-esteem that needs feeding, demands feeding, not your bank account. You alone among all the suspects would have left the treasure, because it meant nothing to you.”
If Dr. Gilbert could have ripped Beauvoir’s life away with a look, the young Inspector would have dropped dead right there. But instead of dying, Inspector Beauvoir smiled and continued his story, his voice suddenly calm, reasonable.
“But there was another mystery. Who was the Hermit? Olivier started off saying he was Czech and his name was Jakob but he’s since admitted he was lying. He had no idea who the man was except that he wasn’t Czech. More likely French or English. He spoke perfect French, but seemed to prefer to read English.”
Beauvoir noticed Roar and Hanna Parra exchange relieved glances.
“The only clue we had led us back to the antiques and antiquities in his cabin. I don’t know antiques, but people who do said these were amazing. He must have had an eye for it. He didn’t pick the stuff up at flea markets and garage sales.”
Beauvoir paused. He’d seen Gamache do this time and again, reeling in the suspect
then letting him run, then reeling some more. But doing it subtly, carefully, delicately, without the suspect even realizing it. Doing it steadily, without hesitation.
It would be terrifying for the murderer when it dawned on him what was happening. And that terror was what the Chief counted on. To wear the person down, to grind them down. But it took a strong stomach, and patience.
Beauvoir had never appreciated how difficult this was. To present the facts in such a way so that the murderer would eventually know where it was heading. But not too soon as to be able to wiggle away, and not too late to have time to fight back.
No, the point was to wear the murderer’s nerves wire thin. Then give him the impression he wasn’t a suspect, someone else was. Let him breathe, then move in again when his guard was down.
And do that, over and over. Relentlessly.
It was exhausting. Like landing a huge fish, only one that could eat the boat.
And now Beauvoir moved in again, for the last time. For the kill.
“The truth, for we know it now, is that the treasure played a role. It was the catalyst. But what drove the final blow wasn’t greed for a treasure lost but for something else lost. Something more personal, more valuable even than treasure. This wasn’t about the loss of family heirlooms, but the family itself. Am I right?”
And Beauvoir turned to the murderer.
The killer stood and everyone in the room stared, bewildered.
“He killed my father,” said Old Mundin.
TWENTY–FOUR
The Wife pushed away from the table and gaped.
“Old?” she whispered.
It was as though the bitter wind had found a way in and frozen everyone in place. Had Beauvoir accused the mantelpiece of murder they could not have been more astonished.
“Oh, God, Old, please,” The Wife begged. But a hint of desperation had crept into her eyes, slowly replacing disbelief. Like a healthy woman told she had terminal cancer, The Wife was in a daze. The end of her life was in sight, her simple life with a carpenter, making and restoring furniture, living in the country in a modest home. Raising Charles, and being with the only man she ever wanted to be with, the man she loved.
Over.
Old turned to her and his son. He was impossibly beautiful and even the vile accusation couldn’t tarnish that.
“He killed my father,” Old repeated. “I came to Three Pines to find him. He’s right,” he jerked his head toward Beauvoir. “I was working in Les Temps Perdu, restoring furniture when a walking stick came in. It was very old, handmade. Unique. I recognized it right away. My father had shown it to me and pointed out the inlaying, how the woodworker had designed it around the burling. It appeared to be just a simple, rustic walking stick, but it was a work of art. It had been my father’s and had been stolen after he died. Had been stolen by his murderer.”
“You found out from the shop records who had sold it to Les Temps Perdu,” said Beauvoir. This was supposition now, but he needed to make it sound as though he knew it to be true.
“It was from an Olivier Brulé, living in Three Pines.” Old Mundin breathed deeply, prepared to take the plunge. “I moved here. Got a job repairing and restoring Olivier’s furniture. I needed to get close to him, to watch him. I needed proof he’d killed my father.”
“But Olivier could never do that,” said Gabri, quietly but with certainty. “He could never kill.”
“I know,” said Old. “I realized that the more I got to know him. He was a greedy man. Often a little sly. But a good man. He could never have killed my father. But someone did. Olivier was getting my father’s things from someone. I spent years following him all over the place, as he did his antiquing. He visited homes and farms and other shops. Bought antiques from all over the place. But never did I see him actually pick up one of my father’s things. And yet, they kept appearing. And being sold on.”
Perhaps it was the atmosphere, the warm and snug bistro. The storm outside. The wine and hot chocolate and lit fires, but this felt unreal. As though their friend was talking about someone else. Telling them a tale. A fable.
“Over the years I met Michelle and fell in love,” he smiled at his wife. No longer The Wife. But the woman he loved. Michelle. “We had Charles. My life was complete. I’d actually forgotten about why I’d come here in the first place. But one Saturday night I was sitting in the truck after picking up the furniture and I saw Olivier close up and leave the bistro. But instead of heading home he did something strange. He went into the woods. I didn’t follow him. I was too surprised. But I thought about it a lot and the next Saturday I waited for him, but he just went home. But the following week he went into the woods again. Carrying a bag.”
“Groceries,” said Gabri. No one said anything. They could see what was happening. Old Mundin in his truck. Watching and waiting. Patient. And seeing Olivier disappear into the woods. Old quietly getting out of the vehicle, following Olivier. And finding the cabin.
“I looked in through the windows and saw—” Old’s voice faltered. Michelle reached out and quietly laid her hand on his. He slowly regained himself, his breathing becoming calmer, more measured, until he was able to continue with the story.
“I saw my father’s things. Everything he’d kept in the back room. The special place for his special things, he’d told me. Things only he and I knew about. The colored glass, the plates, the candlesticks, the furniture. All there.”
Old’s eyes gleamed. He stared into the distance. No longer in the bistro with the rest of them. Now he was back at the cabin. On the outside looking in.
“Olivier gave the bag to the old man and they sat down. They drank from china my father let me touch, and ate off plates he said came from a queen.”
“Charlotte,” said Beauvoir. “Queen Charlotte.”
“Yes. Like my mother. My father said they were special because they would always remind him of my mother. Charlotte.”
“That’s why you named your son Charles,” said Beauvoir. “We thought it was after your father, but it was your mother’s name. Charlotte.”
Mundin nodded but didn’t look at his son. Couldn’t look at his son, or his wife now.
“What did you do then?” Beauvoir asked. He knew enough now to keep his voice soft, almost hypnotic. To not break the spell. Let Old Mundin tell the story.
“I knew then I was looking at the man who’d killed my father fifteen years ago. I never believed it was an accident. I’m not a fool. I know most people think it was suicide, that he killed himself by walking onto the river. But I knew him. He would never have done that. I knew if he was dead he’d been killed. But it was only much later I realized his most precious things had been taken. I talked to my mother about it but I don’t think she believed me. He’d never shown her the things. Only me.
“My father had been murdered and his priceless antiques stolen. And now, finally, I’d found the man who’d done it.”
“What did you do, Patrick?” Michelle asked. It was the first time any of them had heard his real name. The name she reserved for their most intimate moments. When they were not Old and The Wife. But Patrick and Michelle. A young man and woman, in love.
“I wanted to torment the man. I wanted him to know someone had found him. One of our favorite books was Charlotte’s Web, so I made a web from fishing line and snuck into the cabin when he was working on his vegetable garden. I put it in the rafters. So that he’d find it there.”
“And you put the word ‘Woo’ into it,” said Beauvoir. “Why?”
“It was what my father called me. Our secret name. He taught me all about wood and when I was small I tried to say the words but all I could say was ‘woo.’ So he started calling me that. Not often. Just sometimes when I was in his arms. He’d hug me tight and whisper, ‘Woo.’ ”
No one could look at the beautiful young man now. They dropped their eyes from the scalding sight. From the eclipse. As all that love turned into hate.
“I watched from the woods, b
ut the Hermit didn’t seem to find the web. So I took the most precious thing I own. I kept it in a sack in my workshop. Hadn’t seen it in years. But I took it out that night and took it with me to the cabin.”
There was silence then. In their minds they could see the dark figure walking through the dark woods. Toward the thing he had searched for and finally found.
“I watched Olivier leave and waited a few minutes. Then I left the thing outside his door and knocked. I hid in the shadows and watched. The old man opened the door and looked out, expecting to see Olivier. He looked amused at first, then puzzled. Then a little frightened.”
The fire crackled and cackled in the grate. It spit out a few embers that slowly died. And Old described what happened next.
The Hermit scanned the woods and was about to close the door when he saw something sitting on the porch. A tiny visitor. He stooped and picked it up. It was a wooden word. Woo.
And then Old had seen it. The look he’d dreamed of, fantasized about. Mortgaged his life to see. Terror on the face of the man who’d killed his father. The same terror his father must have felt as the ice broke underneath him.
The end. In that instant the Hermit knew the monster he’d been hiding from had finally found him.
And it had.
Old separated himself from the dark forest and approached the cabin, approached the elderly man. The Hermit backed into the cabin and said only one thing.
“Woo,” he whispered. “Woo.”
Old picked up the silver menorah and struck. Once. And into that blow he put his childhood, his grief, his loss. He put his mother’s sorrow and his sister’s longing. The menorah, weighed down with that, crushed the Hermit’s skull. And he fell, Woo clutched in his hand.
Old didn’t care. No one would find the body except Olivier and he suspected Olivier would say nothing. He liked the man very much, but knew him for what he was.
Greedy.
Olivier would take the treasure and leave the body and everyone would be happy. A man already lost to the world would be slowly swallowed by the forest. Olivier would have his treasure, and Old would have his life back.