Chapter Four
Chief Inspector Gamache stood alone in Mr. Ellis’s room. Arthur, that was his first name on the register. He had paid cash and planned to be there a week. That was a long time to stay at a costly place. Dominique herself had been surprised when Angela had told her. Most guests were there two nights, maybe three. Few stayed longer.
Almost no one stayed a week.
And, as it turned out, Mr. Ellis didn’t stay a week, either.
The chief inspector started a careful search of the room. It was very comfortable. And very tidy. Mr. Ellis had been an orderly man.
Gamache walked around, opening drawers and doors with his gloved hands. There were clothes neatly put away in the dresser and hung in the closet. Good clothes, but no designer labels.
Opening the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he found nothing unusual. Though there was a bottle of extra-strong aspirin. Did Mr. Ellis get headaches? The bottle was half empty. In the Gamache home, a bottle of aspirin could last him and his wife a year or more. Gamache glanced at the “best before” date. Still two years away. It had to be a fairly new bottle, and yet it was already half gone.
He would ask Inspector Beauvoir to have the room searched for fingerprints, but he was certain this was where Mr. Ellis had spent his last days.
They had not found a wallet on the dead man, and there was no wallet here. No papers at all to say who he was. And yet Mr. Ellis had signed the register and told people his name. He did not seem to be hiding.
The facts didn’t make sense. Soon, though, all the things that seemed so odd would begin to form a pattern. And in that pattern Chief Inspector Gamache would find a killer.
He stopped at the door for one last look.
Then he saw it: something white, leaning against the white pillow as though resting.
A letter.
Gamache picked up the envelope. It was unsealed. With his gloves still on, he removed a single sheet of lined paper with very neat writing on it. All the letters were carefully formed in black ink.
Did the writer know that the first person to read it would be a police officer?
Armand Gamache put on his half-moon reading glasses and walked to the window. There, in the sunshine, he read the dark words.
If you are reading this, my body has been found. I am sorry. I hope the discovery did not upset anyone. I tried to go as far away as possible so that no children would find me.
My work is finally done. I am tired, but I am at peace. Finally.
I know you cannot forgive me, but perhaps you can understand.
Gamache read the letter several times. It was a suicide note. He had read quite a few in his time, and none were clearer than this.
Lowering the letter, he took off his glasses. He sat in a chair and stared out the window at the horses in the field.
Mr. Ellis had intended to kill himself. And yet he had been murdered. Someone had beaten him to it.
Why?
Perhaps the murderer did not realize that Mr. Ellis was going to do the job himself. If the murderer had just waited a few hours, Ellis would have been dead by his own hand.
Unless.
Gamache looked at the letter again. It was neat, clear. Too clear? Surely someone about to end his life would tremble a bit? Would write quickly, before he changed his mind?
This note had been written by a steady hand. No emotion here. Not in the words. Not in the writing.
Once again, the chief looked out the window, as though the answer to his question was grazing in the field with the horses.
Then he smiled. But it was not a happy smile. It did not reach his thoughtful eyes.
He had his answer.
The letter he held had not been written by Mr. Ellis, but by his killer. The murderer had tried to make the death look as though Ellis had hanged himself. This letter was meant to confirm it.
Instead, the letter confirmed that Chief Inspector Gamache was on the trail of a cruel and cunning killer.
Chapter Five
Back downstairs in the entryway of the Inn and Spa, Gamache met Inspector Beauvoir.
“I’ve been thinking, Chief,” said the inspector, taking off his hat. His hair, normally so neat, stood on end. “Not everyone could carry a dead man up a tree.”
“Then tie a rope around his neck and throw him off,” agreed Gamache.
“Exactly. I’m not sure I could.”
“If you were afraid enough, you could,” said the chief. He knew that fear was so powerful it made people do things they could not normally do. Like lift a car off a loved one. Or race into a burning building.
Fear saved lives.
But fear could also kill. It made men into murderers.
Beauvoir nodded. “Still, the killer would need to be young and strong.”
From the entrance hall where they stood, they looked into the living room. Tom Scott was sitting by the fire. He had changed from his jogging clothes into jeans and a sweater. A workman was stacking wood for the fireplace, which was lit. Tom Scott ignored the man and put his feet up on the old coffee table.
Gamache handed his inspector the note he’d found and watched as Beauvoir’s handsome face showed interest, then surprise.
“So what’s the story?” Beauvoir asked. “Did he kill himself or not?”
“Not. I think that letter wasn’t written by the dead man, but by his killer, to make the death look like suicide.”
“Shit,” said Beauvoir with a sigh. “Where did you find it?”
“In the dead man’s room. His name is Ellis. First name is Arthur. I’ve locked the door.” He handed the key to Beauvoir. “Can you get the scene-of-crime people to dust for fingerprints? And check the letter, too?”
At that moment Angela, the receptionist, appeared at Gamache’s elbow. She smiled and waved into the living room.
“You know him?” Gamache nodded toward Tom Scott.
“Very well. He’s my husband.” She smiled.
“You’re married to Tom Scott?” asked Inspector Beauvoir.
“No, of course not.” Angela made a sour face and lowered her voice. “He’s just strange. No, I mean him. Mike.”
She pointed to the other man in the room. Mike was still filling the wood box.
“You both work here. That must be handy.”
“It is,” she agreed. Then her face became troubled. “Do you know what happened to poor Mr. Ellis?”
“Not yet, but we will. You liked Mr. Ellis,” Gamache said, and she nodded. “More than other guests?”
“That is not a polite question,” she said with a small smile.
“It was not meant to be polite.” His eyes, still kind, hardened.
Angela’s smile faded, and she seemed to make up her mind.
“You’re right. He was nicer than some.”
“Some in that room?” The chief glanced toward the living room and watched as Angela’s eyes darted to Tom Scott.
“He tried to pick me up last night. Wanted to drive me home after work. I said no, but he was quite pushy. Finally, Mr. Ellis came over and told Mr. Scott to leave me alone.”
“And how did Mr. Scott react?”
“He got angry, but when Mr. Ellis didn’t back down, he said it was just a joke.” Angela looked over at Tom Scott. “He’s not very nice.”
A bully, thought Gamache. He looked closely at Tom Scott, his dirty boots making marks on the nice table. Scott didn’t care. Or perhaps he enjoyed making a mess, ruining things. He liked to hurt.
But did he like to kill?
Then Gamache remembered something. “Where was Mrs. Scott while all this was happening?”
“Mrs. Scott? I don’t think he’s married. Or if he is, she isn’t here.”
So, thought the chief, Scott lied about that. Why? It was a stupid lie, easily found out.
Stupid people worried Gamache. They were unpredictable.
“What did Mr. Ellis do yesterday?” he asked Angela.
“He spent the day in the village.
”
“In Three Pines?” Inspector Beauvoir asked. “Did he know anyone there?”
Angela paused to think. “I don’t know. He asked a lot of questions about the village.”
“What sort of questions?” Gamache wanted to know.
“Oh, whether Three Pines was a nice place to live. I had to tell him that my husband and I don’t actually live there, but in St-Rémy, about twenty minutes away.”
“He seems to have been very interested in you.”
“Me?” She blushed. “No. He was just lonely, I think. Making conversation.”
“Was he worried? Upset?” Beauvoir asked.
“No. He seemed calm. Most people arrive here stressed. They come to relax. He seemed pretty relaxed already.” After a moment, she added, “Actually, that isn’t the right word. He wasn’t relaxed, he was tired, as if he had no energy left.”
Gamache watched the scene-of-crime team go up to Ellis’s room. Why did Ellis choose to come here, anyway? he asked himself.
While the team searched Ellis’s room and car, Chief Inspector Gamache walked down the dirt road into the tiny village.
Three Pines sat quietly in a valley, as though hiding from the world. And the world certainly seemed fooled.
Old homes faced the village green, a round and very pretty park. Wood smoke rose from chimneys, and the fresh, clean air smelled a bit of maple logs.
Three Pines was at peace.
That reminded the chief inspector of the note he’d recently read. And of the man found hanging, like a late fall leaf, from a tree.
“I am tired,” Gamache murmured as he walked into the gentle little village. “But I am at peace.”
Chapter Six
Chief Inspector Gamache warmed himself by the fire in the bistro. Around him, other customers drank hot chocolate and coffee and ate pastries. Fires roared in the fireplaces at both ends of the cozy room. Gamache took a sip of coffee and ate a pastry. The November cold had gotten into his bones even on the short walk, and he was only now warming up. He spared a moment to think of Inspector Beauvoir and the rest of the team, now on their hands and knees searching for clues at the Inn and Spa. Then he took a bite of the cream-filled pastry and turned his attention to the large man across from him.
Gabri was one of the owners of both this bistro and the Bed and Breakfast across the village green. He was big, some might even say fat, though they would only say so if he couldn’t hear them. Gabri was a happy man, content with his quiet life in the quiet village.
Around Gamache and Gabri, people were laughing and talking. Light danced off the shiny wood floors, and Gamache sank deeper into the large, comfortable armchair. Gabri sat on a faded sofa across from him and sipped tea.
“It’s great to see you again, Chief Inspector,” said Gabri. “Just visiting?”
“I wish. I’m afraid there’s been a death.” Gabri turned pale. “Here in Three Pines?” “In the forest. A man was found hanged.” Gabri sighed and shook his head. “Who was he? Someone we know?”
“He was a guest at the Inn and Spa. His name was Ellis.”
“First or last name?”
“Last. His first name was Arthur.”
Gabri thought, then shook his head again.
Gamache brought out the photograph. He hated showing it. Making people look at the dead man’s face seemed like an assault. But he had no choice.
Gabri looked quickly at the picture. “I know him.” He turned back to Gamache. “Didn’t catch his name, though. He came in here yesterday. Myrna!”
A large black woman in a long, loose orange dress ambled over. She smiled when she saw the chief inspector. But her smile faded when she saw their serious faces.
The chief inspector rose and bowed slightly.
“Hello,” she said. “Here on business?”
Gabri patted the seat next to him on the sofa, and she sat.
“Has someone died?” She looked from Gamache to her friend Gabri.
“A man was found hanging in the woods. That guy who came in yesterday. He had lunch here, then visited your store,” said Gabri.
Myrna owned a bookstore next to the bistro. Her shop was a gathering place for villagers. They’d find a book, sit by her wood stove, enjoy a cup of strong tea, and read. She didn’t care if they actually bought the book. She just liked the company. And so did her customers.
“The tall man? Quiet?” Myrna asked, and Gabri nodded.
“Was he looking for a special book?” Chief Inspector Gamache asked.
“As far as I know, he wasn’t looking for a book at all. He wanted to know about the village and the area.”
“Just making conversation?” Gamache asked.
“I thought so.”
“But now?”
“Now that I think about it, he seemed interested in whether this was a good place for young men to put down roots. His question seemed odd, since he wasn’t a young man,” said Myrna.
“Funny,” Gabri jumped in. “He asked me the same question. Wanted to know if there were many young men around. Aside from me, though, I couldn’t think of any.”
Both Gamache and Myrna looked at Gabri. He was many things, but young wasn’t one of them.
“It must be nice to live in your head, my dear.” Myrna smiled.
“It is, you know,” agreed Gabri. “In my head I’m young and slim and very rich.”
“You are, for sure,” said Chief Inspector Gamache. He knew that Gabri and Myrna were very rich indeed, rich in the things that matter. In friendships and laughter, in kindness and company.
People rich in money might belong at the Inn and Spa, but those rich in other ways belonged in the tiny village of Three Pines. Here, kindness was the real currency.
“But there are a lot of young men around,” said Gamache, accepting a refill of coffee from the waiter, who was a young man.
“True, but I think he was asking about people moving here, not born here,” said Gabri.
“I thought the same thing,” said Myrna. “I asked if he had anyone in mind, his son, maybe.”
“What did he say?”
“It was strange. He seemed to be about to say something, but then he shook his head and left.”
Gamache turned to Gabri. “Do you have anyone staying at the Bed and Breakfast?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. A woman arrived a couple of days ago, and then last night a fellow showed up.”
“With reservations?”
“Well, the woman called ahead but the man just arrived. Took a room for a couple of days.”
“Did you tell Mr. Ellis about him?” Gamache asked.
“Well, no. He hadn’t shown up yet.”
“Poor man,” said Myrna at last. “Killing himself.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” said Gabri, looking out the window at the dreary, cold day. “Depressing weather, and worse to come.”
“The odd thing is, most suicides don’t happen in the fall or even in the winter,” said Myrna. “They happen in April, just as the weather is getting better.”
“Really?” Gabri turned to her, surprised. Gamache was not surprised. He knew that what she said was true.
“People rarely take their lives when things are at their worst,” said Myrna. “The sad fact is that they kill themselves when things are beginning to look better.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” said Gabri, who could not imagine killing anyone as wonderful as himself.
“When people are really depressed, they don’t have the energy to kill themselves,” said Myrna, who had once been a therapist in Montreal. “But as soon as they start feeling a little better, their energy comes back. They’re still depressed, but now they can act.”
“How sad he must have been,” said Gabri.
“It’s not sadness that drives most people to take their lives,” said Myrna. “It’s emptiness. Loneliness.”
Chief Inspector Gamache leaned forward. “But Mr. Ellis didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.”
> Two very surprised people looked back at him.
“Someone hanged him from a tree?” Myrna asked.
“I’m afraid so. They tried to make his death look like suicide. Even wrote a note. But it was murder.”
“How horrible,” said Gabri.
“His name was Ellis?” Myrna asked.
“Mean anything to you?” Gamache asked. “Is there an Ellis family nearby?”
Both Myrna and Gabri shook their heads. Myrna got up.
“If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” She walked away.
“Arthur Ellis,” said Gabri, almost to himself. “He sounds so normal. Seemed so normal.”
Gamache had to agree. But he also knew normal people were killed all the time. It was the murderer who wasn’t normal.
Unseen by either man, Myrna paused in the doorway of her bookstore.
She stared back at the two men, puzzled.
Chapter Seven
“Chief? It’s Beauvoir.”
Gamache stood at the bar of the bistro, holding the phone to his ear. Cell phones did not work in Three Pines. So Inspector Beauvoir had had to call the bistro to speak to his boss.
“Find anything?” Gamache asked.
“Not much,” said Beauvoir. “We searched Ellis’s room and took fingerprints. His car is in the lot. Ontario plates. The Ontario police are finding out who owns the car. Should know more soon. But I did find something interesting. That note you found in Ellis’s room?”
“Yes?”
“It was written by Ellis himself. Not the murderer. In fact, I’m not so sure there is a murderer.”
“How do you know Mr. Ellis wrote it?” asked Gamache, surprised.
“The writing matches his writing in the registration book at the Inn.”
Gamache took a long, deep breath and exhaled. This was unexpected. Was it possible that Arthur Ellis had killed himself after all?
The chief inspector closed his eyes and the cheerful bistro disappeared. Now he saw the gently swinging body in the cold, dead forest. And the clean hands. Could he have been wrong? Had Ellis climbed up the tree himself? Maybe he wiped his hands on his pants and got the dirt off.