Bury Your Dead (41 page)

“I’m actually doing well. Better.”

And he sounded it. There was an energy to the younger man’s voice Gamache hadn’t heard in months.

“You? Where are you? I hear lots of noise.”

“Café Krieghoff.”

Beauvoir’s laugh came down the telephone line. “Deep into a case, I see.”

“
Bien sûr.
And you?” He could hear sounds as well.

“The bistro. Research.”

“Of course. Poor one.”

“I need your help,” said Beauvoir. “About the murder of the Hermit.”

It took Chief Inspector Gamache a moment to tear himself away from the 1860s Québec of Charles Chiniquy’s journals to the quaint village of Three Pines today.

And yet, it wasn’t that much of a leap. He suspected Three Pines probably hadn’t changed all that much in the last 150 years. Had Father Chiniquy chosen to visit the tiny hamlet he’d have seen the same old stone houses, the clapboard homes with dormers and smoking chimneys. He’d have walked across the village green to the shops made of faded rose brick, pausing perhaps to admire the trinity of trees at the very center of the community.

Only the people had changed in Three Pines in the past 150 years, with the possible exception of Ruth Zardo. Gamache could only imagine how Ruth would have greeted Father Chiniquy. He smiled at the thought of the drunken mad poet meeting the sober mad minister.

Well, take this then.
Ruth had written.
Have some more body.

Drink and eat.

You’ll just make yourself sick. Sicker.

You won’t be cured.

Would Chiniquy have cured her? Of what? Her drinking, her poetry? Her wounds? Her words?

“How can I help?” he asked Beauvoir, picturing his second in command sitting in the bistro in front of the fire with a micro-brewery beer and a bowl of salty chips.

“If Olivier didn’t kill the Hermit it comes down to five other suspects,” said Beauvoir. “Havoc Parra and his father Roar. Vincent Gilbert and his son Marc or Old Mundin.”

“Go on.” Gamache looked out the window of the Café Krieghoff to the cars crawling along the snowy evening street and the cheerful holiday lights still up. The capital had never looked prettier.

“There are two questions. Who had the opportunity and who had the motive? From what I can see, Roar, Havoc and Marc had the opportunity. Roar was cutting the trails that led right to the Hermit. The cabin was on Marc’s land and he could have walked those trails at any time and found it.”

“C’est vrai,”
said the Chief, nodding as though Beauvoir could see him.

“Havoc worked late every Saturday and could have followed Olivier to the cabin.”

Gamache paused, remembering the case, remembering the night the Hermit had been killed. “But it wasn’t just Havoc in the bistro, Old Mundin also came in every Saturday night around closing time to get furniture to repair. He was there the night of the murder.”

“That’s true,” agreed Beauvoir. “Though he mostly went straight home before the bistro was locked up. But, yes, he’s a possibility.”

“So that’s Roar and Havoc Parra, Old Mundin and Marc Gilbert. All could have found the cabin and killed the Hermit. So why is Vincent Gilbert still a suspect? As you say, he doesn’t seem to have had the opportunity to find the cabin.”

Beauvoir paused. “It just seems too pat. His son buys a derelict old home no one wanted. They move here, then the Hermit is murdered and Marc’s estranged father shows up at almost exactly the same moment.”

“But you have no proof,” said Gamache, pushing slightly, “beyond a feeling.”

He could sense his second in command bristle. Jean-Guy Beauvoir had no truck with “feelings,” with “intuition.” Gamache, on the other hand, did.

“But you might be right,” said the Chief. “And what about motive?”

“That’s more difficult. We know why Olivier might have wanted the Hermit dead, but why would anyone else? If the motive was robbery
the killer made a pretty poor job of it. From what we can make out, nothing was stolen.”

“What other motives could there be?” asked Gamache.

“Revenge. The Hermit did something terrible and the murderer found him and killed him for it. Might have been hunting him for years. That would also explain why the Hermit was a hermit. He was hiding. Those treasures had to come from somewhere. He almost certainly stole them himself.”

“Then why didn’t the murderer take them after he’d killed the Hermit? Why leave everything there?”

Gamache saw again the home buried in the wilderness. From the outside it seemed just a rustic log cabin, with window boxes of flowers and herbs, a vegetable garden, a fresh stream behind the home. But inside? Signed first editions, ancient pottery, tapestries, a panel from the famous Amber Room, leaded crystal and gold and silver candlesticks. And the violin.

And he saw young Agent Morin standing in the cabin, so awkward, like a wooden puppet, all gangly arms and legs. But as soon as he’d played that priceless violin his body had changed.

The haunting first notes of “Colm Quigley” returned to Gamache.

“There’s another possibility,” said Beauvoir. “The murder wasn’t about the treasure but something else the Hermit had done.”

“Your theory then is that the treasure distracted us. Distracted me.”

“No one who walked into that cabin believed the motive was anything other than the treasure. It seemed so obvious.”

But Gamache knew Beauvoir was being uncharacteristically tactful. He, Gamache, had been in charge of the investigation. He’d assigned the agents and investigators and he’d followed his own instincts, often in the face of strong protests on the part of Inspector Beauvoir who’d insisted all along both the murderer and the motive were in Three Pines.

Gamache now believed Beauvoir was right, and he’d been wrong. And perhaps had put an innocent man in prison.

“Okay, let’s suppose the treasure had nothing to do with the murder,” said the Chief Inspector. “Suppose the only thing of value the murderer wanted was the Hermit’s life and once taken he left.”

“So,” said Beauvoir, slinging his leg over the side of the easy chair and burrowing into the wing. He was hidden from view of the rest of
the bistro, only his casual leg visible. No one could see him, but neither could he see anyone. “Take away the treasure but that still leaves us with other clues. The repetition of the word ‘Woo’ whittled into that chunk of red cedar, and woven into the web. It must mean something. And Charlotte, that name kept popping up, remember?”

Gamache did remember. It had sent him rushing across the continent to a mist-covered archipelago in northern British Columbia, on what now appeared to be a fool’s errand.

“There’s something about your list of suspects,” said Gamache after going over each one again in his head.

“Oui?”

“They’re all men.”

“Are you afraid the Equal Opportunity Bureau’s going to complain?” laughed Beauvoir.

“I just wonder if we should be considering some of the women,” said Gamache. “Women have patience. Some of the most vicious crimes I’ve seen have been committed by women. It’s more rare than men, but women are more likely to bide their time.”

“That’s funny, Clara was saying the same thing this afternoon.”

“How so?” Gamache leaned forward. Anything Clara Morrow had to say was, in the Chief’s opinion, worth listening to.

“She spent the morning with a bunch of women from the village. Apparently Old’s wife said something odd. She quoted some instruction manual that advised anti-terrorism squads to kill the women first.”

“The Mossad,” said Gamache. “I’ve read it.”

Beauvoir was silent. The Chief Inspector often surprised him. Sometimes it was with incomprehensible bits of Ruth’s poetry but mostly it was with things like this, with what he knew.

“So you know what it refers to,” said Beauvoir. “A woman’s capacity to kill.”

“Yes, but mostly it’s about her dedication. Once committed some women will never give up, they’ll be merciless, unstoppable.” Gamache was silent for a moment, staring out the window but no longer seeing the flow of people bundled against the biting cold. “In what context were they talking about this? Why did The Wife say it?”

“They were talking about the case. Clara had asked Hanna Parra if she could kill.”

“Clara needs to be more careful,” said the Chief. “Did anyone particularly respond to that?”

“Clara said they all did, but after some discussion they reluctantly agreed the Mossad might have had it right.”

Gamache frowned. “What else did the women talk about?”

Beauvoir looked at his notes and told Gamache about the rest of the conversation. About fathers and mothers, about Alzheimer’s, about Charlie Mundin and Dr. Gilbert.

“There was something else. Clara thinks Marc Gilbert is desperately jealous of Old Mundin.”

“Why?”

“Apparently his father’s spending a lot of time at the Mundins’. The Wife admitted Old has developed a sort of bond with Dr. Gilbert. A substitute father.”

“Jealousy’s a powerful emotion. Powerful enough to kill.”

“But the wrong victim. Old Mundin isn’t dead.”

“So how could this play into the death of the Hermit?” the Chief asked and waited while there was a long pause. Finally Beauvoir admitted he didn’t see how it could.

“Both Carole Gilbert and Old Mundin are originally from Quebec City. Could you ask around about them?” When the Chief agreed Beauvoir paused before asking his last question. “How are you?”

He hated to ask, afraid that maybe the Chief would one day tell him the truth.

“I’m at the Café Krieghoff with Émile Comeau, a bowl of nuts and a Scotch. How bad can it be?” Gamache asked, his voice friendly and warm.

But Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew exactly how bad it could be and had been.

Hanging up, an image stole into his mind, uninvited, unexpected, unwanted.

Of the Chief, gun in hand, suddenly being lifted off his feet, twisting, turning. Falling. To lie still on the cold cement floor.

Gamache and Émile hailed a cab and took the diaries home. As Émile prepared a simple supper of warmed-up stew Gamache fed Henri then took him for a walk to the bakery for a fresh baguette.

Once home the men sat in the living room, a basket of crusty bread on the table, bowls of beef stew in front of them and the Chiniquy diaries piled on the sofa between them.

They spent the evening eating and reading, making notes, occasionally reading each other a particularly interesting, moving or unintentionally amusing passage.

By eleven Armand Gamache took off his reading glasses and rubbed his weary eyes. So far while historically fascinating the Chiniquy journals hadn’t revealed anything pertinent. There was no mention of the Irish laborers, Patrick and O’Mara. And while he did talk about James Douglas in the earlier diaries, the later ones mentioned him only in passing. Eventually there was an entry Émile read Gamache about Douglas packing up his three mummies and heading down to Pittsburgh, to live with his son.

Gamache listened and smiled. Chiniquy had made it sound petty, like a kid picking up his marbles and going home. Had Father Chiniquy done that on purpose, to diminish Dr. Douglas? Had there been a falling out? Did it matter?

An hour later he glanced at Émile and noticed the older man had fallen asleep, a journal splayed open on his chest. Gently raising Émile’s hand he removed the book, then put a soft pillow under Émile’s head and covered him with a comforter.

After quietly placing a large cherry log on the fire Gamache and Henri crept to bed.

The next day, before breakfast, he found an email from the Chief Archeologist.

“Something interesting?” Émile asked.

“Very. Sleep well?” Gamache looked up from his message with a smile.

“Wish I could say that was the first time I’d nodded off in front of the fire,” Émile laughed.

“So it wasn’t my stimulating conversation?”