“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.
“No. Go back to being dead, Dad. Mom was right. It is easier.”
He turned and strode back to his home.
What a family,” said Beauvoir. They were strolling into the village. Agent Morin had gone ahead to the Incident Room, and they’d left the Gilberts to devour each other. “Still, there does seem a sort of equilibrium about this case.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gamache. Off to their left he noticed Ruth Zardo leaving her home followed by Rosa wearing a sweater. Gamache had written a thank-you note for the dinner the night before and stuck it in her rusty mailbox during his morning stroll. He watched as she collected it, glanced at it, and stuck it into the pocket of her ratty old cardigan.
“Well, one man’s dead and another comes alive.”
Gamache smiled and wondered if it was a fair exchange. Ruth spotted them just as Beauvoir spotted her.
“Run,” he hissed to the Chief. “I’ll cover you.”
“Too late, old son. The duck’s seen us.”
And indeed, while Ruth seemed happy to ignore them, Rosa was waddling forward at an alarming pace.
“She appears to like you,” said Ruth to Beauvoir, limping behind the duck. “But then she does have a birdbrain.”
“Madame Zardo,” Gamache greeted her with a smile while Beauvoir glared.
“I hear that Gilbert fellow put the body in Olivier’s Bistro. Why haven’t you arrested him?”
“You heard that already?” asked Beauvoir. “Who told you?”
“Who hasn’t? It’s all over the village. Well? Are you going to arrest Marc Gilbert?”
“For what?” asked Beauvoir.
“Murder for one. Are you nuts?”
“Am I nuts? Who’s the one with a duck in a sweater?”
“And what would you have me do? Let her freeze to death when winter comes? What kind of man are you?”
“Me? Speaking of nuts, what was with that note you had Olivier give me? I can’t even remember what it said, but it sure didn’t make sense.”
“You think not?” the wizened old poet snarled.
“Maybe there’s something in all of this I missed.”
Gamache quoted the lines and Ruth turned cold eyes on him. “That was a private message. Not meant for you.”
“What does it mean, madame?”
“You figure it out. And this one too.” Her hand dived into her other pocket and came out with another slip of paper, neatly folded. She handed it to Beauvoir and walked toward the bistro.
Beauvoir looked at the perfect white square in his palm, then closed his fingers over it.
The two men watched Ruth and Rosa walk across the village green. At the far end they saw people entering the bistro.
“She’s crazy, of course,” said Beauvoir as they walked to the Incident Room. “But she did ask a good question. Why didn’t we arrest anyone? Between father and son we could’ve been filling out arrest sheets all afternoon.”
“To what end?”
“Justice.”
Gamache laughed. “I’d forgotten about that. Good point.”
“No, really sir. There was everything from trespassing to murder we could have charged them with.”
“We both know the victim wasn’t murdered in that foyer.”
“But that doesn’t mean Marc Gilbert didn’t kill him somewhere else.”
“And put him in his own house, then picked him up again and took him to the bistro?”
“The father could have done it.”
“Why?”
Beauvoir thought about that. He couldn’t believe that family wasn’t guilty of something. And murder seemed right up their alley. Though it seemed most likely they’d kill each other.
“Maybe he wanted to hurt his son,” said Beauvoir. But that didn’t seem right. They paused on the stone bridge over the Rivière Bella Bella and the Inspector stared over the side, thinking. The sun bounced off the water and he was momentarily mesmerized by the movement. “Maybe it’s just the opposite,” he began, feeling his way forward. “Maybe Gilbert wanted back in his son’s life but needed an excuse. For anyone else I would think that was ridiculous but he has an ego and it might not have let him just knock and apologize. He needed an excuse. I could see him killing a vagrant, someone he considered so far beneath him. Someone he could use for his purpose.”
“And what would that be?” asked Gamache, also staring into the clear waters beneath them.
Beauvoir turned to the Chief, noticing the reflected light playing on the man’s face. “To be reunited with his son. But he’d need to be seen as the savior, not just as some deadbeat dad crawling back to the family.”
Gamache turned to him, interested. “Go on.”
“So he killed a vagrant, a man no one would miss, put him in his son’s vestibule and waited for the fireworks, figuring he could sweep in and take command of the family when it needed help.”
“But then Marc moved the body and there was no excuse,” said Gamache.
“Until now. The timing is interesting. We discover the body was in the old Hadley house and an hour later dad appears.”
Gamache nodded, his eyes narrowing, and once again he looked into the flowing waters of the river. Beauvoir knew the Chief well enough to know he was walking slowly now through the case, picking his way along the slippery rocks, trying to make out a path obscured by deceit and time.
Beauvoir unfolded the paper in his hands.
I just sit where I’m put, composed
of stone, and wishful thinking:
“Who’s Vincent Gilbert, sir? You seemed to know him.”
“He’s a saint.”
Beauvoir laughed, but seeing Gamache’s serious face he stopped. “What do you mean?”
“There’re some people who believe that.”
“Seemed like an asshole to me.”
“The hardest part of the process. Telling them apart.”
“Do you believe he’s a saint?” Beauvoir was almost afraid to ask.
Gamache smiled suddenly. “I’ll leave you here. What do you say to lunch in the bistro in half an hour?”
Beauvoir looked at his watch. Twelve thirty-five. “Perfect.”
He watched the Chief walk slowly back across the bridge and into Three Pines. Then he looked down again, at the rest of what Ruth had written.
that the deity who kills for pleasure
will also heal,
Someone else was watching Gamache. Inside the bistro Olivier was looking out the window while listening to the sweet sounds of laughter and the till. The place was packed. T
he whole village, the whole countryside, had emptied into his place, for lunch, for news, for gossip. To hear about the latest dramatic developments.
The old Hadley house had produced another body and spewed it into the bistro. Or at least, its owner had. Any suspicion of Olivier was lifted, the taint gone.
All round him Olivier heard people talking, speculating, about Marc Gilbert. His mental state, his motives. Was he the murderer? But one thing wasn’t debated, wasn’t in doubt.
Gilbert was finished.
“Who’s gonna wanna stay in that place?” he heard someone say. “Parra says they dumped a fortune into the Hadley place, and now this.”
There was general agreement. It was a shame. It was inevitable. The new inn and spa was ruined before it even opened. Olivier watched through the window as Gamache walked slowly toward the bistro. Ruth appeared at Olivier’s elbow. “Imagine being chased,” she said, watching the Chief Inspector’s steadfast approach, “by that.”
Clara and Gabri squeezed through the crowd to join them.
“What’re you looking at?” Clara asked.
“Nothing,” said Olivier.
“Him.” Ruth pointed at Gamache, apparently deep in thought, but making progress. Without haste, but also without hesitation.
“He must be pleased,” said Gabri. “I hear Marc Gilbert killed that man and put him here, in the bistro. Case closed.”
“Then why didn’t Gamache arrest him?” Clara asked, sipping her beer.
“Gamache’s an idiot,” said Ruth.
“I hear Gilbert says he found the body in his house,” said Clara. “Already dead.”
“Right, like that just happens,” said Olivier. His friends decided not to remind Olivier that was exactly what happened to him.
Clara and Gabri fought their way over to the bar to get more drinks.
The waiters were being run ragged. He’d give them a bonus, Olivier decided. Something to make up for two days of lost wages. Faith. Gabri was always telling him he had to have faith, trust that things would work out.
And they had worked out. Beautifully.
Beside him Ruth was tapping her cane rhythmically on the wooden floor. It was more than annoying. It was somehow threatening. So soft, but so unstoppable. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
“Scotch?”
That would get her to stop. But she stood ramrod straight, her cane lifting and dropping. Tap, tap, tap. Then he realized what she was tapping out.
Chief Inspector Gamache was still approaching, slowly, deliberately. And with each footfall came a beat of Ruth’s cane.
“I wonder if the murderer knows just how terrible a thing is pursuing him?” asked Ruth. “I feel almost sorry for him. He must feel trapped.”
“Gilbert did it. Gamache’ll arrest him soon.”
But the thumping of Ruth’s cane matched the thudding in Olivier’s chest. He watched Gamache approach. Then, miraculously, Gamache passed them by. And Olivier heard the little tinkle of Myrna’s bell.
So, there was some excitement up at the old Hadley house.”
Myrna poured Gamache a coffee and joined him by the bookshelves.
“There was. Who told you?”
“Who didn’t? Everyone knows. Marc Gilbert was the one who put the body in the bistro. But what people can’t figure out is whether he killed the man.”
“What’re some of the theories?”
“Well.” Myrna took a sip of coffee and watched as Gamache moved along the rows of books. “Some think he must have done it, and dumped the body in the bistro to get back at Olivier. Everyone knows they dislike each other. But the rest think if he was really going to do that he’d kill the man in the bistro. Why kill him somewhere else, then move him?”
“You tell me. You’re the psychologist.” Gamache gave up his search of the shelves and turned to Myrna.
“Former.”
“But you can’t retire your knowledge.”
“Can’t crawl back into Paradise?” Taking their coffee to the armchairs in the bay window they sat and sipped while Myrna thought. Finally she spoke.
“Seems unlikely.” She didn’t look pleased with her answer.
“You want the murderer to be Marc Gilbert?” he asked.
“God help me, I do. Hadn’t thought about it before, really, but now that the possibility’s here it would be, well, convenient.”
“Because he’s an outsider?”
“Beyond the pale,” said Myrna.
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you know the expression, Chief Inspector?”
“I’ve heard it, yes. It means someone’s done something unacceptable. That’s one way of looking at murder, I suppose.”
“I didn’t mean that. Do you know where the expression comes from?” When Gamache shook his head she smiled. “It’s the sort of arcane knowledge a bookstore owner collects. It’s from medieval times. A fortress was built with thick stone walls in a circle. We’ve all seen them, right?”
Gamache had visited many old castles and fortresses, almost all in ruins now, but it was the brightly colored illustrations from the books he’d pored over as a child he remembered most vividly. The towers with vigilant archers, the crenellated stone, the massive wooden doors. The moat and drawbridge. And inside the circle of the walls was a courtyard. When attacked the villagers would race inside, the drawbridge would be raised, the massive doors closed. Everyone inside was safe. They hoped.
Myrna was holding out her palm, and circling it with a finger. “All around are walls, for protection.” Then her finger stopped its movement and rested on the soft center of her palm. “This is the pale.”
“So if you’re beyond the pale . . .”
“You’re an outsider,” said Myrna. “A threat.” She slowly closed her hand. As a black woman she knew what it meant to be “beyond the pale.” She’d been on the outside all her life, until she’d moved here. Now she was on the inside and it was the Gilberts’ turn.
But it wasn’t as comfortable as she’d always imagined the “inside” to be.
Gamache sipped his coffee and watched her. It was interesting that everyone seemed to know about Marc Gilbert moving the body, but no one seemed to know about the other Gilbert, risen from the dead.
“What were you looking for just now?” she asked.
“A book called Being.”
“Being? That’s the one about Brother Albert and the community he built?” She got up and walked toward the bookshelves. “We’ve talked about this before.”
She changed direction and walked to the far end of her bookstore.
“We did, years ago.” Gamache followed her.
“I remember now. I gave Old Mundin and The Wife a copy when Charles was born. The book’s out of print, I think. Shame. It’s brilliant.”
They were in her used-books section.
“Ah, here it is. I have one left. A little dog-eared, but the best books are.”
She handed Gamache the slim volume. “Can I leave you here? I told Clara I’d meet her in the bistro for lunch.”
Armand Gamache settled into his armchair and in the sunshine through the window he read. About an asshole. And a saint. And a miracle.
Jean Guy Beauvoir arrived at the crowded bistro and after ordering a beer from a harried Havoc he squeezed through the crowd. He caught snippets of conversation about the fair, about how horrible the judging was this year, really, the worst so far. About the weather. But mostly he heard about the body.
Roar Parra and Old Mundin were sitting in a corner with a couple of other men. They looked up and nodded at Beauvoir, but didn’t move from their precious seats.
Beauvoir scanned the room for Gamache, but knew he wasn’t there. Knew as soon as he’d walked in. After a few minutes he managed to snag a table. A minute later he was joined by the Chief Inspector.
“Hard at work, sir?” Beauvoir brushed cookie crumbs from the Chief’s shirt.
“Always. You?” Gamache ordered a ginger beer and turned his full attenti
on to his Inspector.
“I Googled Vincent Gilbert.”
“And?”
“This is what I found out.” Beauvoir flipped open his notebook. “Vincent Gilbert. Born in Quebec City in 1934 into a prominent francophone family. Father a member of the National Assembly, mother from the francophone elite. Degree in philosophy from Laval University then medical degree from McGill. Specializing in genetics. Made a name for himself by creating a test for Down’s syndrome, in utero. So that they could be found early enough and possibly treated.”
Gamache nodded. “But he stopped his research, went to India, and when he returned instead of going back into the lab immediately and completing his research he joined Brother Albert at LaPorte.”
The Chief Inspector put a book on the table and slid it toward Beauvoir.
Beauvoir turned it over. There on the back was a scowling, imperious face. Exactly the same look Beauvoir had seen while kneeling on the man’s chest just an hour earlier.
“Being,” he read, then put it down.
“It’s about his time at LaPorte,” said Gamache.
“I read about it,” said Beauvoir. “For people with Down’s syndrome. Gilbert volunteered there, as medical director, when he got back from India. After that he refused to continue his research. I’d have thought working there he’d want to cure it even more.”
Gamache tapped the book. “You should read it.”
Beauvoir smirked. “You should tell me about it.”
Gamache hesitated, gathering his thoughts. “Being isn’t really about LaPorte. It’s not even about Vincent Gilbert. It’s about arrogance, humility and what it means to be human. It’s a beautiful book, written by a beautiful man.”
“How can you say that about the man we just met? He was a shit.”
Gamache laughed. “I don’t disagree. Most of the saints were. St. Ignatius had a police record, St. Jerome was a horrible, mean-spirited man, St. Augustine slept around. He once prayed, ‘Lord, give me chastity, but not just yet.’ ”