“By the way, I’m going away tomorrow,” said the Chief Inspector after Havoc brought their appetizers and left.
“Back to Montreal?” Beauvoir took a forkful of chargrilled calamari while Gamache ate his pear and prosciutto.
“A little further than that. The Queen Charlotte Islands.”
“Are you kidding? In British Columbia? Up by Alaska? Because of a monkey named Woo?”
“Well, when you put it like that . . .”
Beauvoir speared a blackened piece of calamari and dipped it in garlic sauce. “Voyons, doesn’t it strike you as, well, extreme?”
“No, it doesn’t. The name Charlotte keeps repeating.” Gamache ticked the points off on his fingers. “The Charlotte Brontë first edition, Charlotte’s Web first edition, the Amber Room panel? Made for a princess named Charlotte. The note the Hermit kept about the violin was written by a Charlotte. I’ve been trying to figure out what they could all mean, this repetition of the name Charlotte, then this afternoon Superintendent Brunel gave me the answer. The Queen Charlotte Islands. Where Emily Carr painted. Where the wood for the carvings came from. It might be a dead end, but I’d be a fool not to follow this lead.”
“But who’s doing the leading? You or the murderer? I think they’re leading you away. I think the murderer is here, in Three Pines.”
“So do I, but I think the murder began on the Queen Charlotte Islands.”
Beauvoir huffed, exasperated. “You’re taking a bunch of clues and putting them together to suit your purpose.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Beauvoir needed to watch himself now. Chief Inspector Gamache was more than his superior. They had a relationship that went deeper than any other Beauvoir had. And he knew Gamache’s patience had its limits.
“I think you see what you want to see. You see things that aren’t really there.”
“You mean just aren’t visible.”
“No, I mean aren’t there. To leap to one conclusion isn’t the end of the world, but you’re leaping all over the place and where does it take you? The end of the fucking world. Sir.”
Beauvoir glanced out the window, trying to cool down. Havoc removed their plates and Beauvoir waited for him to leave before continuing. “I know you love history and literature and art and that the Hermit’s cabin must seem like a candy shop, but I think you’re seeing a whole lot more in this case than exists. I think you’re complicating it. You know I’d follow you anywhere, we all would. You just point, and I’m there. I trust you that much. But even you can make mistakes. You always say that murder is, at its core, very simple. It’s about an emotion. That emotion is here, and so’s the murderer. We have plenty of clues to follow without thinking about a monkey, a hunk of wood and some godforsaken island to hell and gone across the country.”
“Finished?” Gamache asked.
Beauvoir sat upright and took a deep breath. “There may be more.”
Gamache smiled. “I agree with you, Jean Guy, the murderer is here. Someone here knew the Hermit, and someone here killed him. You’re right. When you strip away all the shiny baubles it’s simple. A man ends up with antiquities worth a fortune. Perhaps he stole them. He wants to hide so he comes to this village no one knows about. But even that isn’t enough. He takes it a step further and builds a cabin deep in the woods. Is he hiding from the police? Maybe. From something or someone worse? I think so. But he can’t do it on his own. If nothing else he needs news. He needs eyes and ears on the outside. So he recruits Olivier.”
“Why him?”
“Ruth said it tonight.”
“More Scotch, asshole?”
“Well, that too. But she said Olivier was greedy. And he is. So was the Hermit. He probably recognized himself in Olivier. That greed. That need to own. And he knew he could have a hold over Olivier. Promising him more and better antiques. But over the years something happened.”
“He went nuts?”
“Maybe. But maybe just the opposite. Maybe he went sane. The place he built to hide became a home, a haven. You felt it. There was something peaceful, comforting even, about the Hermit’s life. It was simple. Who doesn’t long for that these days?”
Their dinners arrived and Beauvoir’s gloom lifted as the fragrant boeuf bourguignon landed in front of him. He looked across at the Chief Inspector smiling down at his lobster Thermidor.
“Yes, the simple life in the country.” Beauvoir lifted his red wine in a small toast.
Gamache tipped his glass of white toward his Inspector, then took a succulent forkful. As he ate he thought of those first few minutes in the Hermit’s cabin. And that moment when he realized what he was looking at. Treasures. And yet everything was put to purpose. There was a reason for everything in there, whether practical or pleasure, like the books and violin.
But there was one thing. One thing that didn’t seem to have a purpose.
Gamache slowly laid his fork down and stared beyond Beauvoir. After a moment the Inspector also put his fork down and looked behind him. There was nothing there. Just the empty room.
“What is it?”
Gamache put up a finger, a subtle and gentle request for quiet. Then he reached into his breast pocket and bringing out a pen and notebook he wrote something down, quickly, as though afraid it would get away. Beauvoir strained to read it. Then, with a thrill, saw what it was.
The alphabet.
Silently he watched his Chief write the line beneath. His face opened in wonder. Wonder that he could have been so stupid. Could have missed what now seemed obvious.
Beneath the alphabet, Chief Inspector Gamache had written: SIXTEEN.
“The number above the door,” whispered Beauvoir, as though he too was afraid he might scare this vital clue away.
“What were the code letters?” asked Gamache, in a hurry now. Anxious to get there.
Beauvoir scrambled in his pocket and brought out his notebook.
“MRKBVYDDO under the people on the shore. And OWSVI under the ship.”
He watched as Gamache worked to decode the Hermit’s messages.
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
S I X T E E N A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S
Gamache read the letters out as he found them. “T, Y, R, I, something . . .”
“Tyri,” Beauvoir mumbled. “Tyri . . .”
“Something, K, K, V.” He looked up at Beauvoir.
“What does it mean? Is it a name? Maybe a Czech name?”
“Maybe it’s an anagram,” said Gamache. “We have to rearrange the letters.”
They tried that for a few minutes, taking bites of their dinner as they worked. Finally Gamache put his pen down and shook his head. “I thought I had it.”
“Maybe it’s right,” said Beauvoir, not ready to let go yet. He jotted more letters, tried the other code. Rearranged letters and finally staggered to the same conclusion.
The key wasn’t “seventeen.”
“Still,” said Beauvoir, dipping a crusty baguette into his gravy, “I wonder why that number’s up there.”
“Maybe some things don’t need a purpose,” said Gamache. “Maybe that’s their purpose.”
But that was too esoteric for Beauvoir. As was the Chief Inspector’s reasoning about the Queen Charlotte Islands. In fact, Beauvoir wouldn’t call it reasoning at all. At best it was intuition on the Chief’s part, at worst it was a wild guess, maybe even manipulated by the murderer.
The only image Beauvoir had of the moody archipelago at the very end of the country was of thick forests and mountains and endless gray water. But mostly it was mist.
And into that mist Armand Gamache was going, alone.
“I almost forgot, Ruth Zardo gave me this.” Gamache handed him the slip of paper. Beauvoir unfolded it and read out loud.
“and pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck
and caress you into darkness and paradise.”
There was, at least, a full stop after “par
adise.” Was this, finally, the end?
THIRTY-TWO
Armand Gamache arrived in the late afternoon on the brooding islands after taking increasingly smaller planes until it seemed the last was nothing more than fuselage wrapped round his body and thrust off the end of the Prince Rupert runway.
As the tiny float plane flew over the archipelago off the coast of northern British Columbia Gamache looked down on a landscape of mountains and thick ancient forests. It had been hidden for millennia behind mists almost as impenetrable as the trees. It had remained isolated. But not alone. It was a cauldron of life that had produced both the largest black bears in the world and the smallest owls. It was teeming with life. Indeed, the first men were discovered in a giant clam shell by a raven off the tip of one of the islands. That, according to their creation stories, was how the Haida came to live there. More recently loggers had also been found on the islands. That wasn’t part of creation. They’d looked beyond the thick mists and seen money. They’d arrived on the Charlottes a century ago, blind to the crucible they’d stumbled upon and seeing only treasure. The ancient forests of red cedar. Trees prized for their durability, having been tall and straight long before Queen Charlotte was born and married her mad monarch. But now they fell to the saw, to be made into shingles and decks and siding. And ten small carvings.
After landing smoothly on the water the young bush pilot helped extricate the large man from her small plane.
“Welcome to Haida Gwaii,” she said.
When Gamache had woken early that morning in Three Pines and found a groggy Gabri in the kitchen making a small picnic for the drive to the Montreal airport, he knew nothing about these islands half a world away. But on the long flights from Montreal to Vancouver, to Prince Rupert and into the village of Queen Charlotte, he’d read about the islands and he knew that phrase.
“Thank you for bringing me to your homeland.”
The pilot’s deep brown eyes were suspicious, as well they would be, thought Gamache. The arrival of yet another middle-aged white man in a suit was never a good sign. You didn’t have to be Haida to know that.
“You must be Chief Inspector Gamache.”
A burly man with black hair and skin the color of cedar was walking across the dock, his hand out. They shook.
“I’m Sergeant Minshall, of the RCMP. We’ve been corresponding.”
His voice was deep and had a slight sing-song quality. He was Haida.
“Ah, oui, merci. Thank you for meeting the plane.”
The Mountie took the overnight bag from the pilot and slung it over his shoulder. Thanking the pilot, who ignored them, the two men walked to the end of the dock, up a ramp and along the road. There was a bite to the air and Gamache had to remember they were closer to Alaska than Vancouver.
“I see you’re not staying long.”
Gamache looked out into the ocean and knew the mainland had disappeared. No, it was not that it had vanished, but that it didn’t exist at all here. This was the mainland.
“I wish I could stay longer, it’s beautiful. But I have to get back.”
“Right. I’ve arranged a room for you at the lodge. I think you’ll enjoy it. There aren’t many people on the Queen Charlottes, as you probably know. Maybe five thousand, with half being Haida and half,” he hesitated slightly, “not. We get quite a few tourists, but the season’s ending.”
The two men had slowed and now they stopped. They’d walked by a hardware store, a coffee shop, a little building with a mermaid out front. But it was the harbor that drew Gamache’s attention. He’d never seen such scenery in all his life, and he’d seen some spectacularly beautiful places in Quebec. But none, he had to admit, came close to this.
It was wilderness. As far as he could see there were mountains rising from the water, covered in dark forest. He could see an island and fishing boats. Overhead, eagles soared. The men walked onto the beach, which was covered in pebbles and shells, and stood silent for a few minutes, listening to the birds and the lapping water and smelling the air with that combination of seaweed and fish and forest.
“There’re more eagle nests here than anywhere else in Canada, you know. It’s a sign of good luck.”
It wasn’t often an RCMP officer spoke of signs, unless it was traffic signs. Gamache didn’t turn to look at the man, he was too taken by the view, but he listened.
“The Haida have two clans. The Eagle and the Raven. I’ve arranged for you to meet with elders from both clans. They’ve invited you for dinner.”
“Thank you. Will you be there?”
Sergeant Minshall smiled. “No. I thought it’d be more comfortable without me. The Haida are very warm people, you know. They’ve lived here for thousands of years, undisturbed. Until recently.”
It was interesting, Gamache thought, that he referred to the Haida as “they” not “we.” Perhaps it was for Gamache’s benefit, so he didn’t appear biased.
“I’ll try not to disturb them tonight.”
“It’s too late.”
Armand Gamache showered, shaved and wiped the vapor from the mirror. It was as though the mist that hung over the ancient forests had crept into his room. Perhaps to watch him. To divine his intentions.
He made a small hole in the moisture and saw a very tired Sûreté officer, far from home.
Changing into a fresh shirt and dark slacks he picked out a tie and sat on the side of the double bed, which was covered in what looked like a hand-stitched quilt.
The room was simple and clean and comfortable. But it could be filled with turnips and it wouldn’t matter. All anyone would notice was the view. It looked directly over the bay. The sunset filled the sky with gold and purples and reds, undulating and shifting. Alive. Everything seemed alive here.
He gravitated to the window and stared while his hands tied his green silk tie. There was a knock on the door. He opened it, expecting the landlady or Sergeant Minshall, and was surprised to see the young bush pilot.
“Noni, my great-grandmother, asked me to bring you to dinner.”
She still didn’t smile. In fact, she seemed singularly unhappy about the fact. He put on a gray jacket and his coat and they walked into the darkening night. Lights were on in the homes that hugged the harbor. The air was cold and damp, but fresh, and it woke him up so that he felt more alert than he had all afternoon. They climbed into an old pickup truck and headed out of town.
“So you’re from the Charlottes?”
“I’m from Haida Gwaii,” she said.
“Of course, I’m sorry. Are you with the Eagle clan?”
“Raven.”
“Ah,” said Gamache, and realized he sounded slightly ridiculous, but the young woman beside him didn’t seem to care. She seemed more interested in ignoring him completely.
“Your family must be very pleased you’re a pilot.”
“Why?”
“Well, flying.”
“Because I’m a Raven? Everyone here flies, Chief Inspector. I just need more help.”
“Have you been a pilot long?”
There was silence then. Evidently his question wasn’t worth answering. And he had to agree. Silence was better. His eyes adjusted to the night and he was able to make out the line of mountains across the bay as they drove. After a few minutes they arrived at another village. The young pilot stopped the pickup in front of a nondescript white building that had a sign out front. Skidegate Community Hall. She got out and walked to the door, never looking back to see if he was following. She either trusted he was there or, more likely, didn’t care.
He left the twilit harbor and followed her through the door into the Community Hall. And into an opera house. Gamache turned round to make sure there was a door there and he hadn’t, magically, emerged into another world. They were surrounded by ornate balconies on three sides. Gamache did a slow 360, his feet squeaking a little on the polished wood floor. Only then did he realize his mouth was slightly open. He closed it and looked at the young woman beside him. br />
“Mais, c’est extraordinaire.”
“Haw’aa.”
Wide, gracious staircases led up to the balconies and at the far end of the room was a stage. Behind it a mural had been painted on the wall.
“That’s a Haida village,” she said, nodding toward it.
“Incroyable,” whispered Gamache. The Chief Inspector was often surprised, astonished, by life. But he was rarely dumbfounded. He was now.
“Do you like it?”
Gamache looked down and realized they’d been joined by another woman, much older than his companion or himself. And unlike his companion this woman smiled. It looked, by the ease of it, as though she found a lot of humor in life.
“Very much.” He put out his hand, and she took it.
“This is my noni,” said the pilot.
“Esther,” she said.
“Armand Gamache,” said the Chief, bowing slightly. “It’s an honor.”
“The honor is mine, Chief Inspector. Please.” She motioned into the center of the room where a long table had been set. There was a rich aroma of cooked food, and the room was filled with people talking, greeting, calling to each other. And laughing.
He’d expected the gathering of Haida elders to be in traditional garb. He was embarrassed now by that cliché. Instead the men and women were dressed as they’d come from work, some in T-shirts and heavy sweaters, some in suits. Some worked in the bank, the school, the clinic; some worked on the cold waters. Some were artists. Painters, but mostly carvers.
“This is a matrilineal society, Chief Inspector,” Esther explained. “But most of the chiefs are men. Though that doesn’t mean women are powerless. Quite the opposite.”
She looked at him, her eyes clear. It was a simple statement. Not a boast.