“Why?” asked Lacoste, leaning forward.
“So they could start a new life,” Beauvoir jumped in. “They wouldn’t be the first who smuggled a family treasure out and sold it to start a business or buy a home in Canada.”
“So they gave it to the Hermit to get out of the country,” said Morin.
“Did it all come from different people?” wondered Lacoste. “A book here, a piece of priceless furniture or glass or silver there? Suppose all his things came from different people, all hoping to start a new life here? And he smuggled it all out.”
“It would answer Superintendent Brunel’s question about why there’s such a range of items,” said Gamache. “It’s not from one collection, but many.”
“No one would trust anyone with things that valuable,” said Beauvoir.
“Maybe they had no choice,” said the Chief. “They needed to get them out of the country. If he was a stranger they might not have trusted him. But if he was a friend . . .”
“Like the boy in the story,” said Beauvoir. “Betraying everyone who trusted him.”
They stared ahead. Silent. Morin had never realized murderers were caught in silence. But they were.
What would have happened? Families waited in Prague, in smaller cities and towns and villages. Waiting for word. From their trusted friend. At what stage did hope turn to despair? And finally to rage? And revenge?
Had one of them made it out, come across to the New World, and found the Hermit?
“But why did he come here?” asked Agent Morin.
“Why not?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, there’s a big Czech population here. If he was bringing all sorts of stolen goods, stuff he’d taken from people in Czechoslovakia, wouldn’t he stay as far away from them as possible?”
They appealed to Gamache, who was listening, and thinking. Then he sat forward and drew the photographs of the carvings to him. Particularly the one of the happy people building a new village, in their new home. Without the young man.
“Maybe Olivier isn’t the only one who lies,” he said, getting up. “Maybe the Hermit wasn’t alone when he came here. Maybe he had accomplices.”
“Who are still in Three Pines,” said Beauvoir.
Hanna Parra was clearing up lunch. She’d made a hearty soup and the place smelled of her mother’s home in her Czech village. Of broth and parsley and bay leaves, and garden vegetables.
Her own gleaming metal and glass home couldn’t be more different from the wooden chalet she’d grown up in. Full of wonderful aromas, and a hint of fear. Fear of attracting attention. Of standing out. Her parents, her aunts, her neighbors, had all lived comfortable lives of conformity. The fear of being found different, though, created a thin film between people.
But here everything really was transparent. She’d felt light as soon as they’d arrived in Canada. Where people minded their own business.
Or so she thought. Her hand hovered over the marble counter as some glint in the sun caught her eye. A car rolling up the drive.
Armand Gamache stared at the glass and metal cube in front of him. He’d read reports of the interviews with the Parras, including descriptions of their home, but still it took him aback.
The house gleamed in the sun. Not blinding, but it seemed to glow as though it lived in a world slightly different from theirs. A world of light.
“It’s beautiful,” said Gamache, almost under his breath.
“You should see inside.”
“I think I should,” Gamache nodded and the two men strolled across the yard.
Hanna Parra let them in and took their coats. “Chief Inspector, this is a pleasure.”
Her voice was slightly accented but her French was perfect. Someone who’d not just learned the language but loved it. And it showed with every syllable. Gamache knew it was impossible to split language from culture. That without one the other withered. To love the language was to respect the culture.
That was why he’d learned English so well.
“We’d like to speak to your husband and son as well, if possible.”
He spoke gently but somehow the very civility of the man lent his words weight.
“Havoc’s out in the woods, but Roar’s here.”
“Where in the woods, madame?” Beauvoir asked.
Hanna seemed slightly flustered. “Out back. Cutting deadwood for the winter.”
“Can you get him in, please?” said Beauvoir. His attempts at politeness simply made him seem sinister.
“We don’t know where he is.”
