He’d taught her many things. But one of the most valuable was not to just see, but to listen. As he listened to her now.
“What makes a work of art unique isn’t its color or composition or subject. It has nothing whatsoever to do with what we see. Why are some paintings masterpieces while others, perhaps even more competent, are forgotten? Why are some symphonies still beloved hundreds of years after the composer has died?”
Gamache thought about it. And what came to mind was the painting placed so causally on an easel after dinner a few nights ago. Badly lit, unframed.
And yet he could have stared at it forever.
It was the painting of the elderly woman, her body headed forward, but her face turned back.
He’d known her longing. That same root which spasmed when gazing at the carving had ached when he’d looked at that woman. Clara hadn’t simply painted a woman, hadn’t even painted a feeling. She’d created a world. In that one image.
That was a masterpiece.
He suddenly felt very badly for Peter, and hoped deeply that Peter was no longer trying to compete with his wife. She was nowhere to be found on that battlefield.
“That,” Superintendent Brunel pointed with one manicured finger at the carving, “will be remembered long after you and I are dead. Long after this charming village has fallen to dust.”
“There’s another one, you know,” he said and had the rare pleasure of seeing Thérèse Brunel surprised. “But before we see it I think we should head to the cabin.”
He looked at her feet. She wore elegant new shoes.
“I’ve brought boots with me, Chief Inspector,” she said, her voice holding a faint and mocking reproach as she walked briskly ahead of him to the door. “When have you ever taken me anywhere that didn’t have mud?”
“I believe they hosed down Place des Arts before the last symphony we were at,” he said, smiling over his shoulder at Agent Lacoste as they left.
“Professionally, I meant. Always mud and always a body.”
“Well this time there is certainly mud, but no body.”
“Sir.” Lacoste jogged over to the car, holding a printout. “I thought you’d like to see this.”
She handed the paper to him and pointed. It was a lab report. The results were beginning to come in, and would continue all day. And this one brought a satisfied smile to his face. He turned to Thérèse Brunel.
“They found woodchips, sawdust really, beside a chair in the cabin. They also found traces on his clothes. The lab says it was red cedar. From British Columbia.”
“I guess we found the artist,” she said. “Now if we only knew why he carved so much terror.”
Why indeed, thought Gamache as he got into the car and drove up du Moulin. ATVs were waiting for them and they headed deep into the Quebec forest. A professor and an elegant expert on art. Neither was as they appeared, and they were heading for a rustic cabin that certainly wasn’t.
Gamache stopped the ATV just before the final turn in the path. He and Superintendent Brunel dismounted and walked the rest of the way. It was another world inside the forest, and he wanted to give her a feeling for where the victim had chosen to live. A world of cool shadows and diffuse light, of rich dark scents of things decaying. Of creatures unseen but heard, scampering and scurrying.
Gamache and Brunel were very aware of being the outsiders here.
And yet it wasn’t threatening. Not now. In twelve hours, when the sun was down, it would feel different again.
“I see what you mean.” Brunel looked around. “A man could easily live here without being found. It’s very peaceful, isn’t it?” She sounded almost wistful.
“Could you live here?” Gamache asked.
“I think I could, you know. Does that surprise you?”
Gamache was silent but smiled as he walked.
“I don’t need much,” she continued. “I used to. When I was younger. Trips to Paris, a nice apartment, good clothes. I have all that now. And I’m happy.”
“But not because you have those thing,” suggested Gamache.
“As I get older I need less and less. I really believe I could live here. Between us, Armand? Part of me yearns for it. Could you?”
He nodded and saw again the simple little cabin. One room.
“One chair for solitude, two for friendship and three for society,” he said.
“Walden. And how many chairs would you need?”
Gamache thought about it. “Two. I don’t mind society, but I need one other person.”
