“I didn’t play this last night. I only really know fiddle music.”
“Just do your best,” said the Chief.
Agent Morin hesitated then placed the violin under his chin and curving his body he brought the bow up. And down. Across the gut strings.
The slow, full notes of a tune left the instrument. So rich was the sound the notes were almost visible as they filled the air. The tune they heard was slower than intended by BM, Gamache suspected, since Agent Morin was stuggling to follow the music. But it was still beautiful, complex and accomplished. Obviously BM knew what he was doing. Gamache closed his eyes and imagined the dead man there, alone. On a winter’s night. Snow piling up outside. A simple vegetable soup on the stove, the fireplace lit and throwing heat. And the small cabin filled with music. This music.
Why this music and no other?
“Do you know it?” Gamache looked at Superintendent Brunel, who was listening with her eyes closed. She shook her head and opened her eyes.
“Non, but it’s lovely. I wonder who BM was.”
Morin lowered the violin, relieved to stop.
“Was the violin in tune when you played yesterday or did you have to adjust it?” she asked.
“It was in tune. He must have played it recently.” He went to put it down but the Chief Inspector stopped him.
“What did you play last night, if not that?” He pointed to the sheet music.
“Just some fiddle music my father taught me. Nothing much. I know I shouldn’t have—”
Gamache put up his hand to silence the apologies. “It’s all right. Just play for us now what you played last night.”
When Morin looked surprised Gamache explained, “What you just did wasn’t really a fair test for the violin, was it? You were picking out the tune. I’d like to hear the violin as the victim heard it. As it was meant to be played.”
“But, sir, I only play fiddle, not violin.”
“What’s the difference?” Gamache asked.
Morin hesitated. “No real difference, at least not in the instrument. But the sound of course is different. My dad always said a violin sings and a fiddle dances.”
“Dance, then.”
Morin, blushing in the most unbecoming way, put the fiddle, né violin, up to his chin once again. Paused. Then drew the bow across the strings.
What came out surprised them all. A Celtic lament left the bow, left the violin, left the agent. It filled the cabin, filled the rafters. Almost into the corners. The simple tune swirled around them like colors and delicious meals and conversation. And it lodged in their chests. Not their ears, not their heads. But their hearts. Slow, dignified, but buoyant. It was played with confidence. With poise.
Agent Morin had changed. His loose-limbed awkward body contorted perfectly for the violin, as though created and designed for this purpose. To play. To produce this music. His eyes were closed and he looked the way Gamache felt. Filled with joy. Rapture even. Such was the power of this music. This instrument.
And watching his agent the Chief Inspector suddenly realized what Morin reminded him of.
A musical note. The large head and the thin body. He was a walking note, awaiting an instrument. And this was it. The violin might be a masterpiece, but Agent Paul Morin certainly was.
After a minute he stopped and the music faded, absorbed by the logs, the books, the tapestries. The people.
“That was beautiful,” said Superintendent Brunel.
He handed the violin to her. “It’s called ‘Colm Quigley.’ My favorite.”
As soon as the violin left his hand he went back to being the gangly, awkward young man. Though never again totally that for the people who had heard him play.
“Merci,” said Gamache.
Superintendent Brunel put the violin down.
“Let me know what you find out about these.” Gamache handed Morin the note and sheet music.
“Yes sir.”
Thérèse Brunel returned to the rest of the room, walking up to the treasures, mumbling “Bon Dieu” every now and then. Each seemed more astonishing than the last.
But nothing was more surprising than what awaited Chief Inspector Gamache. In the farthest corner of the cabin, near the rafters. If the search team the day before had seen it they’d have dismissed it as the only normal thing in the whole place. What could be more natural than a spider’s web in a cabin?
But it turned out to be the least normal, the least natural.
“Bon Dieu,” they heard from the Superintendent as she held up a plate with frogs on it. “From the collection of Catherine the Great. Lost hundreds of years ago. Unbelievable.”
