The Brutal Telling (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #5)

“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.