The Brutal Telling (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #5)

They saw a table, chairs, a bed at the far end. No lights, no movement.

“Nothing,” said Beauvoir. Gamache nodded agreement. He reached out for the door handle. The door swung open an inch with a slight creak. The Chief put his foot forward and pushed it open all the way. Then looked in.

The cabin was a single room and Gamache saw at once there was no one there. He walked in. But Beauvoir kept his hand on his gun. In case. Beauvoir was a cautious man. Being raised in chaos had made him so.

Dust swirled in the little light that struggled through the window. Beauvoir, by habit, felt for a light switch then realized he wouldn’t find one. But he did find some lamps and lit those. What came to light was a bed, a dresser, some bookcases, a couple of chairs and a table.

The room was empty. Except for what the dead man had left behind. His belongings and his blood. There was a large, dark stain on the wooden floor.

There was no doubt they’d finally found the crime scene.

An hour later Roar Parra had followed the Chief’s pink ribbons and used his chainsaw to widen the path. The ATVs arrived and with them the Crime Scene investigators. Inspector Beauvoir took photographs while Agents Lacoste, Morin and the others combed the room for evidence.

Roar Parra and Dominique Gilbert had mounted the horses and gone home, leading Chester behind them. Chester looked back, hoping to catch a peek at the funny man who had forgotten to beat him.

As the clip-clop of the hooves receded the quiet closed in.

With his team inside working, and the space cramped, Gamache decided to explore outside the cabin. Finely carved window boxes bloomed with cheery nasturtiums and greenery. He rubbed his fingers first on one plant then the others. They smelled of cilantro, rosemary, basil and tarragon. He walked over to the column of sunlight breaking through the trees beside the cabin.

A fence, made of twisted branches, formed a large rectangle about twenty feet wide by forty feet long. Vines grew through the fence, and as he got closer Gamache noticed they were heavy with peas. He opened the wooden gate and walked into the garden. Neat rows of vegetables had been planted and tended, intended for a harvest that would not now come. Up and down the long, protected garden the victim had planted tomatoes and potatoes, peas and beans, and broccoli and carrots. Gamache broke off a bean and ate it. A wheelbarrow with some dirt and a shovel stood halfway along the path and at the far end there sat a chair of bent branches, with comfortable and faded cushions. It was inviting and Gamache had an image of the man working in the garden, then resting. Sitting quietly in the chair.

The Chief Inspector looked down and saw the impression of the man in the cushions. He’d sat there. Perhaps for hours. In the column of light.

Alone.

Not many people, Gamache knew, could do that. Even if they wanted to, even if they chose to, most people couldn’t take the quiet. They grew fidgety and bored. But not this man, Gamache suspected. He imagined him there, staring at his garden. Thinking.

What did he think about?

“Chief?”

Turning around Gamache saw Beauvoir walking toward him.

“We’ve done the preliminary search.”

“Weapon?”

Beauvoir shook his head. “But we did find Mason jars of preserves and paraffin. Quite a bit of it. I guess we know why.” The Inspector looked around the garden, and seemed impressed. Order always impressed him.

Gamache nodded. “Who was he?”

“I don’t know.”

Now the Chief Inspector turned fully to his second in command. “What do you mean? Did this cabin belong to our victim?”

“We think so. It’s almost certainly where he died. But we haven’t found any ID. Nothing. No photographs, no birth certificate, passport, driver’s license.”

“Letters?”

Beauvoir shook his head. “There’re clothes in the dressers. Old clothing, worn. But mended and clean. In fact, the whole place is clean and tidy. A lot of books, we’re just going through them now. Some have names in them, but all different names. He must have picked them up at used-book stores. We found woodworking tools and sawdust by one of the chairs. And an old violin. Guess we know what he did at night.”

Gamache had a vision of the dead man, alive. Healthy even. Coming in after working the garden. Making a simple dinner, sitting by the fire and whittling. Then, as the night drew in, he’d pick up the violin and play. Just for himself.

Who was this man who loved solitude so much?

“The place is pretty primitive,” Beauvoir continued. “He had to pump water into the sink in his kitchen. Haven’t seen that in years. And there’s no toilet or shower.”