The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

by Joël Dicker

  Dear Roy,

  It is not a trashy book that will exploit the scandal in order to sell copies.

  It is not a book because you are demanding it.

  It is a book because I am a writer. It is a book that will tell a story. It is a book that will recount the life of someone to whom I owe everything.

  Please find attached the opening pages.

  If you like it, call me.

  If you don’t like it, call Richardson, and I’ll see you in court.

  Have a good meeting with Marisa. Send her my regards.

  Marcus Goldman

  “Did you print out the attachment?”

  “No, Mr Barnaski.”

  “Go print it now!”

  “Yes, Mr Barnaski.”

  THE HARRY QUEBERT AFFAIR (provisional title) by Marcus Goldman

  In the spring of 2008, about a year and a half after I had become the new star of American literature, something happened that I decided to bury deep in my memory: I discovered that my college professor, Harry Quebert—sixty-seven years old and one of the most respected writers in the country—had been romantically involved with a fifteen-year-old girl when he was thirty-four. This happened during the summer of 1975.

  I made this discovery one day in March, while I was staying in Harry’s house in Somerset, New Hampshire. While looking through his bookshelves, I came across a letter and some photographs. I had no idea that this would be the prelude to what would become one of the biggest news stories of 2008.

  […]

  The line of inquiry regarding Elijah Stern was suggested to me by a former classmate of Nola’s: Nancy Hattaway, who still lives in Somerset. At the time, Nola admitted to her that she was in a relationship with a businessman from Concord, Elijah Stern, who would send his chauffeur—a certain Luther Caleb—to Somerset to bring her back to his house.

  I have no information about Luther Caleb. As for Stern, Sergeant Gahalowood refuses to interrogate him. He believes there is nothing to justify mixing him up in the investigation at this point. So I am going to pay him a visit on my own. Some basic online research tells me that he went to Harvard and that he is still involved with the alumni association. He seems to be an art enthusiast, and is, apparently, well known as a collector. He is clearly a highly respected man. One particularly disturbing coincidence: The house at Goose Cove, where Harry lives, used to belong to Stern.

  Those were the first paragraphs I wrote about Elijah Stern. I had just finished writing them when I added them to the rest of the document I sent to Roy Barnaski that morning. I left for Concord immediately afterward, determined to meet Stern and find out what linked him to Nola. I had been driving for thirty minutes when my cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Marcus? It’s Roy Barnaski.”

  “Roy! Well, well … Did you get my e-mail?”

  “Your draft is magnificent, Goldman! I absolutely love it; we’re going to do it! I can’t wait to find out what happens next.”

  “I’d be quite interested to know how the story develops myself.”

  “Write this book, Goldman, and we’ll tear up the previous contract.”

  “I’ll do this book, but in my own way. I don’t want to hear your squalid suggestions. I don’t want any of your ideas and I don’t want to be censored.”

  “Do what you think is right. But this book has to come out in the fall. Since Obama clinched the nomination, his two books have been flying off the shelves. So we have to publish a book on this case as soon as possible, before we’re drowned out by election fever. I need your manuscript by the end of August.”

  “The end of August? That leaves me barely two months.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s not much time.”

  “So write fast. This is gonna be the biggest book of the fall. Does Quebert know?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “I’d advise you to tell him. And keep me up to date on your progress.”

  I was about to hang up when he shouted, “Goldman, wait!”

  “What?”

  “One thing. What changed your mind?”

  “I got threatening letters. Quite a few of them. Someone seems very nervous about what I might discover. So it seemed to me that the truth might be worth writing a book about. For Harry, and for Nola. That’s part of a writer’s job, isn’t it?”

  But Barnaski was no longer listening. He was still stuck on what I had said.

  “Threatening letters?” he said. “That’s great! That’ll really help sell the book. Imagine if someone tries to kill you—you could add another zero to the sales figures right away. Two if you actually die!”

  “As long as I die after finishing the book.”

  “That goes without saying. Where are you? The connection is bad.”

  “I’m on the interstate. I’m going to see Elijah Stern.”

  “So you really think he’s mixed up in this?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m hoping to find out.”

  “You’re totally crazy, Goldman. That’s what I like about you.”

  *

  Elijah Stern lived in a manor on a hill above Concord. The entrance gates were open, and I drove onto the property. A paved driveway led to a large stone house, surrounded by spectacular flower beds, in front of which—in a courtyard with a fountain of a bronze lion—a uniformed chauffeur was waxing a luxury sedan.

  I left my car in the middle of the courtyard, waved casually at the chauffeur as if I knew him well, and went to ring the doorbell in good spirits. A maid opened the door. I gave her my name and asked to see Stern.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Mr Stern does not see visitors who don’t have an appointment. Who let you come this far?”

  “The gates were open. How do I make an appointment?”

  “Mr Stern is the one who makes appointments.”

  “Let me see him for a few minutes. It won’t take long.”

  “That is not possible.”

  “Tell him I’ve come on behalf of Nola Kellergan. I think that name will mean something to him.”

  The maid asked me to wait outside, then quickly returned. “Mr Stern will see you,” she said. “You must be someone really important.” She led me through the first floor until we reached a wood-paneled office. An elegant man, seated at a desk, looked me up and down with a severe expression.

  “My name is Marcus Goldman,” I told him. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Goldman the writer?”

  “Yes.”

  “To what do I owe the honor of this unannounced visit?”

  “I’m investigating the Kellergan case.”

  “I didn’t know there was anything left to investigate.”

  “Let’s just say there are some unresolved issues.”

  “Isn’t that the work of the police?”

  “I’m a friend of Harry Quebert’s.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I heard that you lived in Somerset. That the house at Goose Cove, where Harry lives today, used to belong to you. I wanted to check that that was true.”

  He motioned for me to sit down.

  “You have been informed correctly,” he said. “I sold him the house in 1976, just before he became successful.”

  “So you know Harry?”

  “Not well. I met him a few times when he first moved to Somerset. We didn’t keep in touch.”

  “May I ask what your ties are with Somerset?”

  He gave me a disagreeable look.

  “Is this an interrogation, Mr Goldman?”

  “Not at all. I was just curious why someone like you owned a house in a small town like Somerset.”

  “Someone like me? You mean very rich?”

  “Yes. Compared with other towns on the shore, Somerset is not particularly exciting.”

  “It was my father who had that house built. He wanted somewh
ere by the ocean that was close to Concord. Somerset is a pretty little town. As a child, I spent many pleasant summers there.”

  “Why did you sell it?”

  “When my father died, my family business became all-consuming. I no longer had time to enjoy the house. So I decided to rent it out, and did so for almost ten years. But there were not many tenants. The house was empty too often. So when Harry Quebert offered to buy it, I accepted right away. I sold it to him for a reasonable price too—I wasn’t doing it for the money; I was just happy that it would continue to be lived in. I’ve always liked Somerset. I used to do a lot of business in Boston, and I would occasionally stop there. I supported their summer gala for many years. And Clark’s serves the best hamburgers in the area. Or they did back then, at least.”

  “What about Nola Kellergan? Did you know her?”

  “Vaguely. Everyone in the state heard about her when she disappeared. It’s a horrible story. And now they’ve found her body at Goose Cove. And that book that Quebert wrote for her … it’s so sordid. Do I regret selling it to him? Yes, of course. But how could I have known?”

  “But, technically, when Nola disappeared, you still owned Goose Cove …”

  “What are you insinuating? That I was mixed up in her death? You know, for the last ten days I’ve been wondering if Harry Quebert didn’t buy that house just so he could be sure that nobody would discover the body buried in the yard.”

  Stern said he knew Nola vaguely; should I reveal to him that I had a witness who claimed he had been in a relationship with her? I decided to keep that card up my sleeve for now. Nevertheless, in order to provoke him a little, I did mention the name of his former chauffeur.

  “What about Luther Caleb?” I said.

  “What about Luther Caleb?”

  “Do you know someone by that name?”

  “If you’re asking me that, you must already be aware that he was my chauffeur for many years. What kind of game are you playing, Mr Goldman?”

  “A witness saw Nola getting into his car several times during the summer she disappeared.”

  He pointed a finger at me threateningly.

  “Don’t speak ill of the dead, Mr Goldman. Luther was an honorable, brave, and honest man. I will not allow his name to be sullied when he is no longer here to defend himself.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes. He died a long time ago. You will certainly have heard that he was often in Somerset, and that is true: He took care of Goose Cove for me when I was renting it out. He made sure it stayed in perfect condition. He was a good-hearted man, and I will not allow you to insult his memory. Some small-minded rumor-mongers in Somerset will also tell you that he was strange, and it is true that he was different from most people. In every way. His face was badly disfigured, and his jaws did not fit together properly, which made him difficult to understand when he spoke. But he did have a good heart, and he was a very sensitive man.”

  “You don’t think he could have been involved in Nola’s disappearance?”

  “No. Categorically not. I thought Harry Quebert was guilty. Isn’t he in prison right now?”

  “I am not convinced of his guilt. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh, please—they found that girl buried in his yard and the manuscript of one of his books with the body. A book he wrote for her … what more do you want?”

  “Writing is not killing, sir.”

  “Your investigation must really be getting nowhere if you’ve come here to ask about my background and about Luther. This interview is over, Mr Goldman.”

  He summoned the maid to accompany me out.

  I left Stern’s office with the feeling that the interview had been of no use whatsoever. I wished I could have confronted him with Nancy Hattaway’s accusations, but I did not have enough evidence yet. Gahalowood had warned me about this: One witness was not enough, because it was her word against Stern’s. I needed some tangible proof. Which made me think I ought to take a quick look around the house.

  When we reached the vestibule, I asked the maid if I could use the bathroom. She ushered me to the guest bathroom on the first floor, and indicated that she would wait for me by the front door. As soon as she had gone, I rushed down the corridor to explore the wing of the house in which I found myself. I did not know what I was looking for, but I knew I did not have much time. This was my only chance to find some evidence linking Stern to Nola. Heart pounding, I opened a few doors, praying that the rooms would not be occupied. But the whole place was empty: There was nothing but a series of richly decorated reception rooms. The windows looked out over the beautiful grounds. Listening for the faintest sound, I continued my search. Another door opened onto a small office. I quickly entered, and began opening cabinets. There were files inside, and piles of documents. The ones I looked through were of no interest. I was looking for something … but what? Thirty-three years after the murder, what could I hope to stumble upon in this house that would help me? I was running out of time; the maid would undoubtedly go looking for me in the bathroom if I didn’t return soon. I finally came to a second corridor and entered that. It led to only one door, which I ventured to open: It gave onto a large veranda surrounded by a jungle of climbing plants that protected it from view. Here I found easels, a few unfinished canvases, paintbrushes scattered on a desk. It was a painter’s studio. A series of pictures were hung on the wall, all very good. One of them caught my eye: I immediately recognized the suspension bridge by the sea, just before Somerset. That was when I realized that all these pictures were of Somerset. There was Grand Beach, the main street, even Clark’s. The paintings were strikingly authentic. They were all signed L.C., and the dates did not go beyond 1975. And then I noticed another picture, larger than the rest, hung in a corner; there was a chair in front of it, and it was the only one to have its own light. It was a portrait of a young woman. Nothing was shown below the tops of her breasts, but it was clear that she was naked. I moved closer; her face was not unknown to me. I looked at the painting for a moment longer before I suddenly understood, with a quiver of shock. It was a portrait of Nola, no doubt about it. I took a few photographs with my cell phone and then quickly left the room. The maid was shuffling her feet by the front door. I said goodbye to her politely and left, trembling and soaked in sweat.

  *

  A half-hour after my discovery, I was in Gahalowood’s office. He was furious, of course, that I had gone to see Stern without consulting him.

  “You’re out of control, writer. Out of control!”

  “All I did was pay him a visit,” I explained. “I rang the bell, I asked to see him, and he agreed. I don’t see what harm was done.”

  “I’d told you to wait!”

  “Wait for what, Sergeant? Your holy blessing? Evidence to fall from the sky? You complained that you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, so I acted. You complain, I act! And look what I found in his house!”

  I showed him the photographs on my cell.

  “A painting?” he said disdainfully.

  “Look at it more closely.”

  “My God … it looks like …”

  “Nola! There is a painting of Nola Kellergan in Elijah Stern’s house.”

  I e-mailed the photographs to Gahalowood, who blew them up and printed them.

  “It really is her,” he said when he had compared the painting with the photographs of her in the case file.

  “So there is definitely a link between Stern and Nola,” I said. “Nancy Hattaway states that Nola was in a relationship with Stern, and now we’ve found a portrait of Nola in his studio. And that’s not all: Harry’s house belonged to Elijah Stern until 1976. Technically Stern was the owner of Goose Cove at the time of Nola’s disappearance. Amazing coincidence, huh? So get a warrant and call in the cavalry: We’re going to search Stern’s house and arrest him.”

  “A search warrant? Are you nuts? On what grounds? Your photographs? They’re illegal. This evidence is inadmissible; you searche
d a house without authorization. I’m stuck. We need something else to be able go after Stern, and by the time we find anything, he’ll surely have gotten rid of the painting.”

  “Except he doesn’t know I’ve seen it. I asked him about Luther Caleb, and he lost his temper. As for Nola, he claimed to know her only vaguely when in fact there is a half-nude painting of her in his possession. I don’t know who painted that picture, but there are others like it in the studio that are signed L.C. Luther Caleb, surely?”

  “I don’t like the direction this investigation is taking, writer. If I go after Stern and I’m wrong, I’m screwed.”

  “I know.”

  “Go talk to Harry about Stern. Try to find out more. I’m going to look more closely at Luther Caleb’s story. We need solid evidence.”

  *

  Listening to the car radio on the way from the police headquarters to the prison, I learned that all of Harry’s books had been withdrawn from school libraries throughout most of the country. This was the lowest blow so far. In less than two weeks, Harry had lost everything. He was now censored as an author, spurned as a professor, demonized by an entire nation. Irrespective of the outcome of the investigation and the trial, his name was now sullied forever; no-one would ever be able to talk about his works without mentioning the huge controversy surrounding the summer he spent with Nola. This was the intelligentsia’s version of a lethal injection.

  And, worst of all, Harry was fully aware of the situation. As soon as I entered the visiting room, his first words to me were:

  “What if they kill me?”

  “Nobody’s going to kill you, Harry.”

  “But I’m already dead, aren’t I?”

  “No. You’re not dead! You’re the great Harry Quebert! The importance of knowing how to fall, remember? The important thing is not the fall, because falling is inevitable. The important thing is knowing how to get up again. And we’ll get up again.”

  “You’re a good guy, Marcus. But friendship is blinding you to the truth. Ultimately the issue is not whether I killed Nola, or Deborah Cooper, or even John F. Kennedy. It’s that I had a relationship with a kid, and that’s unforgivable. And that book … why the hell did I write that book?”