by Louise Penny
“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.”
“Reine-Marie,” said Thérèse. “And I only need Jérôme.”
“There’s a first edition of Walden in the cabin, you know.”
Thérèse sighed. “Incroyable. Who was this man, Armand? Do you have any idea?”
“None.”
He stopped and beside him she stopped too, following his gaze.
At first it was difficult to see, but then, slowly, she made out the simple log cabin, as though it had materialized just for them. And was inviting them in.
Come in,” he said.
Carole Gilbert breathed deeply then stepped forward, past the solid ground she’d cultivated for decades. Past the quiet lunches with lifelong friends, past the bridge nights and volunteer shifts, past the enjoyable rainy afternoons reading by the window watching the container ships move slowly up and down the St. Lawrence river. She plunged past this gentle widow’s life within the fortified old walls of Quebec City, constructed to keep anything unpleasant out.
“Hello, Carole.”
The tall, slender man stood in the center of the room, contained. Looking as though he’d been expecting her. Her heart pounded and her hands and feet had gone cold, numb. She was a little afraid she’d fall down. Not faint, but lose all ability to stand up for herself.
“Vincent.” Her voice was firm.
His body had changed. That body she knew better than most. It had shrunk, shriveled. His hair, once thick and shiny, had thinned and grown almost white. His eyes were still brown, but where they’d been sharp and sure now they were questioning.
He held out one hand. It all seemed to happen excruciatingly slowly. The hand had spots on it she didn’t recognize. How often had she held that hand in the first years, then later longed for it to hold her? How often had she stared at it as it held Le Devoir up to his face? Her only contact with the man she’d given her heart to, those long, sensitive fingers holding the daily news that was clearly more important than her news. Those fingers were evidence of another human in the room, but barely. Barely there and barely human.
And then one day he’d lowered the paper, stared at her with laser eyes and said he wasn’t happy.
She’d laughed.
It was, she remembered, a genuinely mirthful laugh. Not that she thought it was a joke. It was because he was serious. This brilliant man actually seemed to think if he wasn’t happy it was a catastrophe.
It was, in many ways, perfect. Like so many men his age he was having an affair. She’d known it for years. But this affair he was having was with himself. He adored himself. In fact, that was just about the only thing they had in common. They both loved Vincent Gilbert.
But suddenly that wasn’t enough. He needed more. And like the great man he knew he was, the answer could never be found close to home. It would have to be hiding in some mountain cave in India.
Because he was so extraordinary, his salvation would have to be too.
They’d spent the rest of the breakfast plotting his death. It appealed to Vincent’s sense of drama, and her sense of relief. It was, ironically, the best talk they’d had in years.
Of course, they’d made one very big mistake. They should have told Marc. But who’d have thought he’d care?
Too late she’d realized—was it less than a day ago?—that Marc had been deeply damaged by his father’s death. Not the actual death, mind. That he’d accepted easily. No, it was his father’s resurrection that had created the scars, as though Vincent, in rising, had clawed his way past Marc’s heart.
And now the man stood, shriveled, dotted and maybe even dotty, with one unwavering hand out. Inviting her in.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He lowered his hand and nodded. She waited for him to point out her faults and flaws, all the mistakes she’d made, the immeasurable hurt she’d caused him.
“I’m sorry,” said Vincent. She nodded.
“I know you are. So am I.” She sat on the side of the bed and patted it. He sat next to her. This close she could see worry lines crawling over his face. It struck her as interesting that worry lines only appeared on the head.
“You look well. Are you?” he asked.
“I wish none of this had happened.”
“Including my coming back?” He smiled and took her hand.
But instead of setting her heart racing, it turned her heart to stone. And she realized she didn’t trust this man, who’d blown in from the past and was suddenly eating their food and sleeping in their bed.
He was like Pinocchio. A man made of wood, mimicking humanity. Shiny and smiling and fake. And if you cut into him you’d see rings. Circles of deceit and scheming and justification. It’s what he was made of. That hadn’t changed.
Lies within lies within lies lay within this man. And now he was here, inside their home. And suddenly their lives were unravelling.
TWENTY-THREE
“Bon Dieu.”
It was all Superintendent Brunel could say, and she said it over and over as she walked round the log cabin. Every now and then she stopped and picked up an object. Her eyes widened as she stared at it, then replaced it. Carefully. And went on to the next.
“Mais, ce n’est pas possible. This’s from the Amber Room, I’m sure of it.” She approached the glowing orange panel leaning against the kitchen window. “Bon Dieu, it is,” she whispered and all but crossed herself.
The Chief Inspector watched for a while. He knew she hadn’t really been prepared for what she’d find. He’d tried to warn her, though he knew the photographs didn’t do the place justice. He’d told her about the fine china.
The leaded crystal.
The signed first editions.
The tapestries.
The icons.
“Is that a violin?” She pointed to the instrument by the easy chair, its wood deep and warm.
“It’s moved,” said Beauvoir, then stared at the young agent. “Did you touch it last night?”
Morin blushed and looked frightened. “A little. I just picked it up. And . . .”
Superintendent Brunel held it now up to the light at the window, tipping it this way and that. “Chief Inspector, can you read this?” She handed him the violin and pointed to a label. As Gamache tried to read she picked up the bow and examined it.
“A Tourte bow,” she almost snorted and looked at their blank faces. “Worth a couple of hundred thousand.” She batted it in their direction then turned to Gamache. “Does it say Stradivari?”
“I don’t think so. It seems to say Anno 1738,” he strained, “Carlos something. Fece in Cremona.” He took off his glasses and looked at Thérèse Brunel. “Mean anything to you?”
She was smiling and still holding the bow. “Carlos Bergonzi. He was a luthier. Stradivari’s best pupil.”
“So it’s not the finest violin?” asked Beauvoir, who’d at least heard of Stradivarius violins, but never this other guy.
“Perhaps not quite as fine as his master, but a Bergonzi is
“A Bergonzi?” said Morin.
“Yes. Do you know about them?”
“Not really, but we found some original sheet music for violin with a note attached. It mentions a Bergonzi.” Morin went over to the bookcase and rummaged for a moment, emerging with a sheaf of music and a card. He handed it to the Superintendent who glanced at it and passed it on to Gamache.
“Any idea what language it’s in?” she asked. “Not Russian, not Greek.”
Gamache read. It seemed addressed to a B, it mentioned a Bergonzi and was signed C. The rest was unintelligible, though it seemed to include terms of endearment. It was dated December 8, 1950.
“Could B be the victim?” Brunel asked.
Gamache shook his head. “The dates don’t match. He wouldn’t have been born yet. And I presume B couldn’t be Bergonzi?”
“No, too late. He was long dead. So who were B and C and why did our man collect the music and the card?” Brunel asked herself. She glanced at the sheet music and smiled. Handing the sheaf to Gamache she pointed to the top line. The music was composed by a BM.
“So,” said Gamache, lowering the pages. “This original score was composed by a BM. The note attached was addressed to a B and mentions a Bergonzi violin. Seems logical to assume B played the violin and composed and someone, C, gave him this gift.” He nodded to the violin. “So who was BM and why did our victim have his music and his violin?”
“Is it any good?” Brunel asked Morin. Gamache handed him the score. The young agent, mouth slightly open, thick lips glistening, was looking particularly stupid. He stared at the music and hummed. Then looked up.
“Seems okay.”
“Play it.” Gamache handed him the million-dollar violin. Morin took it, reluctantly. “You played it last night, didn’t you?” the Chief asked.
“You what?” demanded Beauvoir.
Morin turned to him. “It’d been dusted and photographed and I didn’t think it’d matter.”
“Did you also juggle the china or have batting practice with the glasses? You don’t mess around with evidence.”
“Sorry.”
“Play the music, please,” said Gamache. Superintendent Brunel gave him the near-priceless bow.
“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.”
But if she wanted “unbelievable,” thought Gamache, she needed to look over here. Beauvoir had turned on his flashlight.
Until he’d seen it Gamache hadn’t quite believed it. But there it was, twinkling almost merrily in the harsh artificial light, as though mocking them.
Woe, said the web.
“Woe,” whispered Gamache.
Superintendent Brunel found Armand Gamache an hour later in the bent branch chair in the corner of the vegetable garden.
“I’ve finished looking round.”
Gamache stood and she sat wearily in the chair, exhaling deeply.
“I’ve never seen anything like it, Armand. We’ve broken art theft rings and found the most amazing collections. Remember the Charbonneau case last year in Lévis?”
“The van Eycks.”
She nodded, then shook her head as though trying to clear it. “Fantastic finds. All sorts of original sketches and even an oil no one knew existed.”
“Wasn’t there a Titian too?”
“Oui.”
“And you’re saying this place is even more amazing?”
“I don’t mean to lecture, but I’m not sure you or your people appreciate the scope of the find.”
“Lecture away,” Gamache reassured her. “That’s why I invited you.”
He smiled and not for the first time she thought the rarest thing she’d ever found was Chief Inspector Gamache.
“You might want to grab a seat,” she said. He found a sawn log and turned it on its end and sat on it. “The Charbonneau case was spectacular,” Superintendent Brunel went on. “But in many ways mundane. Most art theft rings, and most black market collectors, have one maybe two specialties. Because the market’s so specialized and there’s so much money involved, the thieves become experts, but only in one or two tiny areas. Italian sculpture from the 1600s. Dutch masters. Greek antiquities. But never all of those fields. They specialize. How else would they know they weren’t stealing forgeries, or replicas? That’s why with Charbonneau we found some astonishing things, but all in the same ‘family.’ Vous comprenez?”
“Oui. They were all Renaissance paintings, mostly by the same artist.”
“C’est ça. That’s how specialized most thieves are. But here,” she waved at the cabin, “there’re handmade silk tapestries, ancient leaded glass. Under that embroidered tablecloth do you know what we found? Our victim ate off the most exquisite inlaid table I’ve ever seen. It must be five hundred years old and made by a master. Even the table cloth was a masterpiece. Most museums would keep it under glass. The Victoria and Albert in London would pay a fortune for it.”
“Maybe they did.”
“You mean it might have been stolen from there? Could be. I have a lot of work to do.”
She looked as though she could hardly wait. And yet, she also looked as though she was in no hurry to leave this cabin, this garden.
“I wonder who he was.” She reached out and pulled a couple of runner beans from a vine, handing one to her companion. “Most unhappiness comes from not being able to sit quietly in a room.”
“Pascal,” said Gamache, recognizing the quote, and the appropriateness of it. “This man could. But he surrounded himself with objects that had a lot to say. That had stories.”
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