by Louise Penny
“That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
“What’s the Amber Room?”
“How do you know about that?” She turned a searching eye on him.
“When you were looking around you mentioned it.”
“Did I? You can see it from here. That orange thing in the kitchen window.” He looked and sure enough, there it was, glowing warm in what little light it caught. It looked like a large, thick piece of stained glass. She continued to stare, mesmerized, then finally came out of it. “Sorry. I just never expected to be the one to find it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Amber Room was created in the early 1700s in Prussia by Friedrich the First. It was a huge room made of amber and gold. Took artists and artisans years to construct and when it was completed it was one of the wonders of the world.” He could tell she was imagining what it looked like, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “He had it made for his wife, Sophia Charlotte. But a few years later it was given to the Russian Emperor and stayed in St. Petersburg until the war.”
“Which war?”
She smiled. “Good point. The Second World War. The Soviets apparently dismantled it once they realized the Nazis would take the city, but they didn’t manage to hide it. The Germans found it.”
She stopped.
“Go on,” said Gamache.
“That’s it. That’s all we know. The Amber Room disappeared. Historians, treasure hunters, antiquarians have been searching for it ever since. We know the Germans, under Albert Speer, took the Amber Room away. Hid it. Presumably for safe keeping. But it was never seen again.”
“What’re the theories?” the Chief Inspector asked.
“Well, the most accepted is that it was destroyed in the Allied bombing. But there’s another theory. Albert Speer was very bright, and many argue he wasn’t a true Nazi. He was loyal to Hitler, but not to most of his ideals. Speer was an internationalist, a cultured man whose priority became saving the world’s treasures from destruction, by either side.”
“Albert Speer may have been cultured,” said Gamache, “but he was a Nazi. He knew of the death camps, knew of the slaughter, approved it. He simply looked good while doing it.”
The Chief Inspector’s voice was cold and his eyes hard.
“I don’t disagree with you, Armand. Just the opposite. I’m simply telling you what the theories are. The one involving Speer had him hiding the Amber Room far from both the German and the Allied armies. In the Ore Mountains.”
“Where?”
“A mountain range between Germany and what’s now the Czech Republic.”
They both thought about that, and finally Gamache spoke. “So how did a piece of the Amber Room get here?”
“And where’s the rest of it?”
Denis Fortin sat across from Clara Morrow. He was younger than he had any right to be. Early forties probably. A failed artist who’d discovered another, greater, talent. He recognized talent in others.
It was enlightened self-interest. The best kind, as far as Clara could see. No one was the martyr, no one was owed or owing. She was under no illusion that the reason Denis Fortin held a St. Amboise beer in Olivier’s Bistro in Three Pines was not because he thought there was something in it for him.
And the only reason Clara was there, besides unbridled ego, was to get something from Fortin. Namely fame and fortune.
At the very least a free beer.
But there was something she needed to do before she got caught up in the unparalleled glory that was Clara Morrow. Reaching into her bag she brought out the balled-up towel. “I was asked to show you this. A man was found dead here a couple of days ago. Murdered.”
“Really? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Not as unusual as you might think. What was unusual is that no one knew him. But the police just found a cabin in the woods, and this was inside it. The head of the investigation asked me to show it to you, in case you could tell us anything about it.”
“A clue?” He looked keen and watched closely as she unwrapped the bundle. Soon the little men and women were standing on the shore, looking across the expanse of wood to the micro-brew in front of Fortin.
Clara watched him. His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to the work, pursing his lips in concentration.
“Very nice. Good technique, I’d say. Detailed, each face quite different, with character. Yes, all in all I’d say a competent piece of carving. Slightly primitive, but what you’d expect from a backwoods whittler.”
“Really?” said Clara. “I thought it was very good. Excellent even.”
He leaned back and smiled at her. Not patronizing, but as one friend smiles at another, a kinder, friend.
“Perhaps I’m being too harsh, but I’ve seen so many of these in my career.”
“These? Exactly the same?”
“No, but close enough. Carved images of people fishing or smoking a pipe or riding a horse. They’re the most valuable. You can always find a buyer for a good horse or dog. Or pig. Pigs are popular.”
“Good to know. There’s something written underneath.” Clara turned it over and handed it to Fortin.
He squinted then putting on his glasses he read, frowned and handed it back. “I wonder what it means.”
“Any guesses?” Clara wasn’t about to give up. She wanted to take something back to Gamache.
“Almost certainly a signature, or a lot number. Something to identify it. Was this the only one?”
“There’re two. How much would this be worth?”
“Hard to say.” He picked it up again. “It’s quite good, for what it is. It’s no pig, though.”
“Pity.”
“Hmm.” Fortin considered for a moment. “I’d say two hundred, maybe two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Is that all?”
“I might be wrong.”
Clara could tell he was being polite, but getting bored. She rewrapped the carving and put it in her bag.
“Now.” Denis Fortin leaned forward, an eager look on his handsome face. “Let’s talk about really great art. How would you like your work to be hung?”
“I’ve done a few sketches.” Clara handed him her notebook and after a few minutes Fortin lifted his head, his eyes intelligent and bright.
“This is wonderful. I like the way you’ve clustered the paintings then left a space. It’s like a breath, isn’t it?”
Clara nodded. It was such a relief talking to someone who didn’t need everything explained.
“I particularly like that you haven’t placed the three old women together. That would be the obvious choice, but you’ve spread them around, each anchoring her own wall.”
“I wanted to surround them with other works,” said Clara excitedly.
“Like acolytes, or friends, or critics,” said Fortin, excited himself. “It’s not clear what their intentions are.”
“And how they might change,” said Clara, leaning forward. She’d shown Peter her ideas, and he’d been polite and encouraging, but she could tell he really didn’t understand what she was getting at. At first glance her design for the exhibition might seem unbalanced. And it was. Intentionally. Clara wanted people to walk in, see the works that appeared quite traditional and slowly appreciate that they weren’t.
There was a depth, a meaning, a challenge to them.
For an hour or more Clara and Fortin talked, exchanging ideas about the show, about the direction of contemporary art, about exciting new artists, of which, Fortin was quick to assure Clara, she was in the forefront.
“I wasn’t going to tell you because it might not happen, but I sent your portfolio to FitzPatrick at MoMA. He’s an old friend and says he’ll come to the vernissage—”
Clara exclaimed and almost knocked her beer over. Fortin laughed and held up his hand.
“But wait, that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you. I suggested he spread the word and it looks as though Allyne from the New York Times will be there . . .”
He hesitated because it looked as though Clara was having a stroke. When she closed her mouth he continued. “And, as luck would have it, Destin Browne will be in New York that month setting up a show with MoMA and she’s shown interest.”
“Destin Browne? Vanessa Destin Browne? The chief curator at the Tate Modern in London?”
Fortin nodded and held tightly to his beer. But now, far from being in danger of knocking anything over, Clara appeared to have ground to a complete halt. She sat in the cheery little bistro, late summer light teeming through the mullioned windows. Beyond Fortin she saw the old homes, warming in the sun. The perennial beds with roses and clematis and hollyhocks. She saw the villagers, whose names she knew and whose habits she was familiar with. And she saw the three tall pines, like beacons. Impossible to miss, even surrounded by forest. If you knew what to look for, and needed a beacon.
Life was about to take her away from here. From the place where she’d become herself. This solid little village that never changed but helped its inhabitants to change. She’d arrived straight from art college full of avant-garde ideas, wearing shades of gray and seeing the world in black and white. So sure of herself. But here, in the middle of nowhere, she’d discovered color. And nuance. She’d learned this from the villagers, who’d been generous enough to lend her their souls to paint. Not as perfect human beings, but as flawed, struggling men and women. Filled with fear and uncertainty and, in at least one case, martinis.
But who remained standing. In the wilderness. Her graces, her stand of pines.
She was suddenly overcome with gratitude to her neighbors, and to whatever inspiration had allowed her to do them justice.
She closed her eyes and tilted her face into the sun.
“You all right?” he asked.
Clara opened her eyes. He seemed bathed in light, his blond hair glowing and a warm, patient smile on his face.
“You know, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but a few years ago no one wanted my works. Everyone just laughed. It was brutal. I almost gave up.”
“Most great artists have the same story,” he said, gently.
“I almost flunked out of art school, you know. I don’t tell many people that.”
“Another drink?” asked Gabri, taking Fortin’s empty glass.
“Not for me, merci,” he said, then turned back to Clara. “Between us? Most of the best people did flunk out. How can you test an artist?”
“I was always good at tests,” said Gabri, picking up Clara’s glass. “No, wait. That was testes.”
He gave Clara an arch look and swept away.
“Fucking queers,” said Fortin, taking a handful of cashews. “Doesn’t it make you want to vomit?”
Clara froze. She looked at Fortin to see if he was kidding. He wasn’t. But what he said was true. She suddenly wanted to throw up.
TWENTY-FOUR
Chief Inspector Gamache and Superintendent Brunel walked back to the cabin, each lost in thought.
“I told you what I found,” said the Superintendent, once back on the porch. “Now it’s your turn. What were you and Inspector Beauvoir whispering about in the corner, like naughty schoolboys?”
Not many people would consider calling Chief Inspector Gamache a naughty schoolboy. He smiled. Then he remembered the thing that had gleamed and mocked and clung to the corner of the cabin.
“Would you like to see?”
“No, I think I’ll go back to the garden and pick turnips. Of course I’d like to see,” she laughed and he took her over to the corner of the room, her eyes darting here and there, stealing glances at the masterpieces she was passing. Until they stopped in the darkest corner.
“I don’t see anything.”
Beauvoir joined them and switched on his flashlight. She followed it. Up the wall to the rafters.
“I still don’t see.”
“But you do,” said Gamache. As they waited Beauvoir thought about other words, left up to be found. Tacked to the door of his bedroom at the B and B that morning.
He’d asked Gabri if he knew anything about the piece of paper stuck into the wood with a thumbtack, but Gabri had looked perplexed and shaken his head.
Beauvoir had stuffed it into his pocket and only after the first café au lait of the day did he have the guts to read.
and the soft body of a woman
and lick you clean of fever,
What upset Beauvoir most wasn’t the thought that the mad old poet had invaded the B and B and put that on his door. Nor was it that he didn’t understand a word of it. What upset him the most was the comma.
It meant there was more.
“I’m sorry, I really don’t see anything.” Superintendent Brunel’s voice brought Beauvoir back to the cabin.
“Do you see a spider’s web?” Gamache asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you see it. Look more closely.”
It took a moment but finally her face changed. Her eyes widened and her brows lifted. She tilted her head slightly as though she wasn’t seeing quite straight.
“But there’s a word up there, written in the web. What does it say? Woe? How is that possible? What kind of spider does that?” she asked, clearly not expecting an answer, and not getting one.
Just then the satellite phone rang and after answering it Agent Morin handed it to the Chief Inspector. “Agent Lacoste for you, sir.”
“Oui, allô?” he said, and listened for a few moments. “Really?” He listened some more, glancing around the room then up again at the web. “D’accord. Merci.”
Gamache hung up, thought a moment, then reached for the nearby stepladder.
“Would you like me . . .” Beauvoir gestured to it.
“Ce n’est pas necessaire.” Taking a breath Gamache started up the Annapurna ladder. Two steps up he put out an unsteady hand and Beauvoir moved forward until the large trembling fingers found his shoulder. Steadied, Gamache reached up and poked the web with a pen. Slowly, unseen by the people craning their necks below, he moved a single strand of the web.
“C’est ça,” he murmured.
Backing down the ladder and onto terra firma he nodded toward the corner. Beauvoir’s light shone on the web.
“How did you do that?” asked Beauvoir.
The web had changed its message. It no longer said Woe. Now it said Woo.
“A strand had come loose.”
“But how did you know it had?” Beauvoir persisted. They’d all taken a close look at the web. Clearly a spider hadn’t spun it. It appeared to be made from thread, perhaps nylon fishing line, made to look like a spider’s web. They’d take it down soon and have it properly analyzed. It had a great deal to tell them, though changing the word from Woe to Woo didn’t seem a move toward clarity.
“More results are coming into the Incident Room. Fingerprint results, which I’ll tell you about in a minute, but remember that piece of wood that was found under the bed?”
“The one that also said Woe?” asked Morin, who had joined them.
Gamache nodded. “It had blood on it. The victim’s blood, according to the lab. But when they removed it they discovered something else. The block of wood wasn’t carved to say Woe. The smear of blood made a mess of the lettering. When the blood was lifted it said—”
“Woo,” said Beauvoir. “So you thought if one said it maybe the other did too.”
“Worth a try.”
“I think I prefer Woe.” Beauvoir looked at the web again. “At least it’s a word. What does Woo mean?”
They thought. Had someone been wandering by the cabin and chanced to look in they would have seen a group of adults standing quite still, staring into space and muttering “Woo” every now and then.
“Woo,” Brunel said. “Don’t people pitch woo?”
“Woohoo? No, that’s boo,” said Beauvoir. “Boohoo, not woo.”
“Isn’t it what they call kangaroos?” asked Morin.
“Kangawoos? That’s roo,” snapped Beauvoir.
“Chalice,” swore Brunel.
“Woo, woo,” said Morin under his breath, begging himself to come up with something that didn’t sound like a choo-choo train. But the more he said it the more it sounded like nonsense. “Woo,” he whispered.
Only Gamache said nothing. He listened to them but his mind kept going to the other piece of news. His face grew stern as he thought about what else had been revealed when the bloody fingerprints were lifted from the carving.
He can’t stay here.”
Marc swished his arms under the tap at the kitchen sink.
“I don’t want him here either, but at least here we can watch him,” his mother said.
All three looked out the kitchen window to the old man sitting cross-legged on the grass, meditating.
“What do you mean, ‘watch him’?” asked Dominique. She was fascinated by her father-in-law. He had a sort of broken-down magnetism about him. She could see he once had had a powerful personality, and a powerful hold over people. And he behaved as though that was still true. There was a shabby dignity about him, but also a cunning.
Marc grabbed the bar of soap and rubbed it over his forearms, looking like a surgeon scrubbing up. In fact, he was scrubbing away dust and plaster after dry-walling.
It was hard work, and work he was almost certainly doing for someone else. The next owner of the inn and spa. Which was just as well, since he was doing it very badly.
“I mean that things happen around Vincent,” said Carole. “Always have. He’s sailed through life, this glorious ship of state. Oblivious of the wreckage in his wake.”
It might not have sounded like it, but she was being charitable. For the sake of Marc. The truth was, she wasn’t at all convinced Vincent had been oblivious of the damage he caused. She’d come to believe he actually deliberately sailed right over people. Destroyed them. Gone out of his way to do it.
She’d been his nurse, his assistant, his dogsbody. His witness and, finally, his conscience. Which was probably why he’d grown to hate her. And her him.
Once again they looked at the cross-legged man, sitting calmly in their garden.
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