The Long Way Home

“And it was covered in asbestos?” he demanded.

“Not covered. There were traces.” Beauvoir immediately understood the concern. “Only at the back. That science teacher was right. No Man put the asbestos where Massey would dislodge it when he handled the painting. But it wouldn’t be a danger to anyone else. It wasn’t in the air anymore. You couldn’t breathe it in.”

Gamache’s heart calmed while his mind picked up speed.

“That painting”—he turned to Clara—“it was the really good one, right?”

“I didn’t actually see it, but Myrna did.”

“It was wonderful,” Myrna confirmed. “Far better than the rest.”

“But it was painted by Professor Massey,” said Clara. “Not No Man. So how could it be infected?”

Gamache sat back on the bench, perplexed. It all fitted so well. Almost. If he just ignored that one question.

If Massey had painted that picture, how could No Man have put asbestos on it?

How had No Man gained access to it? And to asbestos, for that matter.

“We’re missing something,” said Gamache. “We’ve gone wrong somewhere.”

It was dinnertime, but the cooks didn’t dare put the ovens and stoves on, so they had sandwiches. And held on tight as the waves deepened and broadened. And as even the seasoned sailors’ faces grew strained.

The friends took their minds off the pitching ship by going over and over what they did know. The facts.

Peter’s trek across Europe. The Garden of Cosmic Speculation. The stone hare.

Beauvoir reached in his pocket and felt the rabbit’s foot, still there.

Peter’s trip to Toronto, and the art college. His meeting with Professor Massey.

And then taking off for Charlevoix. Baie-Saint-Paul. In search, it seemed, of the muse. The tenth muse. The untamed muse, who could both heal and kill. And her champion. No Man.

This the four of them went over and over. And over.

But it still wasn’t clear what they’d missed, if anything.

“Well,” said Clara. “We’ll have our answer tomorrow. The ship gets in to Tabaquen in the morning.”

She held out her hand, and from it dangled a large key.

“What’s that?” asked Beauvoir.

“The key to our cabin,” said Myrna.

“Is this a proposal?” he asked.

“We haven’t been at sea that long,” said Myrna, and heard a grunt of laughter from Gamache. “It’s an invitation. Our sofa turns into a bed.”

“But you’ll be using it,” Beauvoir pointed out.

“No, we’ll be in the bedroom.”

“Bedroom?”

“I believe they call it a stateroom,” said Myrna. “Feel free to use our shower, or the tub.”

“For a metaphoric bath?” Gamache asked Clara, who reddened.

Beauvoir’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed the key from her hand.

“And help yourself to what’s in the fridge,” said Myrna as they left, zigzagging back across the observation deck.

Beauvoir put the key in his pocket, next to the hare’s foot.

They talked a little longer, going back over some of the details. But still couldn’t see their way clear.

Gamache stood up. “I’m tired, and Clara’s right. We’ll arrive at the answer tomorrow.”

The two men got to the Captain’s Suite, having stopped at the Admiral’s to check on Chartrand and get their toiletries and clean clothing.

On opening the door to the Captain’s Suite, Beauvoir stopped.

“What is it?” Gamache asked. “Can you fit in?”

“The fleet could fit in,” said Beauvoir, and stepped aside so that the Chief could see.

The kitchen. The polished dining table. The picture windows. The armchairs. The closed mahogany door leading, presumably, to the stateroom where Clara and Myrna slept.

And then there was the sofa, opened to a large bed and made up with clean, crisp linens and pillows and a duvet.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” whispered Beauvoir. “I’d like to marry this room.”

“Not while I’m in it,” said Gamache, brushing past him.

They took turns taking hot, sloshing baths, not trusting themselves to keep their footing in the shower. When Beauvoir emerged, wearing one of the fluffy bathrobes, he found Gamache gripping the edge of the dining table, examining one of Peter’s paintings.

“The lips,” said Beauvoir, joining him. They frowned up at the men and the men frowned down at them.

After traveling on this same waterway for two days, Beauvoir could appreciate even more what Peter had been trying to capture.

Peter had seen and felt and tried to paint the ever-changing face and fortunes of the river.

“We’re still at sea,” said Jean-Guy.

“But perhaps a little closer to the shore.”

“Yeah, well, the shore isn’t always such a great place to be,” said Beauvoir, stumbling over to the bed.

“True, mon vieux,” said Gamache. “I’m going to take a bath.”

Outside the picture window the darkness was complete, but every thirty seconds or so a fist of water hit it.