The Long Way Home

And he tried to be patient.

He tried to figure out what this man was going on about. A colonnade? Why call the police to ask about that? Then he thought he heard something about artists, but that was equally ridiculous. Again, why call the police to discuss art?

He wondered if this man might be off his head, but he sounded calm and rational and even a bit exasperated himself.

Constable Stuart became more alert when he made out the word “homicide,” but when he asked if this man was calling to report one, he got the only clear answer so far.

No.

“Then what, may I ask, are you wanting?”

He heard a long, long sigh down the phone line.

“Mon dieu,” he also heard.

“Did you say ‘Mon dieu’?” he asked. “Do you speak French?”

“Oui,” said Gamache. “Do you?” He asked that in French and was rewarded with a laugh.

“Oh, aye. Je parle fran?ais.”

And finally the two men could communicate. In French. Thanks to Constable Stuart’s affair with a Frenchwoman who was now his wife. She’d eventually learned English and he’d learned French.

Gamache explained that he was the former Chief Inspector of homicide for the S?reté du Québec, in Canada, and he needed Constable Stuart’s help. But not with a murder case. This was a private enquiry. Trying to find a missing friend. An artist. He’d been traced to the Dumfries area in the early winter. Gamache gave Constable Stuart the dates when Peter was there. But Gamache didn’t know where he went, what he did, or why Peter was even there. He wondered if there was an artist colony, or something that might draw a painter to the area.

“Well, now, this is a very beautiful part of the world, you know.”

Gamache envied Constable Stuart his accent. In French it became soft and charming, the rolling Scottish burr melding perfectly with the French language.

Who knew?

“So there are famous artists?”

“Not exactly famous.” There was a pause. “No, I cannot say they’re famous. But very good. And any artist would be inspired by the setting.” Constable Stuart looked out the window at the cold, gray day. At the sheets of rain pouring down.

It was beautiful.

“Now, we do have a number of very pretty gardens. Some remarkable, apparently. Would a gardener do?”

“I’m afraid not. I think it needs to be an artist. No idea why my friend might have gone to Dumfries?”

“Beyond the fact I think everyone should? No, sir.”

Gamache looked out the sitting room window. A heavy mist had descended and he could barely see the three pines on the village green. The bistro was just a ghostly outline with a slight glow of light in the window.

It was beautiful.

“We know by his bank withdrawals that he was in your area, but there’s no record of where he stayed.”

“Now, that’s not unusual. There’re a lot of B and Bs in the town and surrounding area. They prefer cash.”

“I’d like to send you a photograph and description of my friend.”

“Perfect. I’ll circulate it.”

He sounded cheerful, helpful. Hopeful. But the charming accent could not disguise the fact there was little to be hopeful about. The chances of Constable Stuart finding any trace of Peter Morrow’s activity from months ago were tiny. Still, he was willing to try and Gamache was grateful.

Peter had gone all the way to Dumfries for a reason. But that reason remained obscure. What they did know was that Peter wasn’t there now. He’d eventually left and popped up in Toronto.

The two men said their good-byes and Gamache sat in the easy chair. The window was open and he could hear the rain pelting down. Striking the leaves, hitting the porch and drumming against the window. The weather, and the Chief, had settled in for the day.

He leaned back, wove his fingers together and stared into space, considering. Thinking about Peter, and Dumfries, and his conversation with Constable Stuart. The Scots and the Québécois had a lot in common. They’d both been conquered by the English. Both had managed to keep their language and culture alive, against great odds. Both had nationalistic aspirations.

But Gamache knew Peter Morrow hadn’t gone to Scotland to study self-determination. Not on a national level anyway. His was a more personal quest for self.

Somewhere along the line something had happened and Peter Morrow had painted those extraordinary pictures.

Gamache was anxious to see them for himself.

*

They arrived at Clara’s home first thing the next morning. The cheerful UPS driver, in his brown truck and brown shorts, handed Clara what looked like the love child of a baseball bat and a baguette.