“I started with the assumption that the killer had found one of the Hermit’s treasures in the antique shop,” said Beauvoir, “and traced it back here to Three Pines.”
The only sounds now in the bistro were the crackling of the log fire and snow hitting the windows.
Inside, the fireplaces threw odd shadows against the walls but none of them threatening. Not to Beauvoir, but he suspected at least one person in this room was beginning to find it close, tight, claustrophobic.
“But who could it be? The Gilberts had bought a lot of antiques from that very store. The Parras? They’d inherited a lot of things from their family in the Czech Republic and managed to get them out when the wall came down. By their own admission, they’d sold most of it to pay for their new home. Perhaps they sold the things through Les Temps Perdu. Old Mundin? Well, he restores antiques. Wouldn’t he also be drawn to the terrific shops on rue Notre-Dame?
“It hardly seemed to narrow the suspects, so I looked at another clue. Woo. Olivier had described the Hermit whispering the word when he was particularly distressed. It was upsetting to him. But what did ‘woo’ mean? Was it a name, a nickname?”
He looked over to the Gilbert table. Like the rest they were staring, entranced and guarded.
“Was ‘woo’ short-form for a name that was hard to say, particularly for a child? That’s when most nicknames are given, isn’t it? In childhood. I was at the Mundins’ and heard little Charlie speaking. Shoo, for chaud. Kids do that, trying to get their tongues around hard words. Like Woloshyn. Woo.”
Clara leaned in to Myrna and whispered, “That’s what I was afraid of. As soon as I heard her maiden name was Woloshyn.”
Myrna raised her brows and turned, with the rest of them, to look at Carole Gilbert.
Carole didn’t move but Vincent Gilbert did. He rose to his full height, his towering personality filling the room.
“Enough with these insinuations. If you have something to say come out with it.”
“And you,” Beauvoir rounded on him. “Sir. The magnificent Dr. Gilbert. The great man, the great healer.” As he spoke he knew the Chief Inspector would be handling this differently, would never employ sarcasm, would rarely lose his temper, as Beauvoir could feel himself doing. With an effort he pulled back from the edge. “One of the great mysteries of this case has always been why the murderer didn’t steal the treasure. Who could resist it? Even if it wasn’t the motive for murder, it was just sitting there. Who wouldn’t pick up a trinket? A rare book? A gold candlestick?”
“And what was your brilliant conclusion?” Dr. Gilbert asked, his voice filled with contempt.
“There seemed only one. The killer had no need of it. Did that apply to Olivier? No. He was about as greedy as they come. Marc, your son? Same thing. Greedy, petty. He’d have stripped the cabin.”
He could see Marc Gilbert struggling, wanting to defend himself, but recognizing that these insults actually helped clear him of suspicion.
“The Parras? A landscaper, a waiter? Not exactly rolling in money. Even one of the Hermit’s pieces would make a huge difference in their lives. No, if one of them had killed the Hermit they’d have stolen something. Same with Old Mundin. A carpenter’s income is fine for now, but what happens when Charlie gets older? He’ll need to be provided for. The Mundins would have stolen the treasure if not for themselves then for their son.”
Now he turned back to Vincent Gilbert.
“But one person, sir, didn’t need the treasure. You. You’re already wealthy. Besides, I don’t think money’s important to you. You have another motivation, another master. Money was never the currency that counted. No. It’s compliments you collect. Respect, admiration. You collect the certainty that you’re better than anyone else. A saint, even. It’s your ego, your self-esteem that needs feeding, demands feeding, not your bank account. You alone among all the suspects would have left the treasure, because it meant nothing to you.”
If Dr. Gilbert could have ripped Beauvoir’s life away with a look, the young Inspector would have dropped dead right there. But instead of dying, Inspector Beauvoir smiled and continued his story, his voice suddenly calm, reasonable.
“But there was another mystery. Who was the Hermit? Olivier started off saying he was Czech and his name was Jakob but he’s since admitted he was lying. He had no idea who the man was except that he wasn’t Czech. More likely French or English. He spoke perfect French, but seemed to prefer to read English.”
Beauvoir noticed Roar and Hanna Parra exchange relieved glances.
“The only clue we had led us back to the antiques and antiquities in his cabin. I don’t know antiques, but people who do said these were amazing. He must have had an eye for it. He didn’t pick the stuff up at flea markets and garage sales.”
Beauvoir paused. He’d seen Gamache do this time and again, reeling in the suspect then letting him run, then reeling some more. But doing it subtly, carefully, delicately, without the suspect even realizing it. Doing it steadily, without hesitation.
It would be terrifying for the murderer when it dawned on him what was happening. And that terror was what the Chief counted on. To wear the person down, to grind them down. But it took a strong stomach, and patience.
Beauvoir had never appreciated how difficult this was. To present the facts in such a way so that the murderer would eventually know where it was heading. But not too soon as to be able to wiggle away, and not too late to have time to fight back.
No, the point was to wear the murderer’s nerves wire thin. Then give him the impression he wasn’t a suspect, someone else was. Let him breathe, then move in again when his guard was down.
And do that, over and over. Relentlessly.
It was exhausting. Like landing a huge fish, only one that could eat the boat.
And now Beauvoir moved in again, for the last time. For the kill.
“The truth, for we know it now, is that the treasure played a role. It was the catalyst. But what drove the final blow wasn’t greed for a treasure lost but for something else lost. Something more personal, more valuable even than treasure. This wasn’t about the loss of family heirlooms, but the family itself. Am I right?”
And Beauvoir turned to the murderer.
The killer stood and everyone in the room stared, bewildered.
“He killed my father,” said Old Mundin.