I just sit where I’m put, composed
of stone, and wishful thinking:
“Who’s Vincent Gilbert, sir? You seemed to know him.”
“He’s a saint.”
Beauvoir laughed, but seeing Gamache’s serious face he stopped. “What do you mean?”
“There’re some people who believe that.”
“Seemed like an asshole to me.”
“The hardest part of the process. Telling them apart.”
“Do you believe he’s a saint?” Beauvoir was almost afraid to ask.
Gamache smiled suddenly. “I’ll leave you here. What do you say to lunch in the bistro in half an hour?”
Beauvoir looked at his watch. Twelve thirty-five. “Perfect.”
He watched the Chief walk slowly back across the bridge and into Three Pines. Then he looked down again, at the rest of what Ruth had written.
that the deity who kills for pleasure
will also heal,
Someone else was watching Gamache. Inside the bistro Olivier was looking out the window while listening to the sweet sounds of laughter and the till. The place was packed. The whole village, the whole countryside, had emptied into his place, for lunch, for news, for gossip. To hear about the latest dramatic developments.
The old Hadley house had produced another body and spewed it into the bistro. Or at least, its owner had. Any suspicion of Olivier was lifted, the taint gone.
All round him Olivier heard people talking, speculating, about Marc Gilbert. His mental state, his motives. Was he the murderer? But one thing wasn’t debated, wasn’t in doubt.
Gilbert was finished.
“Who’s gonna wanna stay in that place?” he heard someone say. “Parra says they dumped a fortune into the Hadley place, and now this.”
There was general agreement. It was a shame. It was inevitable. The new inn and spa was ruined before it even opened. Olivier watched through the window as Gamache walked slowly toward the bistro. Ruth appeared at Olivier’s elbow. “Imagine being chased,” she said, watching the Chief Inspector’s steadfast approach, “by that.”
Clara and Gabri squeezed through the crowd to join them.
“What’re you looking at?” Clara asked.
“Nothing,” said Olivier.
“Him.” Ruth pointed at Gamache, apparently deep in thought, but making progress. Without haste, but also without hesitation.
“He must be pleased,” said Gabri. “I hear Marc Gilbert killed that man and put him here, in the bistro. Case closed.”
“Then why didn’t Gamache arrest him?” Clara asked, sipping her beer.
“Gamache’s an idiot,” said Ruth.
“I hear Gilbert says he found the body in his house,” said Clara. “Already dead.”
“Right, like that just happens,” said Olivier. His friends decided not to remind Olivier that was exactly what happened to him.
Clara and Gabri fought their way over to the bar to get more drinks.
The waiters were being run ragged. He’d give them a bonus, Olivier decided. Something to make up for two days of lost wages. Faith. Gabri was always telling him he had to have faith, trust that things would work out.
And they had worked out. Beautifully.
Beside him Ruth was tapping her cane rhythmically on the wooden floor. It was more than annoying. It was somehow threatening. So soft, but so unstoppable. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
“Scotch?”
That would get her to stop. But she stood ramrod straight, her cane lifting and dropping. Tap, tap, tap. Then he realized what she was tapping out.
Chief Inspector Gamache was still approaching, slowly, deliberately. And with each footfall came a beat of Ruth’s cane.
“I wonder if the murderer knows just how terrible a thing is pursuing him?” asked Ruth. “I feel almost sorry for him. He must feel trapped.”
“Gilbert did it. Gamache’ll arrest him soon.”
But the thumping of Ruth’s cane matched the thudding in Olivier’s chest. He watched Gamache approach. Then, miraculously, Gamache passed them by. And Olivier heard the little tinkle of Myrna’s bell.