So, there was some excitement up at the old Hadley house.”
Myrna poured Gamache a coffee and joined him by the bookshelves.
“There was. Who told you?”
“Who didn’t? Everyone knows. Marc Gilbert was the one who put the body in the bistro. But what people can’t figure out is whether he killed the man.”
“What’re some of the theories?”
“Well.” Myrna took a sip of coffee and watched as Gamache moved along the rows of books. “Some think he must have done it, and dumped the body in the bistro to get back at Olivier. Everyone knows they dislike each other. But the rest think if he was really going to do that he’d kill the man in the bistro. Why kill him somewhere else, then move him?”
“You tell me. You’re the psychologist.” Gamache gave up his search of the shelves and turned to Myrna.
“Former.”
“But you can’t retire your knowledge.”
“Can’t crawl back into Paradise?” Taking their coffee to the armchairs in the bay window they sat and sipped while Myrna thought. Finally she spoke.
“Seems unlikely.” She didn’t look pleased with her answer.
“You want the murderer to be Marc Gilbert?” he asked.
“God help me, I do. Hadn’t thought about it before, really, but now that the possibility’s here it would be, well, convenient.”
“Because he’s an outsider?”
“Beyond the pale,” said Myrna.
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you know the expression, Chief Inspector?”
“I’ve heard it, yes. It means someone’s done something unacceptable. That’s one way of looking at murder, I suppose.”
“I didn’t mean that. Do you know where the expression comes from?” When Gamache shook his head she smiled. “It’s the sort of arcane knowledge a bookstore owner collects. It’s from medieval times. A fortress was built with thick stone walls in a circle. We’ve all seen them, right?”
Gamache had visited many old castles and fortresses, almost all in ruins now, but it was the brightly colored illustrations from the books he’d pored over as a child he remembered most vividly. The towers with vigilant archers, the crenellated stone, the massive wooden doors. The moat and drawbridge. And inside the circle of the walls was a courtyard. When attacked the villagers would race inside, the drawbridge would be raised, the massive doors closed. Everyone inside was safe. They hoped.
Myrna was holding out her palm, and circling it with a finger. “All around are walls, for protection.” Then her finger stopped its movement and rested on the soft center of her palm. “This is the pale.”
“So if you’re beyond the pale . . .”
“You’re an outsider,” said Myrna. “A threat.” She slowly closed her hand. As a black woman she knew what it meant to be “beyond the pale.” She’d been on the outside all her life, until she’d moved here. Now she was on the inside and it was the Gilberts’ turn.
But it wasn’t as comfortable as she’d always imagined the “inside” to be.
Gamache sipped his coffee and watched her. It was interesting that everyone seemed to know about Marc Gilbert moving the body, but no one seemed to know about the other Gilbert, risen from the dead.
“What were you looking for just now?” she asked.
“A book called Being.”
“Being? That’s the one about Brother Albert and the community he built?” She got up and walked toward the bookshelves. “We’ve talked about this before.”
She changed direction and walked to the far end of her bookstore.
“We did, years ago.” Gamache followed her.
“I remember now. I gave Old Mundin and The Wife a copy when Charles was born. The book’s out of print, I think. Shame. It’s brilliant.”
They were in her used-books section.
“Ah, here it is. I have one left. A little dog-eared, but the best books are.”
She handed Gamache the slim volume. “Can I leave you here? I told Clara I’d meet her in the bistro for lunch.”
Armand Gamache settled into his armchair and in the sunshine through the window he read. About an asshole. And a saint. And a miracle.