Armand Gamache took the carving and stared into the crowd on deck.
It was easy to miss, but still he could have kicked himself. It now appeared so obvious. The small figure at the very back of the boat, crouching just in front of the matronly woman and her large sack.
He felt his skin crawl as he examined the face of the tiny wooden man, barely more than a boy, looking over his shoulder. Past the matronly woman. Looking behind the boat. While everyone else was gazing ahead, he was slumped down and staring back. To where they’d been.
And the look on his face turned Gamache’s blood cold. Cold to the bone, cold to the marrow. Cold to the core.
This was what terror looked like. Felt like. The small, wooden face was a transmitter. And its message was horrific. Gamache suddenly had the nearly uncontrollable urge to look behind himself, see what might be lurking there. Instead, he put his glasses on and leaned closer.
In his arms the young man was gripping a package.
Finally Gamache put it down and removed his glasses. “I see what you mean.”
Superintendent Brunel sighed. “Evil. There’s evil on that voyage.”
Gamache didn’t disagree. “Does it look familiar? Could the carving be on your active list of stolen art?”
“There’re thousands of items on that list,” she smiled. “Everything from Rembrands to engraved toothpicks.”
“And I bet you have them all memorized.”
Her smile broadened and she inclined her head slightly. He knew her well.
“But nothing like this. It would stand out.”
“Is it art?”
“If you mean is it valuable, I’d say it’s almost priceless. If one of these had come on the market while I was at the Musée des Beaux Arts I’d have jumped at it. And paid a small fortune.”
“Why?”
She looked at the large, calm man in front of her. So like an academic. She could see him in cap and gown moving like a ship of state through the halls of an ancient university, eager students in his wake. When she’d first met him, lecturing at the police college, he’d been twenty years younger but still a commanding figure. Now he carried that authority with even greater ease. His wavy dark hair was receding, his temples were graying as was his trim mustache, his body was expanding. As was, she knew, his influence.
He’d taught her many things. But one of the most valuable was not to just see, but to listen. As he listened to her now.
“What makes a work of art unique isn’t its color or composition or subject. It has nothing whatsoever to do with what we see. Why are some paintings masterpieces while others, perhaps even more competent, are forgotten? Why are some symphonies still beloved hundreds of years after the composer has died?”
Gamache thought about it. And what came to mind was the painting placed so causally on an easel after dinner a few nights ago. Badly lit, unframed.
And yet he could have stared at it forever.
It was the painting of the elderly woman, her body headed forward, but her face turned back.
He’d known her longing. That same root which spasmed when gazing at the carving had ached when he’d looked at that woman. Clara hadn’t simply painted a woman, hadn’t even painted a feeling. She’d created a world. In that one image.
That was a masterpiece.
He suddenly felt very badly for Peter, and hoped deeply that Peter was no longer trying to compete with his wife. She was nowhere to be found on that battlefield.
“That,” Superintendent Brunel pointed with one manicured finger at the carving, “will be remembered long after you and I are dead. Long after this charming village has fallen to dust.”
“There’s another one, you know,” he said and had the rare pleasure of seeing Thérèse Brunel surprised. “But before we see it I think we should head to the cabin.”
He looked at her feet. She wore elegant new shoes.
“I’ve brought boots with me, Chief Inspector,” she said, her voice holding a faint and mocking reproach as she walked briskly ahead of him to the door. “When have you ever taken me anywhere that didn’t have mud?”
“I believe they hosed down Place des Arts before the last symphony we were at,” he said, smiling over his shoulder at Agent Lacoste as they left.
“Professionally, I meant. Always mud and always a body.”
“Well this time there is certainly mud, but no body.”
“Sir.” Lacoste jogged over to the car, holding a printout. “I thought you’d like to see this.”
She handed the paper to him and pointed. It was a lab report. The results were beginning to come in, and would continue all day. And this one brought a satisfied smile to his face. He turned to Thérèse Brunel.
“They found woodchips, sawdust really, beside a chair in the cabin. They also found traces on his clothes. The lab says it was red cedar. From British Columbia.”
“I guess we found the artist,” she said. “Now if we only knew why he carved so much terror.”
Why indeed, thought Gamache as he got into the car and drove up du Moulin. ATVs were waiting for them and they headed deep into the Quebec forest. A professor and an elegant expert on art. Neither was as they appeared, and they were heading for a rustic cabin that certainly wasn’t.