It was late afternoon and Armand Gamache walked through the woods. Beauvoir had volunteered to go with him, but he preferred to be alone with his thoughts.
After they left Olivier and Gabri they’d returned to the Incident Room where Agent Morin had been waiting.
“I know who BM is,” he said, eagerly following them, barely allowing them to take off their coats. “Look.”
He took them over to his computer. Gamache sat and Beauvoir leaned over his shoulder. There was a black-and-white, formal, photo of a man smoking a cigarette.
“His name is Bohuslav Martinù,” said Morin. “He wrote that violin piece we found. His birthday was December the eighth, so the violin must have been a birthday present from his wife. C. Charlotte was her name.”
Gamache, while listening, was staring at one line in the biography his agent had found. Martinù had been born December 8, 1890. In Bohemia. What was now the Czech Republic.
“Did they have any children?” Beauvoir asked. He too had noticed the reference.
“None.”
“Are you sure?” Gamache twisted in his chair to look at Morin, but the agent shook his head.
“I double-and triple-checked. It’s almost midnight there but I have a call in to the Martinù Conservatory in Prague to get more information and I’ll ask them, but it doesn’t seem so.”
“Ask about the violin, would you?” said Gamache, rising and putting his coat back on. He’d headed to the cabin, walking slowly through the woods, thinking.
A S?reté officer guarding the cabin greeted him on the porch.
“Come with me, please,” said Gamache and led the agent to the wheelbarrow sitting by the vegetable patch. He explained it had been used to carry a body and asked the officer to take samples. While she did that, Gamache went into the cabin.
It would be emptied the next morning, everything taken away for cataloguing, safe keeping. Put away in a dark vault. Away from human hands and eyes.
But before that happened Gamache wanted to see it all one last time.
Closing the door behind him he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. As always, it was the smell that first impressed him. Wood, and woodsmoke. Then the musky undertone of coffee and finally the sweeter scent of coriander and tarragon, from the window boxes.
The place was peaceful, restful. Cheerful even. While everything in it was a masterpiece, it all seemed at home in the rustic cabin. The Hermit might have known their worth, but he certainly knew their use, and used everything as it was intended. Glasses, dishes, silverware, vases. All put to purpose.
Gamache picked up the Bergonzi violin and cradling it he sat in the Hermit’s chair by the fireplace. One for solitude, two for friendship.
The dead man had no need, or desire, for society. But he did have company.
They now knew who had sat in that other comfortable chair. Gamache had thought it was Dr. Vincent Gilbert, but he’d been wrong. It was Olivier Brulé. He’d come to keep the Hermit company, to bring him seeds and staples, and companionship. And in return the Hermit had given him what Olivier wanted. Treasure.
It was a fair trade.
But had someone else found him? If not, or if Gamache couldn’t prove it, then Olivier Brulé would be arrested for murder. Arrested, tried and probably convicted.
Gamache couldn’t shake the thought that it was too convenient that Dr. Vincent Gilbert had arrived just as the Hermit had been killed. Hadn’t Olivier said the dead man was worried about strangers? Maybe Gilbert was that stanger.
Gamache tipped his head back and thought some more. Suppose Vincent Gilbert wasn’t the one the Hermit was hiding from. Suppose it was another Gilbert. After all, it was Marc who’d bought the old Hadley house. He’d quit a successful job in the city to come here. He and Dominique had plenty of money; they could have bought any place in the Townships. So why buy a broken-down old wreck? Unless it wasn’t the house they wanted, but the forest.
And what about the Parras? Olivier had said the Hermit spoke with a slight accent. A Czech accent. And Roar was clearing the trail. Heading straight here.
Maybe he’d found the cabin. And the treasure.
Maybe they knew he was here somewhere and had been looking. When Gilbert bought the place maybe Roar took the job so that he could explore the woods. Searching for the Hermit.
And Havoc. What was the case against him? He seemed, by all reports, like a regular young man. But a young man who chose to stay here, in this backwater, while most of his friends had moved away. To university. To careers. Waiting table couldn’t be considered a career. What was such a personable, bright young man doing here?
Gamache sat forward. Seeing the last night of the Hermit’s life. The crowd at the bistro. Old Mundin arriving with the furniture then leaving. Olivier leaving. Havoc locking up. Then noticing his employer do something unexpected. Something bizarre even.
Had Havoc seen Olivier turn toward the woods instead of going home?
Curious, Havoc would have followed Olivier. Straight to the cabin. And the treasures.
It played out before Gamache’s eyes. Olivier leaving and Havoc confronting the frightened man. Demanding some of the things. The Hermit refusing. Maybe he shoved Havoc away. Maybe Havoc struck out, picking up a weapon and smashing the Hermit. Frightened, he’d fled. Just before Olivier returned.
But that didn’t explain everything.
Gamache put down the violin and looked up at the web in the corner. No, this wasn’t a murder that had happened out of the blue. There was cunning here. And cruelty. The Hermit was tortured first, then killed. Tortured by a tiny word.
Woo.
After a few minutes Gamache got up and slowly wandered the room, picking up pieces here and there, touching things he never thought he’d see never mind hold. The panel from the Amber Room that threw pumpkin light into the kitchen. Ancient pottery used by the Hermit for herbs. Stunning enameled spoons and silk tapestries. And first editions. One was on the bedside table. Gamache picked it up idly, and looked at it.
Currer Bell was the author. Agent Morin had mentioned this book. He flipped it open. Another first edition. Then he noticed the title of the book.
Jane Eyre: An Autobiography. Currer Bell. That was the pseudonym used by—
He opened the book again. Charlotte Bront?. He was holding a first edition of Jane Eyre.
Armand Gamache stood very quietly in the cabin. But there wasn’t complete silence. One word whispered to him, and had from the first moment they’d found the cabin. Repeated over and over. In the children’s book found in the outhouse, in the Amber panel, in the violin, and now in the book he held in his hand. One word. A name.
Charlotte.