And then a single perfect finger pointed to three small words.
Queen Charlotte Islands.
That’s where they were.
Charlotte.
Gamache felt a thrill. Could they really have found Woo?
“The Hermit’s sculptures were carved from red cedar,” said Thérèse Brunel. “So was the word Woo. Red cedar grows in a few places, but not here. Not Quebec. One of the places it grows is in British Columbia.”
“On the Queen Charlotte Islands,” whispered Gamache, mesmerized by the paintings of the totem poles. Straight, tall, magnificent. Not yet felled as heathen, not yet yanked down by missionaries and the government.
Emily Carr’s paintings were the only images of the totems as the Haida meant them to be. She never painted people, but she painted what they created. Long houses. And towering totem poles.
Gamache stared, losing himself in the wild beauty, and the approaching disaster.
Then he looked again at the inscription. Haida village. Queen Charlottes.
And he knew Thérèse was right. Woo pointed to Emily Carr, and Carr pointed to the Queen Charlotte Islands. This must be why there were so many references to Charlotte in the Hermit’s cabin. Charlotte’s Web, Charlotte Bront?. Charlotte Martinù, who’d given her husband the violin. The Amber Room had been made for a Charlotte. All leading him here. To the Queen Charlotte Islands.
“You can keep that.” Superintendent Brunel pointed to the brochure. “It has a lot of biographical information on Emily Carr. It might be helpful.”
“Merci.” Gamache closed the catalog and stared at the sculpture of Carr, the woman who had captured Canada’s shame, not by painting the displaced, broken people, but by painting their glory.
Clara stared at the gray waters of the St. Lawrence as they drove over the Champlain Bridge.
“How was your lunch?” Gamache asked when they were on the autoroute heading to Three Pines.
“Well, it could have been better.”
Clara’s mood was swinging wildly from fury to guilt to regret. One moment she felt she should have told Denis Fortin more clearly what a piece of merde he was, the next she was dying to get home so she could call and apologize.
Clara was a fault-magnet. Criticisms, critiques, blame flew through the air and clung to her. She seemed to attract the negative, perhaps because she was so positive.
Well, she’d had enough. She sat up straighter in her seat. Fuck him. But, then again, maybe she should apologize and stand up for herself after the solo show.
What an idiot she’d been. Why in the world had she thought it was a good idea to piss off the gallery owner who was offering her fame and fortune? Recognition. Approval. Attention.
Damn, what had she done? And was it reversible? Surely she could have waited until the day after the opening, when the reviews were in the New York Times, the London Times. When his fury couldn’t ruin her, as it could now.
As it would now.
She’d heard his words. But more important, she’d seen it in Fortin’s face. He would ruin her. Though to ruin implied there was something built up to tear down. No, what he’d do was worse. He’d make sure the world never heard of Clara Morrow. Never saw her paintings.
She looked at the time on Gamache’s dashboard.
Ten to four. The heavy traffic out of the city was thinning. They’d be home in an hour. If they got back before five she could call his gallery and prostrate herself.
Or maybe she should call and tell him what an asshole he was.
It was a very long drive back.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Gamache asked after half an hour of silence. They’d turned off the highway and were heading toward Cowansville.
“I’m not really sure what to say. Denis Fortin called Gabri a fucking queer yesterday in the bistro. Gabri didn’t hear it, but I did, and I didn’t say anything. I talked to Peter and Myrna about it, and they listened, but they pretty much left it up to me. Until this morning when Peter kinda said I should talk to Fortin.”
Gamache turned off the main road. The businesses and homes receded and the forest closed in.
“How did Fortin react?” he asked.
“He said he’d cancel the show.”
Gamache sighed. “I’m sorry about that, Clara.”
He glanced over at her unhappy face staring out the window. She reminded him of his daughter Annie the other night. A weary lion.
“How was your day?” she asked. They were on the dirt road now, bumping along. It was a road not used by many. Mostly just by people who knew where they were going, or had completely lost their way.
“Productive, I think. I have a question for you.”
“Ask away.” She seemed relieved to have something else to do besides watching the clock click closer to five.
“What do you know about Emily Carr?”
“Now, I’d never have bet that was the question,” she smiled, then gathered her thoughts. “We studied her in art school. She was a huge inspiration to lots of Canadian artists, certainly the women. She inspired me.”
“How?”
“She went into the wilderness where no one else dared to go, with just her easel.”
“And her monkey.”
“Is that a euphemism, Chief Inspector?”
Gamache laughed. “No. Go on.”
“Well, she was just very independent. And her work evolved. At first it was representational. A tree was a tree, a house a house. It was almost a documentary. She wanted to capture the Haida, you know, in their villages, before they were destroyed.”
“Most of her work was on the Queen Charlotte Islands, I understand.”
“Many of her most famous works are, yes. At some point she realized that painting exactly what could be seen wasn’t enough. So she really let go, dropped all the conventions, and painted not just what she saw, but what she felt. She was ridiculed for it. Ironically those are now her most famous works.”
Gamache nodded, remembering the totem poles in front of the swirling, vibrant forest. “Remarkable woman.”
“I think it all started with the brutal telling,” said Clara.
“The what?”