Chapter Seven
“Chief? It’s Beauvoir.”
Gamache stood at the bar of the bistro, holding the phone to his ear. Cell phones did not work in Three Pines. So Inspector Beauvoir had had to call the bistro to speak to his boss.
“Find anything?” Gamache asked.
“Not much,” said Beauvoir. “We searched Ellis’s room and took fingerprints. His car is in the lot. Ontario plates. The Ontario police are finding out who owns the car. Should know more soon. But I did find something interesting. That note you found in Ellis’s room?”
“Yes?”
“It was written by Ellis himself. Not the murderer. In fact, I’m not so sure there is a murderer.”
“How do you know Mr. Ellis wrote it?” asked Gamache, surprised.
“The writing matches his writing in the registration book at the Inn.”
Gamache took a long, deep breath and exhaled. This was unexpected. Was it possible that Arthur Ellis had killed himself after all?
The chief inspector closed his eyes and the cheerful bistro disappeared. Now he saw the gently swinging body in the cold, dead forest. And the clean hands. Could he have been wrong? Had Ellis climbed up the tree himself? Maybe he wiped his hands on his pants and got the dirt off.
Certainly, everything he was hearing about Mr. Ellis pointed to a lonely man who might have taken his own life.
But why come into the village and ask about young men?
No, there were questions still.
“Can you read the note to me again?”
“If you are reading this, my body has been found,” Beauvoir read over the phone. “I am sorry. I hope the discovery did not upset anyone. I tried to go as far away as possible so that no children would find me. My work is finally done. I am tired, but I am at peace. Finally. I know you cannot forgive me, but perhaps you can understand.”
There was silence as both men thought about what the note said.
“It’s a suicide note,” said the chief at last. There was no doubt. Beauvoir was right. Should he be happy, though? Relieved that this poor man at least hadn’t suffered the terror of being murdered?
No. There was nothing to be happy about here. Mr. Ellis had clearly suffered other things in his life. Sufered enough that he could no longer stand the pain.
I am tired, but I am at peace. Finally.
But there was something else he had written.
“Can you read it to me again, please?”
Gamache listened to the now-familiar words. “What did he mean by My work is finally done?”
“Maybe his kids were grown up, or he’d retired. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
“But the note wasn’t addressed to anyone, was it? Not to children or a wife. No one,” said Gamache.
“True. But that isn’t unusual.”
“And the note isn’t signed. That’s more unusual,” said Gamache.
“What are you getting at, chief?”
“I’m just wondering,” said Gamache. At that moment, a shadow fell across the bar where he stood talking on the bistro telephone. Looking up, he saw Myrna beside him. She had a book in her hand and a very serious look on her face.
“Can you call Dr. Harris and see if she has any autopsy results?” Gamache asked Inspector Beauvoir before hanging up and greeting Myrna. Once again he bowed slightly, and waved toward a nearby table.
“You look like you could use a drink,” he said as they sat. It was now past noon. The bistro was filling with lunch customers and the smell of fresh bread and garlic and hearty stews.
“You’ll need one, too, once you see this.”
Gamache ordered Myrna a beer and looked at the book she had placed on the wooden table between them. It had a hard cover. Gamache picked it up and scanned it, as Myrna sipped her beer. It was a murder mystery by a Canadian writer. Barbara Fradkin. It looked very good, and Gamache thought he might buy it, but he wondered why Myrna had come back to the bistro just for this.
He lowered the book and looked at her.
She took it back, turned it over, and placed one very large finger on a large sentence on the back cover.
“Winner of the Arthur Ellis Award for Best Mystery in Canada.”
Gamache’s eyes widened, and he looked at Myrna, who was smiling slightly.
“I knew the name was familiar,” she said. “You kept calling him Mr. Ellis, but the name didn’t click until I was leaving and heard Gabri say ‘Arthur Ellis.’” I went through my books, and there I found it. Arthur Ellis. It’s an award. For murder mysteries.”
“Is it a coincidence?” Gamache asked.
“You tell me.”
Gamache stared at the book. As the head of homicide for the Quebec Provincial Police, he’d come to realize that coincidences almost never happened in murder cases.
“Was Arthur Ellis a mystery writer, too? Is that why the award is named for him?”
“No. This is where things gets strange.”
“Stranger than they already are?” he asked.
“Lots,” said Myrna. “Arthur Ellis was the name of Canada’s official executioner. He hanged people.”