Our, thought Beauvoir. Our young man. He looked at him across the room. Alone. Coiling wires carefully and placing them in a box.
“I value your judgment, you know that, Jean Guy. But I feel strongly about this.”
“I understand, sir.” And he did. “I know this is important to you. But you’re not always right.”
Gamache stared at his Inspector and Beauvoir recoiled, afraid he’d gone too far. Presumed too much on their personal relationship. But then the Chief smiled.
“Happily, I have you to tell me when I make a mistake.”
“I think you’re making one now.”
“Noted. Thank you. Will you please invite the young man to join us.”
Beauvoir walked purposefully across the room and stopped at the young agent.
“Come with me,” he said.
The agent straightened up. He looked concerned. “Yes, sir.”
Behind them an officer snickered. Beauvoir stopped and turned back to the young officer following him.
“What’s your name?”
“Paul Morin. I’m with the Cowansville detachment of the Sûreté, sir.”
“Agent Morin, will you please take a seat at the table. We’d like your thoughts on this murder investigation.”
Morin looked astonished. But not quite as astonished as the burly men behind him. Beauvoir turned back and walked slowly toward the conference table. It felt good.
“Reports, please,” said Gamache and glanced at his watch. It was five thirty.
“Results are beginning to come in on some of the evidence we collected this morning in the bistro,” said Beauvoir. “The victim’s blood was found on the floor and between some of the floorboards, though there wasn’t much.”
“Dr. Harris will have a fuller report soon,” said Gamache. “She thinks the lack of blood is explained by internal bleeding.”
Beauvoir nodded. “We do have a report on his clothing. Still nothing to identify him. His clothes were old but clean and of good quality once. Merino wool sweater, cotton shirt, corduroy pants.”
“I wonder if he’d put on his best clothes,” said Agent Lacoste.
“Go on,” said Gamache, leaning forward and taking off his glasses.
“Well.” She picked her way through her thoughts. “Suppose he was going to meet someone important. He’d have a shower, shave, clip his nails even.”
“And he might pick up clean clothes,” said Beauvoir, following her thoughts. “Maybe at a used clothing store, or a Goodwill depot.”
“There’s one in Cowansville,” said Agent Morin. “And another in Granby. I can check them.”
“Good,” said the Chief Inspector.
Agent Morin looked over at Inspector Beauvoir, who nodded his approval.
“Dr. Harris doesn’t think this man was a vagrant, not in the classic sense of the word,” said Chief Inspector Gamache. “He appeared in his seventies, but she’s convinced he was closer to fifty.”
“You’re kidding,” said Agent Lacoste. “What happened to him?”
That was the question, of course, thought Gamache. What happened to him? In life, to age him two decades. And in death.
Beauvoir stood up and walked to the fresh, clean sheets of paper pinned to the wall. He picked out a new felt pen, took off the cap and instinctively wafted it under his nose. “Let’s go through the events of last night.”
Isabelle Lacoste consulted her notes and told them about her interviews with the bistro staff.
They were beginning to see what had happened the night before. As he listened Armand Gamache could see the cheerful bistro, filled with villagers having a meal or drinks on Labor Day weekend. Talking about the Brume County Fair, the horse trials, the judging of livestock, the crafts tent. Celebrating the end of summer and saying good-bye to family and friends. He could see the stragglers leaving and the young waiters clearing up, banking the fires, washing the dishes. Then the door opening and Old Mundin stepping in. Gamache had no idea what Old Mundin looked like, so he placed in his mind a character from a painting by Bruegel the Elder. A stooped and cheery peasant. Walking through the bistro door, a young waiter perhaps helping to bring in the repaired chairs. Mundin and Olivier would have conferred. Money would have changed hands and Mundin would have left with new items needing fixing.
Then what?
According to Lacoste’s interviews the waiters had left shortly before Olivier and Mundin. Leaving just one person in the bistro.
“What did you think of Havoc Parra?” Gamache asked.
“He seemed surprised by what had happened,” said Lacoste. “It might’ve been an act, of course. Hard to tell. His father told me something interesting, though. He confirmed what we heard earlier. He saw someone in the woods.”
“When?”
“Earlier in the summer. He’s working at the old Hadley house for the new owners and thinks he saw someone up there.”
“Thinks? Or did?” asked Beauvoir.
“Thinks. He chased him, but the guy disappeared.”
They were silent for a moment, then Gamache spoke. “Havoc Parra says he locked up and left by one in the morning. Six hours later the man’s body was found by Myrna Landers, who was out for a walk. Why would a stranger be murdered in Three Pines, and in the bistro?”
“If Havoc really did lock up, then the murderer had to be someone who knew where to find a key,” said Lacoste.
“Or already had one,” said Beauvoir. “Do you know what I wonder? I wonder why the murderer left him there.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lacoste.
“Well, no one was there. It was dark. Why not pick up the body and take it into the forest? You wouldn’t have to take him far, just a few hundred feet. The animals would do the rest and chances are he’d never be found. We’d never know a murder had been committed.”
“Why do you think the body was left?” asked Gamache.
Beauvoir thought for a minute. “I think someone wanted him to be found.”
“In the bistro?” asked Gamache.
“In the bistro.”
SEVEN
Olivier and Gabri strolled across the village green. It was seven in the evening and lights were beginning to glow in windows, except at the bistro, which was dark and empty.
“Christ,” came a growl through the dusk. “The fairies are out.”
“Merde,” said Gabri. “The village idiot’s escaped from her attic.”
Ruth Zardo limped toward them followed by Rosa.
“I hear you finally killed someone with your rapier wit,” said Ruth to Gabri, falling into step.
“Actually, I hear he read one of your poems and his head exploded,” said Gabri.
“Would that that were true,” said Ruth, slipping her bony arms into each of theirs, so that they walked across to Peter and Clara’s arm in arm. “How are you?” she asked quietly.
“Okay,” said Olivier, not glancing at the darkened bistro as they passed.
The bistro had been his baby, his creation. All that was good about him, he put in there. All his best antiques, his finest recipes, great wines. Some evenings he’d stand behind the bar, pretending to polish glasses, but really just listening to the laughter and looking at the people, who’d come to his bistro. And were happy to be there. They belonged, and so did he.