“The man did his shopping.”
“How? He sure didn’t walk into Monsieur Béliveau’s general store, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t walk to Saint-Rémy. Someone brought this food to him.”
“And killed him? Had a cup of tea then bashed his head in?”
“Maybe, maybe,” murmured the Chief Inspector as he looked around. The oil lamps threw light very unlike anything an electric bulb produced. This light was gentle. The edges of the world seemed softer.
A woodstove separated the rustic kitchen and the living area. A small table, covered in cloth, seemed to be his dining table. A riverstone fireplace was on the opposite wall with a wing chair on either side. At the far end of the cabin was a large brass bed and a chest of drawers.
The bed was made, the pillows fluffed and ready. Fabric hung on the walls, presumably to keep out the cold drafts, as you’d find in medieval castles. There were rugs scattered about the floor, a floor marred only, but deeply, by a dark stain of blood.
A bookcase lining an entire wall was filled with old volumes. Approaching it Gamache noticed something protruding from between the logs. He picked at it and looked at what he held.
A dollar bill.
It’d been years, decades, since Canada used dollar bills. Examining the wall more closely he noticed other paper protruding. More dollar bills. Some two-dollar bills. In a couple of cases there were twenties.
Was this the man’s banking system? Like an old miser, instead of stuffing his mattress had he stuffed his walls? After a tour of the walls Gamache concluded the money was there to keep the cold out. The cabin was made of wood and Canadian currency. It was insulation.
Next he walked over to the riverstone fireplace, pausing at one of the wing chairs. The one with the deepest impressions in the seat and back. He touched the worn fabric. Looking down at the table beside the chair he saw the whittling tools Beauvoir had mentioned, and leaning against the table was a fiddle and bow. A book, closed but with a bookmark, sat beside the tools. Had the man been reading when he was interrupted?
He picked it up and smiled.
“I had three chairs in my house,” Gamache read quietly. “One for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”
“Pardon?” said Lacoste, from where she was crouching, looking under the table.
“Thoreau. From Walden.” Gamache held up the book. “He lived in a cabin, you know. Not unlike this, perhaps.”
“But he had three chairs,” smiled Lacoste. “Our man had only two.”
Only two, thought Gamache. But that was enough, and that was significant. Two for friendship. Did he have a friend?
“I think he might have been Russian,” she said, straightening up.
“Why?”
“There’re a few icons on the shelf here, by the books.” Lacoste waved behind her, and sure enough, in front of the leather-bound volumes were Russian icons.
The Chief frowned and gazed around the small cabin. After a minute he grew very quiet, very still. Except for his eyes, which darted here and there.
Beauvoir approached. “What is it?”
The Chief didn’t answer. The room grew hushed. He moved his eyes around the cabin again, not really believing what he saw. So great was his surprise he closed his eyes then opened them again.
“What is it?” Beauvoir repeated.
“Be very careful with that,” he said to Agent Morin, who was holding a glass from the kitchen.
“I will,” he said, wondering why the Chief would suddenly say that.
“May I have it, please?”
Morin gave it to Gamache who took it to an oil lamp. There, in the soft light, he saw what he expected to see, but never expected to hold in his own hands. Leaded glass, expertly cut. Hand cut. He couldn’t make out the mark on the bottom of the glass, and even if he could it would be meaningless to him. He was no expert. But he was knowledgeable enough to know what he held was priceless.
It was an extremely old, even ancient, piece of glass. Made in a method not seen in hundreds of years. Gamache gently put the glass down and looked into the kitchen. On the open rustic shelves there stood at least ten glasses, all different sizes. All equally ancient. As his team watched, Armand Gamache moved along the shelves, picking up plates and cups and cutlery, then over to the walls to examine the hangings. He looked at the rugs, picking up the corners, and finally, like a man almost afraid of what he’d find, he approached the bookcases.
“What is it, patron?” asked Beauvoir, joining him.
“This isn’t just any cabin, Jean Guy. This is a museum. Each piece is an antiquity, priceless.”
“You’re kidding,” said Morin, putting down the horse figurine jug.
Who was this man? Gamache wondered. Who chose to live this far from other people? Three for society.
This man wanted no part of society. What was he afraid of? Only fear could propel a man so far from company. Was he a survivalist, as they’d theorized? Gamache thought not. The contents of the cabin argued against that. No guns, no weapons at all. No how-to magazines, no publications warning of dire plots.
Instead, this man had brought delicate leaded crystal with him into the woods.
Gamache scanned the books, not daring to touch them. “Have these been dusted?”
“They have,” said Morin. “And I looked inside for a name, but they’re no help. Different names written in most of them. Obviously secondhand.”
“Obviously,” whispered Gamache to himself. He looked at the one still in his hand. Opening it to the bookmark he read, I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and to see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
Gamache turned to the front page and inhaled softly.
It was a first edition.
NINETEEN
“Peter?” Clara knocked lightly on the door to his studio.
He opened it, trying not to look secretive but giving up. Clara knew him too well, and knew he was always secretive about his art.
“How’s it going?”
“Not bad,” he said, longing to close the door and get back to it. All day he’d been picking up his brush, approaching his painting then lowering the brush again. Surely the painting wasn’t finished? It was so embarrassing. What would Clara think? What would his gallery think? The critics? It was unlike anything else he’d ever done. Well, not ever. But certainly since childhood.
He could never let anyone see this.
It was ridiculous.
What it needed, clearly, was more definition, more detail. More depth. The sorts of things his clients and supporters had come to expect. And buy.
He’d picked up and lowered his brush a dozen times that day. This had never happened to him before. He’d watched, mystified, as Clara had been racked by self-doubt, had struggled and had finally produced some marginal piece of work. Her March of the Happy Ears, her series inspired by dragonfly wings, and, of course, her masterpiece, the Warrior Uteruses.
That’s what came of inspiration.
No, Peter was much more clear. More disciplined. He planned each piece, drew and drafted each work, knew months in advance what he’d be working on. He didn’t rely on airy-fairy inspiration.
Until now. This time he’d come into the studio with a fireplace log, cut cleanly so that the rings of age were visible. He’d taken his magnifying glass and approached it, with a view to enlarging a tiny part of it beyond recognition. It was, he liked to tell art critics at his many sold-out vernissages, an allegory for life. How we blow things out of all proportion, until a simple truth was no longer recognizable.