Then he had an idea. He went back to the bed and tried the other pillow, which had been below the first. There was something hard in there too. Pulling it out he held another sculpture, also of wood, equally detailed. This one showed men and women gathered at a body of water, looking out at it. Some seemed perplexed, but most appeared content to just be there. He found letters scratched on the bottom of that one too.
MRKBVYDDO
Righting it again he placed it on the table beside the other one. There was a sense of joy, of hope, about these works. He stared at them with more fascination than he ever got from TV.
But the more he looked the more uneasy he became until it felt as though something was watching him. He looked into the kitchen then quickly scanned the room. Turning back to the carvings he was surprised to find the sense of foreboding was coming from them.
He felt a creeping up and down his back and turned quickly into the dark room, instantly regretting not putting on more lamps. A glittering caught his attention. Up high. In the farthest corner of the cabin. Was it eyes?
Picking up his piece of wood he crept closer, crouching down. As he approached the corner the glitter began to form a pattern. It was a spider’s web, just catching the soft glow of the lamp. But there was something different about it. As his eyes adjusted the hair on the back of his neck rose.
A word had been woven into the web.
Woe.
TWENTY-ONE
Everyone was already around the table next morning when Morin arrived, more than a little disheveled. They glanced at him, and Agent Lacoste indicated the seat next to her, where, miraculously for the hungry young agent, there waited a bowl of strong café au lait along with a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and thick-cut toast with jams.
Morin wolfed down the food and listened to the reports, and then it was his turn.
He placed the two carvings on the table and moved them slowly to the center. So lively were the sculptures it looked as though the ship had taken sail and was moving on its own. And it looked as though the people on the shore were eagerly awaiting the arrival of the ship.
“What are those?” asked Gamache, rising from his chair and moving round the table for a closer look.
“I found them last night. They were hidden in the pillows on the bed.”
The three officers looked stunned.
“You’re kidding,” said Lacoste. “In the pillows?”
“Sewn into the pillows on the bed. Well hidden, though I’m not sure whether he was hiding them or protecting them.”
“Why didn’t you call?” demanded Beauvoir, tearing his eyes from the carvings to look at Morin.
“Should I have?” He looked stricken, his eyes bouncing among the officers. “I just thought there was nothing we could do until now anyway.”
He’d longed to call; only a mighty effort had stopped him from dialing the B and B and waking them all up. But he didn’t want to give in to his fear. But he could see by their faces he’d made a mistake.
All his life he’d been afraid, and all his life it had marred his judgment. He’d hoped that had stopped, but apparently not.
“Next time,” the Chief said, looking at him sternly, “call. We’re a team, we need to know everything.”
“Oui, patron.”
“Have these been dusted?” Beauvoir asked.
Morin nodded and held up an envelope. “The prints.”
Beauvoir grabbed it out of his hand and took it to his computer to scan in. But even from there his eyes kept going back to the two carvings.
Gamache was leaning over the table, peering at them through his half-moon glasses
“They’re remarkable.”
The joy of the little wooden travelers was palpable. Gamache knelt down so that he was at eye level with the carvings, and they were sailing toward him. It seemed the carvings were two halves of a whole. A ship full of people sailing toward a shore. And more happy people waiting.
So why did he feel uneasy? Why did he want to warn the ship to go back?
“There’s something written on the bottom of each,” Morin offered. He picked one up and showed it to the Chief who looked then handed it to Lacoste. Beauvoir picked up the other and saw a series of letters. It was nonsense, but of course it wasn’t really. It meant something. They just had to figure it out.
“Is it Russian?” Morin asked.
“No. The Russian alphabet is Cyrillic. This is the Roman alphabet,” said Gamache.
“What does it mean?”
The three more seasoned officers looked at each other.
“I have no idea,” admitted the Chief Inspector. “Most artisans mark their works, sign them in some way. Perhaps this is how the carver signed his works.”
“Then wouldn’t the lettering under each carving be the same?” asked Morin.
“That’s true. I’m at a loss. Perhaps Superintendent Brunel can tell us. She’ll be here this morning.”
“I found something else last night,” said Morin. “I took a picture of it. It’s still in my camera. You can’t see it too well, but . . .”
He turned on his digital camera and handed it to Beauvoir, who looked briefly at the image.
“Too small. I can’t make it out. I’ll throw it up onto the computer.”
They continued to discuss the case while Beauvoir sat at his computer, downloading the image.
“Tabarnac,” they heard him whisper.
“What is it?” Gamache walked to the desk. Lacoste joined him and they huddled round the flat screen.
There was the web, and the word.
Woe.
“What does it mean?” Beauvoir asked, almost to himself.
Gamache shook his head. How could a spider have woven a word? And why that one? The same word they’d found carved in wood and tossed under the bed.
“Some pig.”
They looked at Lacoste.
“Pardon?” Gamache asked.
“When I was in the outhouse yesterday I found a signed first edition.”
“About a girl named Jane?” Morin asked, then wished he hadn’t. They all looked at him as though he’d said “some pig.” “I found a book in the cabin,” he explained. “By a guy named Currer Bell.”
Lacoste looked blank, Gamache looked perplexed, and Morin didn’t even want to think what look Beauvoir was giving him.
“Never mind. Go on.”
“It was Charlotte’s Web, by E. B. White,” said Agent Lacoste. “One of my favorites as a child.”
“My daughter’s too,” said Gamache. He remembered reading the book over and over to the little girl who pretended she wasn’t afraid of the dark. Afraid of the closed closet, afraid of the creaks and groans of the house. He’d read to her every night until finally she’d fall asleep.
The book that gave her the most comfort, and that he’d practically memorized, was Charlotte’s Web.
“Some pig,” he repeated, and gave a low, rumbling laugh. “The book’s about a lonely piglet destined for the slaughterhouse. A spider named Charlotte befriends him and tries to save his life.”
“By weaving things about him into her web,” explained Lacoste. “Things like ‘Some pig’ so the farmer would think Wilbur was special. The book in the outhouse is signed by the author.”
Gamache shook his head. Incredible.
“Did it work?” asked Morin. “Was the pig saved?”
Beauvoir looked at him with disdain. And yet, he had to admit, he wanted to know as well.
“He was,” said Gamache. Then his brows drew together. Obviously in real life spiders don’t weave messages into their webs. So who had put it there? And why? And why “woe?”
He was itching to get back up there.
“There’s something else.”