Clara leaned in.
“Look at their faces.” She looked up directly into Gamache’s. “So beautiful.”
He nodded. They were. Not just their features. It was their joy, their vitality, that made them beautiful.
“May I?” Peter reached out and Gamache nodded. He picked up one of the sculptures and turned it over.
“There’s writing, but I can’t make it out. A signature?”
“Of sorts, perhaps,” said Gamache. “We haven’t figured out what the letters mean.”
Peter studied the two works, the ship and the shore. “Did the dead man carve them?”
“We think so.”
Though, given what else was in the cabin, it wouldn’t have surprised Gamache to discover they were carved by Michelangelo. The difference was every other piece was in plain sight, but the dead man had kept these hidden. Somehow these were different.
As he watched he saw first Clara’s then Peter’s smile fade until they both looked almost unhappy. Certainly uncomfortable. Clara fidgeted in her chair. It had taken the Morrows less time than it took the Sûreté officers that morning to sense something wrong. Not surprising, thought Gamache. The Morrows were artists and presumably more in tune with their feelings.
The carvings emanated delight, joy. But beneath that was something else. A minor key, a dark note.
“What is it?” Gamache asked.
“There’s something wrong with them,” said Clara. “Something’s off.”
“Can you tell me what?”
Peter and Clara continued to stare at the pieces, then looked at each other. Finally they looked at Gamache.
“Sorry,” said Peter. “Sometimes with art it can be subliminal, unintended by the artist even. A proportion slightly off. A color that jars.”
“I can tell you though,” said Clara, “they’re great works of art.”
“How can you tell?” asked Gamache.
“Because they provoke a strong emotion. All great art does.”
Clara considered the carvings again. Was there too much joy? Was that the problem? Was too much beauty and delight and hope disquieting?
She thought not, hoped not. No, it was something else about these works.
“That reminds me,” said Peter. “Don’t you have a meeting with Denis Fortin in a few minutes?”
“Oh, damn, damn, damn,” said Clara, springing up from the table.
“I won’t keep you,” said Gamache, rewrapping the sculptures.
“I have a thought,” she said, joining Gamache at the door. “Monsieur Fortin might know more about sculpture than us. Hard to know less, really. Can I show one to him?”
“It’s a good idea,” said Gamache. “A very good idea. Where’re you meeting him?”
“In the bistro in five minutes.”
Gamache took one of the towels out of his satchel and handed it to Clara.
“This is great,” she said as they walked down the path to the road. “I’ll just tell him I made it.”
“Would you have liked to?”
Clara remembered the blossoming horror in her chest as she’d looked at the carvings.
“No,” she said.
TWENTY-TWO
Gamache arrived back at the Incident Room to find Superintendent Thérèse Brunel sitting at the conference table, surrounded by photographs. As he entered she rose, smiling.
“Chief Inspector.” She advanced, her hand out. “Agent Lacoste has made me so comfortable I feel I could move right in.”
Thérèse Brunel was of retirement age, though no one in the Sûreté would ever point that out. Not out of fear of the charming woman, or delicacy. But because she, more than any of them, was irreplaceable.
She’d presented herself at the Sûreté recruitment office two decades earlier. The young officer on duty thought it was a joke. Here was a sophisticated woman in her mid-forties, dressed in Chanel and wanting an application form. He’d given it to her, thinking it was almost certainly a threat for a disappointing son or daughter, then watched with increasing bafflement as she’d sat, legs crossed at the ankles, delicate perfume just a hint in the air, and filled it out herself.
Thérèse Brunel had been the chief of acquisitions at the world famous Musée des Beaux Arts in Montreal, but had nursed a secret passion for puzzles. Puzzles of all sorts. And once her children had gone off to college she’d marched right over to the Sûreté and signed up. What greater puzzle could there be than unravelling a crime? Then, taking classes at the police college from Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, she’d discovered another puzzle and passion. The human mind.
She now out-ranked her mentor and was the head of the property crime division. She was in her mid-sixties and as vibrant as ever.
Gamache shook her hand warmly. “Superintendent Brunel.”
Thérèse Brunel and her husband Jérôme had often been to the Gamaches’ for dinner, and had them back to their own apartment on rue Laurier. But at work they were “Chief Inspector” and “Superintendent.”
He then walked over to Agent Lacoste, who’d also stood as he entered.
“Anything yet?”
She shook her head. “But I just called and they expect the lab results any moment.”
“Bon. Merci.” He nodded to Agent Lacoste and she sat once more at her computer. Then he turned his attention to Superintendent Brunel.
“We’re expecting fingerprint results. I really am most grateful to you for coming at such short notice.”
“C’est un plaisir. Besides, what could be more exciting?” She led him back to the conference table and leaning close she whispered, “Voyons, Armand, is this for real?”
She pointed to the photographs scattered across the table.
“It is,” he whispered back. “And we might need Jérôme’s help as well.”
Jérôme Brunel, now retired from medicine, had long shared his wife’s love of puzzles, but while hers veered toward the human mind, his settled firmly on ciphers. Codes. From his comfortable and disheveled study in their Montreal home he entertained desperate diplomats and security people. Sometimes cracking cryptic codes and sometimes creating them.
He was a jolly and cultured man.
Gamache took the carving from his bag, unwrapped it and placed it on the table. Once again the blissful passengers were sailing across the conference table.
“Very nice,” she said, putting on her glasses and leaning closer. “Very nice indeed,” she mumbled to herself as she studied the piece, not touching it. “Beautifully made. Whoever the artist is, he knows wood, feels it. And knows art.”
She stepped back now and stared. Gamache waited for it, and sure enough her smile faded and she even leaned a little away from the work.
This was the third time he’d seen it that morning. And he had felt it himself. The carvings seemed to burrow to the core, to the part most deeply hidden and the part most commonly shared. They found people’s humanity. Then, like a dentist, they began to drill. Until that joy turned to dread.
After a moment her face cleared, and the professional mask descended. The problem-solver replaced the person. She leaned in to the work, moving herself round the table, not touching the carving. Finally, when she’d seen it from all angles, she picked it up, and like everyone else looked underneath.
“OWSVI,” she read. “Upper case. Scratched into the wood, not painted.” She sounded like a coroner, dissecting and dictating. “It’s a heavy wood, a hardwood. Cherry?” She looked closer and even sniffed. “No, the grain isn’t right. Cedar? No, the color is off, unless . . .” She took it to the window and placed it in a stream of sunshine. Then lowering it she smiled at Gamache over her glasses. “Cedar. Redwood. From British Columbia almost certainly. It’s a good choice of wood, you know. Cedar lasts forever, especially the redwood. It’s a very hard wood too. And yet it’s surprisingly easy to sculpt. The Haida on the west coast used it for centuries to make totem poles.”