“Hello, Carole.”
The tall, slender man stood in the center of the room, contained. Looking as though he’d been expecting her. Her heart pounded and her hands and feet had gone cold, numb. She was a little afraid she’d fall down. Not faint, but lose all ability to stand up for herself.
“Vincent.” Her voice was firm.
His body had changed. That body she knew better than most. It had shrunk, shriveled. His hair, once thick and shiny, had thinned and grown almost white. His eyes were still brown, but where they’d been sharp and sure now they were questioning.
He held out one hand. It all seemed to happen excruciatingly slowly. The hand had spots on it she didn’t recognize. How often had she held that hand in the first years, then later longed for it to hold her? How often had she stared at it as it held Le Devoir up to his face? Her only contact with the man she’d given her heart to, those long, sensitive fingers holding the daily news that was clearly more important than her news. Those fingers were evidence of another human in the room, but barely. Barely there and barely human.
And then one day he’d lowered the paper, stared at her with laser eyes and said he wasn’t happy.
She’d laughed.
It was, she remembered, a genuinely mirthful laugh. Not that she thought it was a joke. It was because he was serious. This brilliant man actually seemed to think if he wasn’t happy it was a catastrophe.
It was, in many ways, perfect. Like so many men his age he was having an affair. She’d known it for years. But this affair he was having was with himself. He adored himself. In fact, that was just about the only thing they had in common. They both loved Vincent Gilbert.
But suddenly that wasn’t enough. He needed more. And like the great man he knew he was, the answer could never be found close to home. It would have to be hiding in some mountain cave in India.
Because he was so extraordinary, his salvation would have to be too.
They’d spent the rest of the breakfast plotting his death. It appealed to Vincent’s sense of drama, and her sense of relief. It was, ironically, the best talk they’d had in years.
Of course, they’d made one very big mistake. They should have told Marc. But who’d have thought he’d care?
Too late she’d realized—was it less than a day ago?—that Marc had been deeply damaged by his father’s death. Not the actual death, mind. That he’d accepted easily. No, it was his father’s resurrection that had created the scars, as though Vincent, in rising, had clawed his way past Marc’s heart.
And now the man stood, shriveled, dotted and maybe even dotty, with one unwavering hand out. Inviting her in.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He lowered his hand and nodded. She waited for him to point out her faults and flaws, all the mistakes she’d made, the immeasurable hurt she’d caused him.
“I’m sorry,” said Vincent. She nodded.
“I know you are. So am I.” She sat on the side of the bed and patted it. He sat next to her. This close she could see worry lines crawling over his face. It struck her as interesting that worry lines only appeared on the head.
“You look well. Are you?” he asked.
“I wish none of this had happened.”
“Including my coming back?” He smiled and took her hand.
But instead of setting her heart racing, it turned her heart to stone. And she realized she didn’t trust this man, who’d blown in from the past and was suddenly eating their food and sleeping in their bed.
He was like Pinocchio. A man made of wood, mimicking humanity. Shiny and smiling and fake. And if you cut into him you’d see rings. Circles of deceit and scheming and justification. It’s what he was made of. That hadn’t changed.
Lies within lies within lies lay within this man. And now he was here, inside their home. And suddenly their lives were unravelling.
TWENTY-THREE
“Bon Dieu.”
It was all Superintendent Brunel could say, and she said it over and over as she walked round the log cabin. Every now and then she stopped and picked up an object. Her eyes widened as she stared at it, then replaced it. Carefully. And went on to the next.
“Mais, ce n’est pas possible. This’s from the Amber Room, I’m sure of it.” She approached the glowing orange panel leaning against the kitchen window. “Bon Dieu, it is,” she whispered and all but crossed herself.
The Chief Inspector watched for a while. He knew she hadn’t really been prepared for what she’d find. He’d tried to warn her, though he knew the photographs didn’t do the place justice. He’d told her about the fine china.
The leaded crystal.
The signed first editions.
The tapestries.
The icons.
“Is that a violin?” She pointed to the instrument by the easy chair, its wood deep and warm.
“It’s moved,” said Beauvoir, then stared at the young agent. “Did you touch it last night?”
Morin blushed and looked frightened. “A little. I just picked it up. And . . .”
Superintendent Brunel held it now up to the light at the window, tipping it this way and that. “Chief Inspector, can you read this?” She handed him the violin and pointed to a label. As Gamache tried to read she picked up the bow and examined it.
“A Tourte bow,” she almost snorted and looked at their blank faces. “Worth a couple of hundred thousand.” She batted it in their direction then turned to Gamache. “Does it say Stradivari?”
“I don’t think so. It seems to say Anno 1738,” he strained, “Carlos something. Fece in Cremona.” He took off his glasses and looked at Thérèse Brunel. “Mean anything to you?”
She was smiling and still holding the bow. “Carlos Bergonzi. He was a luthier. Stradivari’s best pupil.”
“So it’s not the finest violin?” asked Beauvoir, who’d at least heard of Stradivarius violins, but never this other guy.
“Perhaps not quite as fine as his master, but a Bergonzi is still worth a million.”
“A Bergonzi?” said Morin.
“Yes. Do you know about them?”
“Not really, but we found some original sheet music for violin with a note attached. It mentions a Bergonzi.” Morin went over to the bookcase and rummaged for a moment, emerging with a sheaf of music and a card. He handed it to the Superintendent who glanced at it and passed it on to Gamache.
“Any idea what language it’s in?” she asked. “Not Russian, not Greek.”
Gamache read. It seemed addressed to a B, it mentioned a Bergonzi and was signed C. The rest was unintelligible, though it seemed to include terms of endearment. It was dated December 8, 1950.
“Could B be the victim?” Brunel asked.
Gamache shook his head. “The dates don’t match. He wouldn’t have been born yet. And I presume B couldn’t be Bergonzi?”
“No, too late. He was long dead. So who were B and C and why did our man collect the music and the card?” Brunel asked herself. She glanced at the sheet music and smiled. Handing the sheaf to Gamache she pointed to the top line. The music was composed by a BM.
“So,” said Gamache, lowering the pages. “This original score was composed by a BM. The note attached was addressed to a B and mentions a Bergonzi violin. Seems logical to assume B played the violin and composed and someone, C, gave him this gift.” He nodded to the violin. “So who was BM and why did our victim have his music and his violin?”
“Is it any good?” Brunel asked Morin. Gamache handed him the score. The young agent, mouth slightly open, thick lips glistening, was looking particularly stupid. He stared at the music and hummed. Then looked up.