Gamache sat forward. Seeing the last night of the Hermit’s life. The crowd at the bistro. Old Mundin arriving with the furniture then leaving. Olivier leaving. Havoc locking up. Then noticing his employer do something unexpected. Something bizarre even.
Had Havoc seen Olivier turn toward the woods instead of going home?
Curious, Havoc would have followed Olivier. Straight to the cabin. And the treasures.
It played out before Gamache’s eyes. Olivier leaving and Havoc confronting the frightened man. Demanding some of the things. The Hermit refusing. Maybe he shoved Havoc away. Maybe Havoc struck out, picking up a weapon and smashing the Hermit. Frightened, he’d fled. Just before Olivier returned.
But that didn’t explain everything.
Gamache put down the violin and looked up at the web in the corner. No, this wasn’t a murder that had happened out of the blue. There was cunning here. And cruelty. The Hermit was tortured first, then killed. Tortured by a tiny word.
Woo.
After a few minutes Gamache got up and slowly wandered the room, picking up pieces here and there, touching things he never thought he’d see never mind hold. The panel from the Amber Room that threw pumpkin light into the kitchen. Ancient pottery used by the Hermit for herbs. Stunning enameled spoons and silk tapestries. And first editions. One was on the bedside table. Gamache picked it up idly, and looked at it.
Currer Bell was the author. Agent Morin had mentioned this book. He flipped it open. Another first edition. Then he noticed the title of the book.
Jane Eyre: An Autobiography. Currer Bell. That was the pseudonym used by—
He opened the book again. Charlotte Brontë. He was holding a first edition of Jane Eyre.
Armand Gamache stood very quietly in the cabin. But there wasn’t complete silence. One word whispered to him, and had from the first moment they’d found the cabin. Repeated over and over. In the children’s book found in the outhouse, in the Amber panel, in the violin, and now in the book he held in his hand. One word. A name.
Charlotte.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“We’re getting more results from the lab,” said Lacoste.
Upon his return the Chief had gathered his team at the conference table and now Agent Lacoste was handing around the printouts. “The web was made of nylon fishing line. Readily available. No prints, of course, and no trace of DNA. Whoever made it probably used surgical gloves. All they found was a little dust and a cobweb.” She smiled.
“Dust?” asked Gamache. “Do they have any idea how long it was up?”
“No more than a few days, they guess. Either that or the Hermit dusted it daily, which seems unlikely.”
Gamache nodded.
“So who put it there?” asked Beauvoir. “The victim? The murderer?”
“There’s something else,” said Lacoste. “The lab’s been looking at the wooden Woo. They say it was carved years ago.”
“Was it made by the Hermit?” Gamache asked.
“They’re working on it.”
“Any progress on what woo might mean?”
“There’s a film director named John Woo. He’s from China. Did Mission Impossible II,” said Morin seriously, as though giving them vital information.
“Woo can stand for World of Outlaws. It’s a car-racing organization.” Lacoste looked at the Chief, who stared back blankly. She looked down hurriedly at her notes for something more helpful to say. “Or there’s a video game called Woo.”
“Oh, no. I can’t believe I forgot that,” said Morin, turning to Gamache. “Woo isn’t the name of the game, it’s the name of a character in a game. The game is called King of the Monsters.”
“King of the Monsters?” Gamache thought it unlikely the Hermit or his tormentor had a video game in mind. “Anything else?”
“Well, there’s the woo cocktail,” suggested Lacoste. “Made from peach schnapps and vodka.”
“Then there’s woo-woo,” said Beauvoir. “It’s English slang.”
“Vraiment?” said Gamache. “What does it mean?”
“It means crazy.” Beauvoir smiled.
“And there’s wooing a person. Seducing them,” said Lacoste, then shook her head. They weren’t any closer.
Gamache dismissed the meeting, then walking back to his computer he typed in a word.
Charlotte.
Gabri chopped the tomatoes and peppers and onions. He chopped and he chopped and he chopped. He’d already chopped the golden plums and strawberries, the beets and pickles. He’d sharpened his knife and chopped some more.
All afternoon and into the evening.
“Can we talk now?” asked Olivier, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. It smelled so comforting, but felt so foreign.
Gabri, his back to the door, didn’t pause. He reached for a cauliflower and chopped that.
“Mustard pickles,” said Olivier, venturing into the kitchen. “My favorite.”
Clunk, clunk, clunk, and the cauliflower was tossed into the boiling pot to blanch.
“I’m sorry,” said Olivier.
At the sink Gabri scrubbed lemons, then cutting them into quarters he shoved them into a jar and sprinkled coarse salt on top. Finally he squeezed the leftover lemons and poured the juice over the salt.
“Can I help?” asked Olivier, reaching for the top of a jar. But Gabri put his body between Olivier and the jars and silently sealed them.
Every surface of the kitchen was packed with colorful jars filled with jams and jellies, pickles and chutneys. And it looked as though Gabri would keep this up forever. Silently preserving everything he could.
Clara chopped the ends off the fresh carrots and watched Peter toss the tiny new potatoes into boiling water. They’d have a simple dinner tonight of vegetables from the garden with herbs and sweet butter. It was one of their favorite meals in late summer.
“I don’t know who to feel worse for, Olivier or Gabri,” she said.
“I do,” said Peter, shelling some peas. “Gabri didn’t do anything. Can you believe Olivier’s been visiting that guy in the woods for years and didn’t tell anyone? I mean, what else isn’t he telling us?”
“Did you know he’s gay?”
“He’s probably straight and isn’t telling us.”
Clara smirked. “Now that would really piss Gabri off, though I know a couple of women who’d be happy.” She paused, knife in mid-air. “I think Olivier feels pretty horrible.”
“Come on. He’d still be doing it if the old man hadn’t been murdered.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong, you know,” said Clara. “The Hermit gave him everything.”
“So he says.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the Hermit’s dead. Isn’t that convenient?”
Clara stopped chopping. “What’re you saying?”
“Nothing. I’m just angry.”
“Why? Because he didn’t tell us?”
“Aren’t you pissed off?”
“A little. But I think I’m more amazed. Listen, we all know Olivier likes the finer things.”
“You mean he’s greedy and tight.”
“What amazes me is what Olivier did with the body. I just can’t imagine him lugging it through the woods and dumping it in the old Hadley house,” said Clara. “I didn’t think he had the strength.”
“I didn’t think he had the anger,” said Peter.
Clara nodded. Neither did she. And she also wondered what else their friend hadn’t told them. All this, though, had also meant that Clara couldn’t possibly ask Gabri about being called a “fucking queer.” Over dinner she explained this to Peter.