He might never be able to prove it, but Gamache knew without doubt the Hermit had been on the Queen Charlotte Islands, almost certainly when he’d first arrived in Canada. And there he’d learned to carve, and learned to build log cabins. And there he’d found his first taste of peace, before having it disrupted by the protests. Like a first love, the place where peace is first found is never, ever forgotten.
He’d come into these woods to re-create that. He’d built a cabin exactly like the ones he’d seen on the Charlottes. He’d whittled red cedar, to be comforted by the familiar smell and feel. And he’d carved people for company. Happy people.
Except for one.
These creations became his family. His friends. He kept them, protected them. Named them. Slept with them under his head. And they in turn kept him company on the long, cold, dark nights as he listened for the snap of a branch, and the approach of something worse than slaughter.
Then Gamache heard a twig crack and tensed.
“May I join you?”
Standing on the porch was Vincent Gilbert.
“S’il vous plaît.”
Gilbert walked in and the two men shook hands.
“I was at Marc’s place and saw your car. Hope you don’t mind. I followed you.”
“Not at all.”
“You looked deep in thought just now.”
“A great deal to think about,” said Gamache, with a small smile, tucking his notebook back into his breast pocket.
“What you did was very difficult. I’m sorry it was necessary.”
Gamache said nothing and the two men stood quietly in the cabin.
“I’ll leave you alone,” said Gilbert eventually, making for the door.
Gamache hesitated then followed. “No need. I’m finished here.” He closed the door without a backward glance and joined Vincent Gilbert on the porch.
“I signed this for you.” Gilbert handed him a hardcover book. “They’ve reissued it after all the publicity surrounding the murder and the trial. Seems it’s a bestseller.”
“Merci.” Gamache turned over the gleaming copy of Being and looked at the author photo. No more sneer. No more scowl. Instead a handsome, distinguished man looked back. Patient, understanding. “Félicitations,” said Gamache.
Gilbert smiled, then unfolded a couple of aluminum garden chairs. “I brought these with me just now. The first of a few things. Marc says I can live in the cabin. Make it my home.”
Gamache sat. “I can see you here.”
“Away from polite society,” smiled Gilbert. “We saints do enjoy our solitude.”
“And yet, you brought two chairs.”
“Oh, you know that quote too?” said Gilbert. “I had three chairs in my house: one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”
“My favorite quote from Thoreau is also from Walden,” said Gamache. “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone.”
“In your job you can’t let many things alone, can you?”
“No, but I can let them go, once they’re done.”
“Then why are you here?”
Gamache sat quietly for a moment then spoke. “Because some things are harder to let go than others.”
Vincent Gilbert nodded but said nothing. While the Chief Inspector stared into space the doctor pulled out a small Thermos from a knapsack and poured them each a cup of coffee.
“How are Marc and Dominique?” Gamache asked, sipping the strong black coffee.
“Very well. The first guests have arrived. They seem to be enjoying it. And Dominique’s in her element.”
“How’s Marc the horse?” He was almost afraid to ask. And the slow shaking of Vincent’s head confirmed his fears. “Some horse,” murmured Gamache.
“Marc had no choice but to get rid of him.”
Gamache saw again the wild, half-blind, half-mad, wounded creature. And he knew the choice had been made years ago.
“Dominique and Marc are settling in, and have you to thank for that,” Gilbert continued. “If you hadn’t solved the case they’d have been ruined. I take it from the trial that was Olivier’s intention in moving the body. He wanted to close the inn and spa.”
Gamache didn’t say anything.
“But it was more than that, of course,” said Gilbert, not letting it go. “He was greedy, I suppose.”
And still Gamache said nothing, not wanting to further condemn a man he still considered a friend. Let the lawyers and judges and jury say those things.
“The Hungry Ghost,” said Gilbert.
That roused Gamache, who twisted in his garden chair to look at the dignified man next to him.
“Pardon?”
“It’s a Buddhist belief. One of the states of man from the Wheel of Life. The more you eat the hungrier you get. It’s considered the very worst of the lives. Trying to fill a hole that only gets deeper. Fill it with food or money or power. With the admiration of others. Whatever.”
“The Hungry Ghost,” said Gamache. “How horrible.”
“You have no idea,” said Gilbert.
“You do?”
After a moment Gilbert nodded. He no longer looked quite so magnificent. But considerably more human. “I had to give it all up to get what I really wanted.”
“And what was that?”
Gilbert considered for a long time. “Company.”
“You came to a cabin in the woods to find company?” smiled Gamache.
“To learn to be good company for myself.”
They sat quietly until Gilbert finally spoke. “So Olivier killed the Hermit for the treasure?”
Gamache nodded. “He was afraid it’d be found. He knew it was only a matter of time, once your son moved here and Parra started opening the trails.”
“Speaking of the Parras, did you consider them?”
Gamache looked at the steaming mug of coffee warming his large hands. He’d never tell this man the full story. It wouldn’t do to admit that Havoc Parra in particular had been their main suspect. Havoc worked late. He could have followed Olivier to the cabin after closing the bistro. And while Havoc’s whittling tools had tested negative maybe he used others. And wasn’t the Hermit Czech?
Or if not Havoc then his father Roar, who cut the trails and was almost certainly heading straight for the cabin. Maybe he found it.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
A wide trail of “maybe’s” led directly to the Parras.
But Gamache also chose not to tell Gilbert that he had also been a suspect, as had his son and daughter-in-law. The cabin was on their land. Why had they bought the ruined old house when they could have had any place? Why had they ordered the trails reopened so quickly? It was almost the first thing they did.
And why had the saintly Dr. Gilbert and the body both appeared at the same time?
Why, why, why.
A wide trail of “why’s” led directly to the front door of the old Hadley house.
They all made good suspects. But all the actual evidence pointed to Olivier. The fingerprints, the murder weapon, the canvas sack, the carvings. They’d found no whittling tools in Olivier’s possession, but that meant nothing. He would have gotten rid of them years ago. But they had found nylon line in the B and B. The same weight and strength used for the web. Olivier’s defense argued it was the standard ply and proved nothing. Gabri testified that he’d used it for gardening, to tie up honeysuckle.
It proved nothing.
“But why put that word up in the web, and carve it in wood?” asked Vincent.
“To frighten the Hermit into giving him the treasure in the sack.”
It had been a shockingly simple solution. The trail was getting closer every day. Olivier knew time was running out. He had to convince the Hermit to hand it over, before the cabin was found. Because once that happened the Hermit would realize the truth: Olivier had been lying. There was no Mountain. No army of Dread and Despair. No Chaos. Just a greedy little antique dealer, who could never get enough.