Except Gabri, who every day wrote the Chief Inspector to ask that question. Why would Olivier move the body?
“How’s the Chief Inspector?” Myrna asked, leaning her considerable body forward. She was large and black. A retired psychologist, now the owner of the bookstore.
“He’s al right. We speak every day.”
He wouldn’t tel them the ful truth, of course. That Chief Inspector Gamache was far from “al right.” As was he.
“We’ve been in touch a few times,” said Clara.
In her late forties Clara Morrow was on the cusp, everyone knew, of making it huge in the art world. She had a solo show coming up in a few months at the Musée d’art Contemporain, or MAC, in Montreal. Her unruly dark hair was growing lighter with gray and she always looked as though she’d just emerged from a wind tunnel.
Her husband, Peter, was another matter. Where she was short and getting a little dumpy, he was tal and slender. Every gray hair in place, his clothing simple and immaculate.
“We spoke to him a few times,” said Peter. “And I know you’re in touch.” He turned to Gabri.
“If you can cal stalking him, ‘in touch.’ ” Gabri laughed and gestured to the half-finished letter on the table then looked at Beauvoir. “Did Gamache send you? Are you reopening Olivier’s case?”
Beauvoir shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ve just come for a vacation. To relax.”
He’d looked them square in the face, and lied.
“Do you mind, Jean-Guy?” Chief Inspector Gamache had asked that morning. “I’d do it myself, but I don’t think that would be much use. If a mistake was made it was mine. You might be able to see where it is.”
“We al investigated the case, not just you, sir. We al agreed with the findings. There was no doubt.
What makes you think now there was a mistake?”
Beauvoir had asked. He’d been in the basement with the dreaded phone. And if he hated the phone, Beauvoir thought, how must the Chief feel about them?
He didn’t think they’d made a mistake. In fact, he knew the case against Olivier to be complete, thorough and without fault.
“Why did he move the body?” Gamache had said.
It was, Beauvoir had to admit, a good question. The
only slight chink in a perfect case. “So, what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to go to Three Pines and ask some more questions.”
“Like what? We asked al the questions, got al the answers. Olivier murdered the Hermit. Point final.
End of discussion. The jury agreed. Besides, the murder happened five months ago, how’m I supposed to find new evidence now?”
“I don’t think you do,” the Chief had said. “I think if a mistake was made it was in interpretation.”
Beauvoir had paused. He knew he’d go to Three Pines, would do as the Chief asked. He always would. If the Chief asked him to conduct the interviews naked, he would. But of course he would never ask that, which was why he trusted the Chief. With his life.
For a moment, unbidden, he felt again the shove, the pressure, and then the horror as his legs had col apsed and he knew what had happened. He’d crumpled to the filthy floor of the abandoned factory.
And he’d heard, from far off, the familiar voice, shouting.
“Jean-Guy!” So rarely raised, but raised then.
The Chief was speaking to him again, but now his voice was calm, thoughtful, trying to work out the best strategy. “You’l be there as a private citizen, not a homicide investigator. Not trying to prove him guilty.
Maybe the thing to do is look at it from the other direction.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go to Three Pines and try to prove Olivier didn’t murder the Hermit Jakob.”
So there Jean-Guy Beauvoir sat, trying to pretend he liked these people.
But he didn’t.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir didn’t like many people and these ones in Three Pines had given him little reason to change. They were cunning, deceitful, arrogant, and nearly incomprehensible, especial y the Anglos. They were dangerous, because they hid their thoughts, hid their feelings, behind a smiling face. Who could tel what was real y going on in their heads? They said one thing and thought another. Who knew what rancid thing lived, curled up, in that space between words and thoughts?
Yes. These people might look kind and concerned.
But they were dangerous.
The sooner this was over, thought Beauvoir smiling at them over the rim of his beer, the better.
FIVE
Once at the bottom of the ladder Gamache looked round. Industrial lamps had been brought down and he could see light flooding from one of the chambers.
Like anyone else he was drawn to it, but resisted and instead looked into the gloom, al owing his eyes to adjust.
After a moment he saw what men and women stretching back hundreds of years had seen. A low, vaulted, stone basement, a sous-sol in French. No sun had ever reached here, only darkness, interrupted over the centuries by candlelight, by whale oil lamps, by gaslight and now, final y, by blinding, bril iant electric lights. Brighter than the sun, brought down so they could see the darkest of deeds.
The taking of a life.
And not just any life, but Augustin Renaud.
Porter Wilson, for al his paranoia was right, thought Gamache. The people who wanted Québec to separate from Canada wil have a field day. Anything that cast suspicion on the English population was fodder for the separatist cause. Or at least, the more radical factions. The vast majority of separatists, Gamache knew, were thoughtful, reasonable, decent people. But a few were quite crazy.
Gamache and his young guide were in an antechamber. The ceilings were low, though perhaps not for the people who’d built it. Poor diet and grinding conditions had made them many inches shorter. But stil , Gamache suspected, most would have ducked, as he did now. The floors were dirt, and it was cool but not cold down there. They were wel below the frost line, beneath the sun but also beneath the frozen earth. Into a sort of dim purgatory, a place never hot, nor cold.
The Chief Inspector touched the rough stone wal , wondering how many men and women, long dead, had touched it too as they’d come down to get root vegetables from the cel ars. To keep starving prisoners alive long enough to kil them.
Off the antechamber there was a room. The room with the light.
“After you,” he gestured to the officer, and fol owed him.
Inside his eyes had to adjust again though this
didn’t take so long. Large industrial lamps were positioned to bounce off the vaulted stone ceiling and wal s but most were beamed into one corner of the room. And in that corner a handful of men and women worked. Some taking photographs, some col ecting samples, some huddled over something Gamache couldn’t quite see but could imagine.
A body.
Inspector Langlois stood and brushing dirt from his knees he approached. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”
They shook hands.
“I needed to think about it. Madame MacWhirter also asked me to come, to act as a sort of honest-broker between them and you.”
Langlois smiled. “She thinks they need one?”