Now he turned back to Vincent Gilbert.
“But one person, sir, didn’t need the treasure. You.
You’re already wealthy. Besides, I don’t think money’s important to you. You have another motivation, another master. Money was never the currency that counted. No. It’s compliments you col ect. Respect, admiration. You col ect the certainty that you’re better than anyone else. A saint, even. It’s your ego, your self-esteem that needs feeding, demands feeding, not your bank account. You alone among al the suspects would have left the treasure, because it meant nothing to you.”
If Dr. Gilbert could have ripped Beauvoir’s life away with a look, the young Inspector would have dropped dead right there. But instead of dying, Inspector Beauvoir smiled and continued his story, his voice suddenly calm, reasonable.
“But there was another mystery. Who was the Hermit? Olivier started off saying he was Czech and his name was Jakob but he’s since admitted he was lying. He had no idea who the man was except that he wasn’t Czech. More likely French or English. He spoke perfect French, but seemed to prefer to read English.”
Beauvoir noticed Roar and Hanna Parra exchange relieved glances.
“The only clue we had led us back to the antiques and antiquities in his cabin. I don’t know antiques, but people who do said these were amazing. He must have had an eye for it. He didn’t pick the stuff up at flea markets and garage sales.”
Beauvoir paused. He’d seen Gamache do this time and again, reeling in the suspect then letting him run, then reeling some more. But doing it subtly, careful y, delicately, without the suspect even realizing it. Doing it steadily, without hesitation.
It would be terrifying for the murderer when it dawned on him what was happening. And that terror was what the Chief counted on. To wear the person down, to grind them down. But it took a strong stomach, and patience.
Beauvoir had never appreciated how difficult this was. To present the facts in such a way so that the murderer would eventual y know where it was heading. But not too soon as to be able to wiggle away, and not too late to have time to fight back.
No, the point was to wear the murderer’s nerves wire thin. Then give him the impression he wasn’t a suspect, someone else was. Let him breathe, then move in again when his guard was down.
And do that, over and over. Relentlessly.
It was exhausting. Like landing a huge fish, only one that could eat the boat.
And now Beauvoir moved in again, for the last time.
For the kil .
“The truth, for we know it now, is that the treasure played a role. It was the catalyst. But what drove the final blow wasn’t greed for a treasure lost but for something else lost. Something more personal, more valuable even than treasure. This wasn’t about the loss of family heirlooms, but the family itself. Am I right?”
And Beauvoir turned to the murderer.
The kil er stood and everyone in the room stared, bewildered.
“He kil ed my father,” said Old Mundin.
TWENTY–FOUR
The Wife pushed away from the table and gaped.
“Old?” she whispered.
It was as though the bitter wind had found a way in and frozen everyone in place. Had Beauvoir accused the mantelpiece of murder they could not have been more astonished.
“Oh, God, Old, please,” The Wife begged. But a hint of desperation had crept into her eyes, slowly replacing disbelief. Like a healthy woman told she had terminal cancer, The Wife was in a daze. The end of her life was in sight, her simple life with a carpenter, making and restoring furniture, living in the country in a modest home. Raising Charles, and being with the only man she ever wanted to be with, the man she loved.
Over.
Old turned to her and his son. He was impossibly beautiful and even the vile accusation couldn’t tarnish that.
“He kil ed my father,” Old repeated. “I came to Three Pines to find him. He’s right,” he jerked his head toward Beauvoir. “I was working in Les Temps Perdu, restoring furniture when a walking stick came in. It was very old, handmade. Unique. I recognized it right away. My father had shown it to me and pointed out the inlaying, how the woodworker had designed it around the burling. It appeared to be just a simple, rustic walking stick, but it was a work of art. It had been my father’s and had been stolen after he died.
Had been stolen by his murderer.”
“You found out from the shop records who had sold it to Les Temps Perdu,” said Beauvoir. This was supposition now, but he needed to make it sound as though he knew it to be true.
“It was from an Olivier Brulé, living in Three Pines.”
Old Mundin breathed deeply, prepared to take the plunge. “I moved here. Got a job repairing and restoring Olivier’s furniture. I needed to get close to him, to watch him. I needed proof he’d kil ed my father.”
“But Olivier could never do that,” said Gabri, quietly but with certainty. “He could never kil .”
“I know,” said Old. “I realized that the more I got to know him. He was a greedy man. Often a little sly. But
a good man. He could never have kil ed my father. But someone did. Olivier was getting my father’s things from someone. I spent years fol owing him al over the place, as he did his antiquing. He visited homes and farms and other shops. Bought antiques from al over the place. But never did I see him actual y pick up one of my father’s things. And yet, they kept appearing.
And being sold on.”
Perhaps it was the atmosphere, the warm and snug bistro. The storm outside. The wine and hot chocolate and lit fires, but this felt unreal. As though their friend was talking about someone else. Tel ing them a tale.
A fable.
“Over the years I met Michel e and fel in love,” he smiled at his wife. No longer The Wife. But the woman he loved. Michel e. “We had Charles. My life was complete. I’d actual y forgotten about why I’d come here in the first place. But one Saturday night I was sitting in the truck after picking up the furniture and I saw Olivier close up and leave the bistro. But instead of heading home he did something strange. He went into the woods. I didn’t fol ow him. I was too surprised.
But I thought about it a lot and the next Saturday I waited for him, but he just went home. But the fol owing week he went into the woods again.
Carrying a bag.”
“Groceries,” said Gabri. No one said anything. They could see what was happening. Old Mundin in his truck. Watching and waiting. Patient. And seeing Olivier disappear into the woods. Old quietly getting out of the vehicle, fol owing Olivier. And finding the cabin.
“I looked in through the windows and saw—” Old’s voice faltered. Michel e reached out and quietly laid her hand on his. He slowly regained himself, his breathing becoming calmer, more measured, until he was able to continue with the story.
“I saw my father’s things. Everything he’d kept in the back room. The special place for his special things, he’d told me. Things only he and I knew about. The colored glass, the plates, the candlesticks, the furniture. Al there.”
Old’s eyes gleamed. He stared into the distance.
No longer in the bistro with the rest of them. Now he was back at the cabin. On the outside looking in.
“Olivier gave the bag to the old man and they sat down. They drank from china my father let me touch, and ate off plates he said came from a queen.”