He hovered over it for a moment, then, like a cliff diver, he committed. He felt his bottom hit the floor. It was, he admitted, the better option.
“The painting we found in the attic,” he began. “I have questions.”
She laughed. “So do I. You first.”
“Mine are technical, I think. It’s not framed, but it is on a frame. And it’s huge. How could it get up there?”
“That’s easy. The frame must’ve been assembled in the attic and the canvas tacked to it there. Look.”
She struggled to her feet, then grabbed one of her unused canvases. Turning it around, she showed him what he’d seen many times before. The canvas was folded over the wooden frame, then stapled there.
“That’s how they did it,” she said, with complete confidence. “I didn’t look at the back. Too consumed by the front, so I don’t know what they used. Staples are relatively new. Old canvases are nailed. The one in the attic, well…”
“Good, easy enough to check. The nails or staples, and the paint itself, can be dated.”
“As can the canvas. The Musée des beaux-arts in Montréal or Sherbrooke can do that for you.”
“How long would it take to paint?”
Clara smiled. “I’ve been trying to figure that out too. A canvas that size, with so much in it? So many objects and such detail? The original, the real Paston Treasure, must’ve taken many months.”
“But this isn’t the original, so whoever did it wouldn’t need to struggle with composition or details. At least, not much. Could ours be done in less time?”
“For sure. But how much less, I can’t say. Depends on the skill of the artist. From what I saw, there was considerable skill. There is another way it could’ve been done that would be even faster.”
“Go on.”
“If it’s a paint-by-number.”
Armand stared at her as though she’d gone mad. “Like what the grandchildren do?”
“Not exactly. I think if you have it examined, you’ll find a reproduction of the original Paston Treasure underneath. It’s not uncommon these days for artists to have high-resolution, digital copies made of their works. They’re called giclées.”
“Yes, I’ve seen them. They look like originals. But this is different, isn’t it?”
“In that it isn’t exactly the original, yes. I think it’s possible someone had a copy of the original printed onto an old canvas. Then they painted over it, adding new stuff, like the watch and poster. It would still take time and skill, but far less than if it was painted from scratch.”
“We think the items were put up there in the week that you and Myrna were in Charlevoix.”
Clara made a guttural sound. “I hate that thought. Must freak Myrna out too.”
Myrna was not easily freaked, but it was clearly unsettling.
Armand began rocking himself out of the sofa, but she stopped him. “Wait a minute. My turn. Why were the painting and that book Reine-Marie found and the other things put there, then sealed up? Were we meant to find that room? If you’re right, the stuff’s been there for more than a year, but the room was sealed up a hundred and sixty years ago. There must’ve been a reason back then to seal the room, and there must be a reason someone was there recently.”
Armand leaned back, lifted his legs, then in one mighty swing hoisted himself to his feet.
“I honestly don’t know why those things are there.”
“Were we meant to find them, Armand? It seems so. But if the caretaker hadn’t pointed out the roofline, we’d never have found it.”
It was true. It seemed like a coincidence, but in Gamache’s experience, almost everything that happened was the end result of a series of apparently unconnected events. Often set in motion years earlier. Remove one, and the thing did not happen.
Like the book he was reading. What if …
But Armand suspected there was more than a series of chance events at work here. Someone was not leaving it up to chance. Whoever was behind this had planned well, thoroughly, and for a long time. There was no way they were not going to find that room, and probably exactly when they did.
And that led him to another question. Not just why, but why now?
“Oh, come on.”
As he entered the bookstore, Armand heard the words floating down from above.
“Guess who’s up there,” said Myrna.
“Our mini-Ruth?” asked Armand.
“If Ruth and a trash compactor had a child, yes.”
On entering the loft, Armand saw Amelia glaring at Beauvoir.
“He wants me to take the painting over to the Old Train Station,” she complained.
“What? Too hard for you?” asked Beauvoir.
“Too hard for the laws of physics,” she said. “You’ve heard of them, haven’t you? That painting’s massive. How’m I supposed to get it through—” She waved toward the opening.
“Well, it got in, didn’t it?”
“Here,” said Gamache, walking around to the back of the painting. “Clara told me how.”
Olivier and Billy were behind the painting, kneeling on the floor and examining the boards.
“Anything?” he asked them.
“We might’ve found how they got the stuff up here,” said Olivier. “I can show you.”
“In a moment.” Armand put on his glasses, turned on the flashlight app, and looked at the back of the painting. “Nails. They look old, handmade. And the wood frame also looks old.”
Taking off his glasses, he told them what Clara had said. “Take out the nails, save them, then roll up the canvas and get it to the evidence locker.”
“None of this makes sense,” said Beauvoir. “Why would someone go through the effort to make the painting look old, right down to the nails. And then paint in stuff that’s modern. Why?”
“Distraction,” said Amelia. “Or just a good, old-fashioned mind-fuck.”
“Like Grandma used to do?” said Beauvoir.
“Jean-Guy, call the Musée des beaux-arts in Montréal and get a senior conservator to come down.”
Beauvoir got on the phone while Amelia went to work on the nails.
Gamache walked over to Olivier and Billy. “What’ve you found?”
“We think the stuff came in through the floor,” said Olivier. “Looks like the ceiling in the bookshop has been repaired and repainted, and we can see where a couple of boards up here have cracked.”
“We think they used a knife to remove a section of the bookstore ceiling,” said Billy. “Then a rubber mallet to push up these boards, creating an opening just large enough for a person to get through. But in doing that, they cracked a few when the wood pulled away from the nails.”
Gamache had to get on his knees and lean close to see the cracks. Getting up, he brushed off his slacks. “They knew what they were doing.”
“True,” said Billy. “It takes some skill to repair the drywall downstairs.”
“Huh,” said Olivier, who’d wandered away and was looking at the pile of other things in the attic. He reached out, but Beauvoir, still on the phone, stopped him.
“What is it?” Gamache asked.
“The elephant.”
Sure enough, there was a largish brass elephant among the items behind the painting. It was about eight inches tall and ten inches long.
“What about it?” asked Gamache, joining him.
“Well, we’re missing one exactly like this.”
“You’re missing an elephant?” asked Amelia, peering around the painting, where she was dusting for prints.
“We had a guest at the B&B, and when she checked out, the elephant was gone too. It was in her room.”
“Sounds like an old Marx Brothers routine,” said Amelia.
They looked at her. How someone her age, and with her background, knew so many things was mystifying. Even Beauvoir had no idea who the Marx Brothers were, except that one of them had something to do with Communism.