“Well, you have to move the pipes. Expensive job. They’d all have to be replaced. We use PVC now. Easier to manipulate and they don’t crack and burst.”
“But that would mean breaking into the walls, right? And then repairing and repainting them.”
“For sure. Like I said, big job. Expensive.”
“Did you do the repairs too, or someone else?”
“You’d need to get someone in to put in new drywall, then a plasterer, but I used to do that too if it was a small job. Not hard. I could recommend someone.”
“Merci.”
It was what Billy had said when showing him how the items got into the attic. Someone with skills had repaired and repainted the ceiling. Someone like Monsieur Godin.
The Gamaches had replaced all the wiring and plumbing before they’d moved into the home. He did not need it fixed, nor did he need to know how it was done.
But he did need to know if Patricia Godin’s husband could remove a section of the bookstore ceiling and then repair it.
“You know, someone did come by,” said Monsieur Godin, “but it was a month before Patricia died. He was interested in old documents. Asked if we had any. Said it was the latest thing. All the antiques in old barns and homes had been picked over, and now people were interested in paper stuff. He was looking for old books and maps and deeds and photographs.”
And letters? thought Gamache, though he remained quiet.
“Asked us to get in touch, if we found any.”
“Did you meet him?” asked Gamache.
“Yes. He seemed nice. Though I can’t see there’d be much of a market in old deeds.”
“Can you remember his name?” It seemed a long shot and, indeed, it was. Godin shook his head.
“Can you describe him?” Gamache almost made the mistake he always warned his agents against. Leading the witness, guiding them to an answer.
He was tempted to describe Sam Arsenault, young, auburn hair, slender, and ask if that fit the man who visited. Instead, he remained quiet while Godin thought.
“I’m sorry, I’m not good at that sort of thing.”
“But it was a man?”
“Yes.”
“Young? Old?”
Gamache waited.
“Oh, older. About my age. But I can’t really remember anything else.”
“Was he a big man? Or slender?”
Godin shook his head. “Désolé.”
“Did he return?”
“Not that I know of. I think Pat would’ve told me.” Now he stared at Gamache. “You don’t think…”
“He said to get in touch. Did he leave a card or anything?”
Godin’s brow dropped in thought. “Well, he must’ve, don’t you think? But I can’t remember seeing one. Now that I’m thinking about it, he called himself a detective.”
“He was a police officer? A member of the Sûreté?”
Surely not, in his late sixties or early seventies. But age was hard to guess. He suspected some younger agents thought he himself was ancient. Maybe the man was a retired detective, and this was his hobby.
“I think he was a sort of private detective,” said Godin.
“That old letter, from Pierre Stone, was sent here by someone,” said Gamache. “Do you have any idea who?”
“Not a clue. I didn’t even know it came here.”
“And you say you didn’t have a forwarding address for Monsieur Williams?”
“No. I have no idea how Pat got it to him. I mean, how would she even know that he was related to this Stone fellow? Different last names.”
Yes, thought Armand as he got up. Good questions.
He left his card for Monsieur Godin, had a word with Beauvoir, then drove back to Three Pines to meet the conservator from the Musée in Montréal. Well aware that he was leaving with more questions than when he’d arrived.
CHAPTER 23
“Alors,” Dr. Mirlande Louissaint said, cocking her head slightly. It tipped further and further over until she was actually leaning to one side. Then the other. Like a very large, very slow pendulum.
She and her assistant had watched as Gamache unrolled the giant painting on the floor of the Incident Room, using books to weigh down the corners. As more and more of the work was revealed, Dr. Louissaint had made a series of sounds. Increasing in their astonishment but decreasing in volume.
Until finally the entire thing could be seen, and she whispered, “Alors.”
Then repeated it. “Alors.” Well. Well, well.
At least, thought Gamache as he straightened up and stretched, the Chief Conservator from the Musée had graduated from guttural sounds to an actual word.
“A World of Curiosities,” she whispered.
“Pardon?”
“The Paston Treasure.” She motioned toward the painting. “It’s the nickname given to it. Alors.” She leaned over the canvas before straightening up. “But this isn’t the real thing.”
“No.”
“What exactly do you want from me?”
“Anything you can tell me about it. How long ago it was painted. If the technique reminds you of any artist. Is there a painting underneath?” He brought out a baggie with the nails. “And I’d like you to look at these. Are they genuine or reproductions?”
She took the bag, glanced at it, then handed it back. “They’re real.”
“You’re sure?”
There was a slight snort from her assistant, amused anyone would question her patron.
Dr. Louissaint stared at Gamache, but he just waited. A glare was not a reply. He needed the words.
“Yes, the nails are hand-forged and date from the era of the original Paston Treasure, the mid-1600s.” She widened her eyes, as if to say, Heard enough?
“Merci.”
“Is this”—Dr. Louissaint tilted her head toward the canvas on the floor—“part of an investigation, Chief Inspector?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure.”
This admission of doubt seemed to impress her.
“Your colleague, Inspector Beauvoir, was it?” When Gamache agreed, she continued, “Told me a little. Enough for me to bring some equipment and—” She pointed to the young woman now setting up what looked like a scanner. “Maryse.”
“Bonjour,” said Gamache.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” said Maryse, then went back to work.
Dr. Louissaint turned to Gamache. “I’ve seen copies of The Paston Treasure. And photographs. Read books on it. I even visited it in the UK.” She spoke of the painting as though it were a person. “It’s a masterpiece, one of the most studied works of art, and yet”—she leaned closer to the copy—“it remains a mystery.”
“How so?”
“It was painted in the great age of exploration, when ships and merchants were pushing the boundaries of the known world and bringing back their finds. The Pastons gathered a huge collection and then commissioned someone to paint at least part of it. But how did they decide which of the two hundred pieces would be in the painting? Why so much emphasis on music? On time? The hourglass, the timepiece, the clock. Does it say six o’clock or half past eleven? Is the time significant?”
“We studied the painting in art college,” said Maryse, piping in. “Partly as a work of art.”
“But also art history?” suggested Gamache.
“Not just that, but history itself. And natural sciences, and geography. It’s described as a portal into the past.”
He could hear the young woman’s excitement as she talked about the original.
“And yet, it left so much of itself unknown,” said Dr. Louissaint. “Including who even painted it. Must’ve taken months and months, and then not to sign it? Why? I see yours isn’t signed either.”