The Brutal Telling

Deeper. Deeper into the wilderness.



Then Clara went home.



It was late at night in Zurich when an art collector picked up the odd little carving he’d paid so much for. The one he’d been assured was a great work of art, but more important, a great investment.



At first he’d displayed it in his home, until his wife had asked him to move it. Away. So he’d put in into his private gallery. Once a day he’d sit in there with a cognac, and look at the masterpieces. The Picassos, the Rodins and Henry Moores.



But his eyes kept going back to the jolly little carving, of the forest, and the happy people building a village. At first it had given him pleasure, but now he found it spooky. He was considering putting it somewhere else again. A closet perhaps.



When the broker had called earlier in the day and asked if he’d consider sending it back to Canada for a police investigation he’d refused. It was an investment, after all. And there was no way he could be forced. He’d done nothing wrong and they had no jurisdiction.



The broker, though, had passed on two requests from the police. He knew the answer to the first, but still he picked up the carving and looked at its smooth base. No letters, no signature. Nothing. But the other question just sounded ridiculous. Still, he’d tried. He was just about to replace the carving and e-mail that he’d found nothing when his eyes caught something light among the dark pines.



He peered closer. There, deep in the forest, away from the village, he found what the police were looking for.



A tiny wooden figure. A young man, not much more than a boy, hiding in the woods.



THIRTY-ONE



It was getting late. Agent Lacoste had left and Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Morin were reporting on their day.



“We checked into the Parras, the Kmeniks, the Mackus. All the Czech community,” said Beauvoir. “Nothing. No one knew the Hermit, no one saw him. They’d all heard of that violinist guy—”



“Martinù,” said Morin.



“—because he’s some famous Czech composer, but no one actually knew him.”



“I spoke to the Martinù Institute and did background checks on the Czech families,” said Morin. “They’re what they claim to be. Refugees from the communists. Nothing more. In fact, they seem more law-abiding than most. No connection at all with Martinù.”



Beauvoir shook his head. If lies annoyed the Inspector the truth seemed to piss him off even more. Especially when it was inconvenient.



“Your impression?” Gamache asked Agent Morin, who glanced at Inspector Beauvoir before answering.



“I think the violin and the music have nothing to do with the people here.”



“You may be right,” conceded Gamache, who knew they’d have to look into many empty caves before they found their killer. Perhaps this was one. “And the Parras?” he asked, though he knew the answer. If there’d been anything there Beauvoir would have told him already.



“Nothing in their background,” Beauvoir confirmed. “But . . .”



Gamache waited.



“They seemed defensive, guarded. They were surprised that the dead man was Czech. Everyone was.”



“What do you think?” asked the Chief.



Beauvoir wiped a weary hand across his face. “I can’t put it all together, but I think it fits somehow.”



“You think there is a connection?” pressed Gamache.



“How can there not be? The dead man was Czech, the sheet music, the priceless violin, and there’s a big Czech community here including two people who could have found the cabin. Unless . . .”



“Yes?”



Beauvoir leaned forward, his nervous hands clasped together on the table. “Suppose we’ve got it wrong. Suppose the dead man wasn’t Czech.”



“You mean, that Olivier was lying?” said Gamache.



Beauvoir nodded. “He’s lied about everything else. Maybe he said it to take us off the trail, so that we’d suspect others.”



“But what about the violin and the music?”



“What about it?” Beauvoir was gaining momentum. “There’re lots of other things in that cabin. Maybe Morin’s right.” Though he said it in the same tone he’d use to say maybe a chimp was right. With a mixture of awe at witnessing a miracle, and doubt. “Maybe the music and violin have nothing to do with it. After all, there were plates from Russia, glass from other places. The stuff tells us nothing. He could’ve been from anywhere. We only have Olivier’s word for it. And maybe Olivier wasn’t exactly lying. Maybe the guy did speak with an accent, but it wasn’t Czech. Maybe it was Russian or Polish or one of those other countries.”