The Brutal Telling

Gamache did know, having enjoyed his private meals a number of times. But he also knew this decision to cook allowed Olivier to hide. In the kitchen. Where he didn’t have to see the accusing, unhappy faces of people who were his friends. Or worse still, see the empty chairs where friends once sat.



“I wonder if you could ask him to join me?”



“I’ll do my best.”



“Please.”



In that one word Chief Inspector Gamache conveyed that while it might sound like a polite request, it wasn’t. A couple of minutes later Olivier lowered himself into the chair across from Gamache. They needn’t worry about keeping their voices down. The bistro was now empty.



Gamache leaned forward, took a sip of Scotch, and watched Olivier closely.



“What does the name Charlotte mean to you?”



Olivier’s brows went up in surprise. “Charlotte?” He thought for a few moments. “I’ve never known a Charlotte. I knew a girl named Charlie once.”



“Did the Hermit ever mention the name?”



“He never mentioned any name.”



“What did you talk about?”



Olivier heard again the dead man’s voice, not deep but somehow calming. “We talked about vegetable gardens and building and plumbing. He learned from the Romans, the Greeks, the early settlers. It was fascinating.”



Not for the first time Gamache wished there’d been a third chair in that cabin, for him. “Did he ever mention Caesar’s Shift?”



Once again Olivier looked perplexed, then shook his head.



“How about the Queen Charlotte Islands?” Gamache asked.



“In British Columbia? Why would he talk about them?”



“Is anyone in Three Pines from BC that you know?”



“People’re from all over, but I can’t remember anyone from British Columbia. Why?”



Gamache brought out the sculptures and placed them on the table so that the ship looked to be running from the cheese, and the cheese, runny, seemed to be chasing it.



“Because these are. Or at least, the wood is. It’s red cedar from the Queen Charlottes. Let’s start again,” Gamache said quietly. “Tell me what you know about these sculptures.”



Olivier’s face was impassive. Gamache knew that look. It was the look of a liar, caught. Trying to find the last way out, the back door, the crack. Gamache waited. He sipped his Scotch and smoothed a bit of cheese on the very excellent nut bread. He placed a slice in front of Olivier then prepared one for himself. He ate and waited.



“The Hermit carved them,” said Olivier, his voice even, flat.



“You’ve told us that already. You also told us he gave you some and you threw them into the forest.”



Gamache waited, knowing the rest would come out now. He looked through the window and noticed Ruth walking Rosa. The duck, for some reason, was wearing a tiny, red raincoat.



“I didn’t throw them away. I kept them,” Olivier whispered, and the world beyond the circle of light from the fireplace seemed to disappear. It felt as though the two men were in their own little cabin. “I’d been visiting the Hermit for about a year when he gave me the first.”



“Can you remember what it was?”



“A hill, with trees. More like a mountain really. And a boy lying on it.”



“This one?” Gamache brought out the photo Thérèse Brunel had given him.



Olivier nodded. “I remember it clearly because I didn’t know the Hermit did stuff like this. His cabin was packed with wonderful things, but things other people made.”



“What did you do with it?”



“I kept it for a while, but had to hide it so Gabri wouldn’t start asking questions. Then I figured it was just easier to sell it. So I put it up on eBay. It went for a thousand dollars. Then a dealer got in touch. Said he had buyers, if there were any more. I thought he was joking, but when the Hermit gave me another one eight months later I remembered the guy and contacted him.”



“Was it Denis Fortin?”



“Clara’s gallery owner? No. It was someone in Europe. I can give you his coordinates.”



“That would be helpful. What did the second carving look like?”



“Plain. Simple. On the surface. I was kind of disappointed. It was a forest, but if you looked closely beneath the canopy of trees you could see people walking in a line.”



“Was the boy one of them?”



“Which boy?”



“The one from the mountain.”



“Well, no. This was a different piece.”