The Brutal Telling

Over cake, fresh bumbleberries and Cool Whip, Gamache told them about the murder. The Hermit in the cabin buried deep in the forest. The elders, always attentive, grew even more still as he told them about the man, surrounded by treasure, but alone. A man whose life had been taken, his goods left behind. A man with no name, surrounded by history, but with none himself.



“Was he happy, do you think?” Esther asked. It was almost impossible to figure out if there was a leader of this group, by election or mutual consent. But Gamache guessed if there was one, it would be her.



He hesitated. He hadn’t actually asked himself that question.



Was the Hermit happy?



“I think he was content. He led a small, peaceful life. One that appeals to me.”



The young pilot turned to look at him. Up until that moment she’d been looking straight ahead.



“He was surrounded by beauty,” continued Gamache. “And he had company every now and then. Someone who’d bring him what he couldn’t provide for himself. But he was afraid.”



“Hard to be both happy and afraid,” said Esther. “But fear can lead to courage.”



“And courage can lead to peace,” said a young man in a suit.



It reminded Gamache of what the fisherman had written on the wall of the diner in Mutton Bay a few years earlier. He’d looked at Gamache across the room and smiled so fully it had taken the Chief Inspector’s breath away. Then the fisherman had scribbled something on the wall and left. Gamache had gone to the wall, and read:



Where there is love there is courage,



where there is courage there is peace,



where there is peace there is God.



And when you have God, you have everything.



Gamache spoke the words, and then there was silence in the hall. The Haida were good at silence. And so was Gamache.



“Is that a prayer?” Esther finally asked.



“A fisherman wrote it on a wall in a place called Mutton Bay, a long way off.”



“Perhaps not so far,” said Esther.



“A fisherman?” asked the man in the suit, with a smile. “Figures. They’re all crazy.”



An older man beside him, dressed in a thick sweater, gave him a swat and they laughed.



“We’re all fishermen,” said Esther, and Gamache had the feeling she was including him. She thought for a moment then asked, “What did your Hermit love?”



Gamache thought about that. “I don’t know.”



“Perhaps when you do, you’ll find his killer. How can we help?”



“There were a couple of references to Woo and Charlotte in the Hermit’s cabin. They led me to Emily Carr, and she led me here.”



“Well, you’re far from the first,” an elderly man said with a laugh. It wasn’t a smug or derisive laugh. “Her paintings have been bringing people to Haida Gwaii for years.”



It was hard to tell if that was considered a good thing.



“I think the Hermit was on the Queen Charlotte Islands, maybe fifteen or more years ago. We think he was Czech. He’d have spoken with an accent.”



Gamache brought out the photographs, taken at the morgue. He’d warned them what they’d see but he wasn’t worried. These were people who lived comfortably with life and death in a place where the line was blurred, and people, animals, and spirits walked together. Where blind men saw and everyone had the gift of flight.



Over strong tea they looked at the dead man. They looked long and hard. Even the young pilot gave the photographs her attention.



And as they looked at the photos, Gamache looked at them. To see a flicker of recognition. A twitch, a change in breathing. He became hyperaware of every one of them. But all he saw were people trying to help.



“We’ve disappointed you, I’m afraid,” said Esther as Gamache put the pictures back in his satchel. “Why didn’t you just e-mail them to us?”



“Well, I e-mailed them to Sergeant Minshall and he circulated them among the police, but I wanted to be here myself. And there’s something I couldn’t e-mail. Something I brought with me.”



He put the two balls of towel on the table and carefully unwrapped the first.



Not a spoon clinked against a mug, not a creamer was popped, peeled and opened, not a breath. It was as though something else had joined them then. As though silence had taken a seat.



He gently unwrapped the next one. And it sailed across the table to join its sibling.



“There’re others. Eight we think.”



If they heard him they gave no indication. Then one man, middle-aged and stocky, reached out. Stopping, he looked at Gamache.