The Brutal Telling

“I’m sorry, Madame Zardo, but we need it and we plan to take it.”



His voice was no longer as gracious as it had been. The three stared at each other, only Rosa blinking. Beauvoir knew the only way this nut-case could triumph was if she started reciting her dreary, unintelligible verse. Nothing rhymed. Nothing even made sense. She’d break him in an instant. But he also knew that of all the people in the village, she was the least likely to quote it. She seemed embarrassed, even ashamed, by what she created.



“How’s your poetry?” he asked and saw her waver. Her short, shorn hair was white and thin and lay close to her head, as though her bleached skull was exposed. Her neck was scrawny and ropy and her tall body, once sturdy he suspected, was feeble. But nothing else about her was.



“I saw somewhere that you’ll soon have another book out.”



Ruth Zardo backed up slightly.



“The Chief Inspector is here too, as you probably know.” His voice was kind now, reasonable, warm. The old woman looked as though she was seeing Satan. “I know how much he’s looking forward to talking to you about it. He’ll be here soon. He’s been memorizing your verses.”



Ruth Zardo turned and left.



He’d done it. He’d banished her. The witch was dead, or at least gone.



He got to work setting up their headquarters. He ordered desks and communications equipment, computers and printers, scanners and faxes. Corkboards and fragrant Magic Markers. He’d stick a corkboard right on top of that poster of the sneering, mad old poet. And over her face he’d write about murder.



The bistro was quiet.



The Scene of Crime officers had left. Agent Isabelle Lacoste was kneeling on the floor where the body had been found, thorough as ever. Making absolutely sure no clues were missed. From what Chief Inspector Gamache could see Olivier and Gabri hadn’t stirred: they still sat on the faded old sofa facing the large fireplace, each in his own world, staring at the fire, mesmerized by the flames. He wondered what they were thinking.



“What are you thinking?” Gamache went over and sat in the large armchair beside them.



“I was thinking about the dead man,” said Olivier. “Wondering who he was. Wondering what he was doing here, and about his family. Wondering if anyone was missing him.”



“I was thinking about lunch,” said Gabri. “Anyone else hungry?”



From across the room Agent Lacoste looked up. “I am.”



“So am I, patron,” said Gamache.



When they could hear Gabri clanking pots and pans in the kitchen, Gamache leaned forward. It was just him and Olivier. Olivier looked at him blankly. But the Chief Inspector had seen that look before. It was, in fact, almost impossible to look blank. Unless the person wanted to. A blank face to the Chief Inspector meant a frantic mind.



From the kitchen came the unmistakable aroma of garlic and they could hear Gabri singing, “What shall we do with a drunken sailor?”



“Gabri thought the man was a tramp. What do you think?”



Olivier remembered the eyes, glassy, staring. And he remembered the last time he’d been in the cabin.



Chaos is coming, old son. It’s taken a long time, but it’s finally here.



“What else could he’ve been?”



“Why do you think he was killed here, in your bistro?”



“I don’t know.” And Olivier seemed to sag. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to figure it out. Why would someone kill a man here? It makes no sense.”



“It does make sense.”



“Really?” Olivier sat forward. “How?”



“I don’t know. But I will.”



Olivier stared at the formidable, quiet man who suddenly seemed to fill the entire room without raising his voice.



“Did you know him?”



“You’ve asked me that before,” snapped Olivier, then gathered himself. “I’m sorry, but you have, you know, and it gets annoying. I didn’t know him.”



Gamache stared. Olivier’s face was red now, blushing. But from anger, from the heat of the fire, or did he just tell a lie?



“Someone knew him,” said Gamache at last, leaning back, giving Olivier the impression of pressure lifted. Of breathing room.



“But not me and not Gabri.” His brow pulled together and Gamache thought Olivier was genuinely upset. “What was he doing here?”



“ ‘Here’ meaning Three Pines, or ‘here’ meaning the bistro?”



“Both.”



But Gamache knew Olivier had just lied. He meant the bistro, that was obvious. People lied all the time in murder investigations. If the first victim of war was the truth, some of the first victims of a murder investigation were people’s lies. The lies they told themselves, the lies they told each other. The little lies that allowed them to get out of bed on cold, dark mornings. Gamache and his team hunted the lies down and exposed them. Until all the small tales told to ease everyday lives disappeared. And people were left naked. The trick was distinguishing the important fibs from the rest. This one appeared tiny. In which case, why bother lying at all?