The Brutal Telling

Beauvoir stared at Marc Gilbert. He could hear Carole returning with the phone, her heels clicking on the wooden floors.



“I use Varathane,” said the Inspector. “I’m not as environmentally aware as you, I guess. I know it takes about a day to set. But it really isn’t completely hard for a week or so. This Varathane isn’t months old. You didn’t start with it, did you? This was just done within the last week.”



Gilbert finally looked flustered. “Look, I Varathaned it one night when everyone else was asleep. It was last Friday. That’s good wood and it’s going to get more wear than any other place in the inn, so I decided to use Varathane. But just there. Nowhere else. I don’t think Dominique or Mama even know.”



“Don’t you use this door all the time? It is the main entrance, after all.”



“We park around the side and use the kitchen door. We never use the front. But our guests will.”



“Here’s the phone.” Carole Gilbert had reappeared. Beauvoir thanked her and called the bistro.



“Is Chief Inspector Gamache there, s’il vous plaît?” he asked Olivier.



“Oui?” He heard the Chief’s deep voice.



“I’ve found something. I think you need to come up. And bring a Scene of Crime kit, please.”



“Scene of Crime? What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Marc, getting irritated now.



But Beauvoir had stopped answering questions.



Within minutes Gamache and Morin arrived and Beauvoir showed them the polished floor. And the little scuff mark marring the perfect shine.



Morin took photographs, then, gloves on and tweezers ready, he took samples.



“I’ll get these to the lab in Sherbrooke right away.”



Morin left and Gamache and Beauvoir turned back to the Gilberts. Dominique had arrived home with groceries and had joined them.



“What is it?” she asked.



They were standing in the large hall now, away from the entrance, with its yellow police tape and rolled-up carpet.



Gamache was stern, all semblance of the affable man gone. “Who was the dead man?”



Three stunned people stared back.



“We’ve told you,” said Carole. “We don’t know.”



Gamache nodded slowly. “You did say that. And you also said you’d never seen anyone fitting his description, but you had. Or at least one of you had. And one of you knows exactly what that lab report will tell us.”



They stared at each other now.



“The dead man was here, lying in your entrance, on Varathane not quite hardened. He had it stuck to his sweater. And your floor has part of his sweater stuck to it.”



“But this is ridiculous,” said Carole, looking from Gamache to Beauvoir. She too could shape-shift, and now the gracious chatelaine became a formidable woman, her eyes angry and hard. “Leave our home immediately.”



Gamache bowed slightly and to Beauvoir’s amazement he turned to go, catching Beauvoir’s eye.



They walked down the dirt road into Three Pines.



“Well done, Jean Guy. Twice we searched that house and twice we missed it.”



“So why are we leaving? We should be up there, interviewing them.”



“Perhaps. But time is on our side. One of them knows we’ll have proof, probably before the day’s out. Let him stew. Believe me, it’s no favor I’ve done them.”



And Beauvoir, thinking about it, knew that to be true.



Just before lunch Marc Gilbert arrived at the Incident Room.



“May I speak to you?” he asked Gamache.



“You can speak to all of us. There’re no secrets anymore, are there, Monsieur Gilbert?”



Marc bristled but sat in the chair indicated. Beauvoir nodded to Morin to join them with his notebook.



“I’ve come voluntarily, you can see that,” said Marc.



“I can,” said Gamache.



Marc Gilbert had walked down to the old railway station, slowly. Going over and over what he’d tell them. It had sounded good when he’d talked to the trees and stones and the ducks flying south. Now he wasn’t so sure.



“Look, I know this sounds ridiculous.” He started with the one thing he’d promised himself not to say. He tried to concentrate on the Chief Inspector, not that ferret of an assistant, or the idiot boy taking notes. “But I found the body just lying there. I couldn’t sleep so I got up. I was heading to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich when I saw him. Lying there by the front door.”



He stared at Gamache who was watching him with calm, interested brown eyes. Not accusing, not even disbelieving. Just listening.