The Brutal Telling
But the horse came closer and closer.
“I know nothing about it. But I thought it looked bad for Marc so I wanted to be here in case he needed me.”
“Needed you to do what?” demanded Marc. “Scare everyone half to death? Couldn’t you just ring the doorbell or write a letter?”
“I didn’t realize you’d be so sensitive.” The lash, the tiny wound, the monster smiled and retreated. But Marc had had enough. He reached over the fence and bit Vincent Gilbert on the shoulder. Marc the horse, that is.
“What the hell?” Gilbert yelped and jumped out of the way, his hand on his slimy shoulder.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Marc asked Gamache.
“Are you going to press charges?”
Marc stared at his father, then at the wreck of a creature behind him. Black, wretched, probably half mad. And Marc the man smiled.
“No. Go back to being dead, Dad. Mom was right. It is easier.”
He turned and strode back to his home.
What a family,” said Beauvoir. They were strolling into the village. Agent Morin had gone ahead to the Incident Room, and they’d left the Gilberts to devour each other. “Still, there does seem a sort of equilibrium about this case.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gamache. Off to their left he noticed Ruth Zardo leaving her home followed by Rosa wearing a sweater. Gamache had written a thank-you note for the dinner the night before and stuck it in her rusty mailbox during his morning stroll. He watched as she collected it, glanced at it, and stuck it into the pocket of her ratty old cardigan.
“Well, one man’s dead and another comes alive.”
Gamache smiled and wondered if it was a fair exchange. Ruth spotted them just as Beauvoir spotted her.
“Run,” he hissed to the Chief. “I’ll cover you.”
“Too late, old son. The duck’s seen us.”
And indeed, while Ruth seemed happy to ignore them, Rosa was waddling forward at an alarming pace.
“She appears to like you,” said Ruth to Beauvoir, limping behind the duck. “But then she does have a birdbrain.”
“Madame Zardo,” Gamache greeted her with a smile while Beauvoir glared.
“I hear that Gilbert fellow put the body in Olivier’s Bistro. Why haven’t you arrested him?”
“You heard that already?” asked Beauvoir. “Who told you?”
“Who hasn’t? It’s all over the village. Well? Are you going to arrest Marc Gilbert?”
“For what?” asked Beauvoir.
“Murder for one. Are you nuts?”
“Am I nuts? Who’s the one with a duck in a sweater?”
“And what would you have me do? Let her freeze to death when winter comes? What kind of man are you?”
“Me? Speaking of nuts, what was with that note you had Olivier give me? I can’t even remember what it said, but it sure didn’t make sense.”
“You think not?” the wizened old poet snarled.
“Maybe there’s something in all of this I missed.”
Gamache quoted the lines and Ruth turned cold eyes on him. “That was a private message. Not meant for you.”
“What does it mean, madame?”
“You figure it out. And this one too.” Her hand dived into her other pocket and came out with another slip of paper, neatly folded. She handed it to Beauvoir and walked toward the bistro.
Beauvoir looked at the perfect white square in his palm, then closed his fingers over it.
The two men watched Ruth and Rosa walk across the village green. At the far end they saw people entering the bistro.
“She’s crazy, of course,” said Beauvoir as they walked to the Incident Room. “But she did ask a good question. Why didn’t we arrest anyone? Between father and son we could’ve been filling out arrest sheets all afternoon.”
“To what end?”
“Justice.”
Gamache laughed. “I’d forgotten about that. Good point.”
“No, really sir. There was everything from trespassing to murder we could have charged them with.”
“We both know the victim wasn’t murdered in that foyer.”
“But that doesn’t mean Marc Gilbert didn’t kill him somewhere else.”
“And put him in his own house, then picked him up again and took him to the bistro?”
“The father could have done it.”
“Why?”
Beauvoir thought about that. He couldn’t believe that family wasn’t guilty of something. And murder seemed right up their alley. Though it seemed most likely they’d kill each other.