The Brutal Telling

“Maybe he wanted to hurt his son,” said Beauvoir. But that didn’t seem right. They paused on the stone bridge over the Rivière Bella Bella and the Inspector stared over the side, thinking. The sun bounced off the water and he was momentarily mesmerized by the movement. “Maybe it’s just the opposite,” he began, feeling his way forward. “Maybe Gilbert wanted back in his son’s life but needed an excuse. For anyone else I would think that was ridiculous but he has an ego and it might not have let him just knock and apologize. He needed an excuse. I could see him killing a vagrant, someone he considered so far beneath him. Someone he could use for his purpose.”



“And what would that be?” asked Gamache, also staring into the clear waters beneath them.



Beauvoir turned to the Chief, noticing the reflected light playing on the man’s face. “To be reunited with his son. But he’d need to be seen as the savior, not just as some deadbeat dad crawling back to the family.”



Gamache turned to him, interested. “Go on.”



“So he killed a vagrant, a man no one would miss, put him in his son’s vestibule and waited for the fireworks, figuring he could sweep in and take command of the family when it needed help.”



“But then Marc moved the body and there was no excuse,” said Gamache.



“Until now. The timing is interesting. We discover the body was in the old Hadley house and an hour later dad appears.”



Gamache nodded, his eyes narrowing, and once again he looked into the flowing waters of the river. Beauvoir knew the Chief well enough to know he was walking slowly now through the case, picking his way along the slippery rocks, trying to make out a path obscured by deceit and time.



Beauvoir unfolded the paper in his hands.



I just sit where I’m put, composed



of stone, and wishful thinking:



“Who’s Vincent Gilbert, sir? You seemed to know him.”



“He’s a saint.”



Beauvoir laughed, but seeing Gamache’s serious face he stopped. “What do you mean?”



“There’re some people who believe that.”



“Seemed like an asshole to me.”



“The hardest part of the process. Telling them apart.”



“Do you believe he’s a saint?” Beauvoir was almost afraid to ask.



Gamache smiled suddenly. “I’ll leave you here. What do you say to lunch in the bistro in half an hour?”



Beauvoir looked at his watch. Twelve thirty-five. “Perfect.”



He watched the Chief walk slowly back across the bridge and into Three Pines. Then he looked down again, at the rest of what Ruth had written.



that the deity who kills for pleasure



will also heal,



Someone else was watching Gamache. Inside the bistro Olivier was looking out the window while listening to the sweet sounds of laughter and the till. The place was packed. The whole village, the whole countryside, had emptied into his place, for lunch, for news, for gossip. To hear about the latest dramatic developments.



The old Hadley house had produced another body and spewed it into the bistro. Or at least, its owner had. Any suspicion of Olivier was lifted, the taint gone.



All round him Olivier heard people talking, speculating, about Marc Gilbert. His mental state, his motives. Was he the murderer? But one thing wasn’t debated, wasn’t in doubt.



Gilbert was finished.



“Who’s gonna wanna stay in that place?” he heard someone say. “Parra says they dumped a fortune into the Hadley place, and now this.”



There was general agreement. It was a shame. It was inevitable. The new inn and spa was ruined before it even opened. Olivier watched through the window as Gamache walked slowly toward the bistro. Ruth appeared at Olivier’s elbow. “Imagine being chased,” she said, watching the Chief Inspector’s steadfast approach, “by that.”



Clara and Gabri squeezed through the crowd to join them.



“What’re you looking at?” Clara asked.



“Nothing,” said Olivier.



“Him.” Ruth pointed at Gamache, apparently deep in thought, but making progress. Without haste, but also without hesitation.



“He must be pleased,” said Gabri. “I hear Marc Gilbert killed that man and put him here, in the bistro. Case closed.”



“Then why didn’t Gamache arrest him?” Clara asked, sipping her beer.



“Gamache’s an idiot,” said Ruth.



“I hear Gilbert says he found the body in his house,” said Clara. “Already dead.”



“Right, like that just happens,” said Olivier. His friends decided not to remind Olivier that was exactly what happened to him.