The Long Way Home (25 page)

It was not lost on either Gamache or Beauvoir that their host had just let slip that he knew precisely who his guests were. Or, at least, one of them.

“We were just there,” said Gamache. “Astonishing view of the river.”

“Yes. Breathtaking.”

Marcel Chartrand subsided into an armchair and crossed his legs. In repose he retained a bit of a smile. Not, Gamache thought, a smirk. While some faces relaxed into a slight look of censure, this man looked content.

His face, from a distance, was handsome, urbane. But close up his skin was scored with small lines. A weathered face. From time spent in the elements. Skiing or snowshoeing or chopping wood. Or standing on a precipice, looking at the great river. It was an honest face.

But was he an honest man? Gamache reserved judgment.

It was possible Chartrand was older than he first appeared. And yet there was an unmistakable vitality about the man.

Gamache wandered the room. The walls were thick fieldstone. Cool in summer and warm in winter. The windows were small and recessed and original to this old Québécois home. Chartrand clearly respected the past and the
habitant
who’d built this place by hand hundreds of years ago. It was made in a hurry, but with great care, to protect himself and his family from the elements. From the approaching winter. From the monster who marched down the great river, picking up ice and snow and bitter cold. Gaining in strength and power. So few early settlers survived. But whoever had built this home had. And the home was still offering shelter to those in need.

Behind him, Chartrand was offering Clara and Myrna another glass of cognac. Myrna declined, but Clara took a half shot.

“Perhaps to take to bed, with a cookie,” said Clara.

“There’s that pioneering spirit,” said Myrna.

The floors were original. Wide pine planks, made of trees that stood tall on this very site, and that now lay down. They were darkened by generations of smoky fires. Two sofas faced each other across the fireplace and an armchair faced the fire, a footstool in front of it, with books piled on a side table. Lamps softly lit the room.

But it was the walls that intrigued Gamache. He walked around them. Sometimes leaning closer, drawn into the original Krieghoff. The Lemieux. The Gagnon. And there, between two windows, was a tiny oil painting on wood.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Chartrand had come up behind Gamache. The Chief had sensed him there, but hadn’t taken his eyes off the painting. It was of a forest and a spit of rocks jutting into a lake. And a single tree clinging to the rocky outcropping, its branches sculpted by the relentless wind.

It was stunning in both its beauty and its desolation.

“Is this a Thomson?” Gamache asked.

“It is.”

“From Algonquin Park?”

The rugged landscape was unmistakable.

“
Oui
.”

“
Mon dieu
,” said Gamache on an exhale, aware that he was breathing on the same painting as the man who’d created it.

The two men stared at the tiny rectangle.

“When was it done?” Gamache asked.

“1917. The year he died,” said Chartrand.

“In the war?” asked Jean-Guy, who’d wandered over to join them.

“No,” said the gallery owner. “In an accident.”

Now Gamache straightened up and looked at Chartrand. “Do you believe that?”

“I want to. It would be horrible to think otherwise.”

Jean-Guy looked from Chartrand to Gamache. “There’s a question?”

“A small one,” said Gamache, walking back to the sofa, as though not wanting the painting to overhear their conversation.

“What question?”

“Tom Thomson painted mostly landscapes,” Chartrand explained. “His favorite subject was Algonquin Park, in Ontario. He seemed to like his solitude. He’d canoe and camp by himself, then trek out with the most wonderful paintings.”

He gestured toward the small one on his wall.

“Was he famous?” asked Beauvoir.

“No,” said Chartrand. “Not at the time. Not many knew him. Other painters, but not the public. Not yet.”

“It took his death for him to come to their attention,” said Gamache.

“Lucky for whoever had his paintings,” said Beauvoir.

“Lucky for his gallery owner,” Chartrand agreed.

“So what’s the mystery? How’d he die?”

“The official cause was drowning,” said Gamache. “But there was some question. Rumors persist even now that he was either murdered or killed himself.”

“Why would he do that?” Beauvoir asked.

They were sitting down, Gamache and Beauvoir on a sofa, Chartrand on his chair facing the empty fireplace.

“The theory is that Thomson was despondent because he wasn’t getting any recognition for his work,” said Chartrand.

“And the murder theory?” asked Beauvoir.

“Perhaps another artist, jealous of his talents,” said Chartrand.

“Or someone who owned a lot of his works,” said Gamache, looking directly at their host.

“Like his gallery owner?” Chartrand smiled in what appeared to be genuine amusement. “We are greedy, feral people. We love to screw both the artist and our clients. We’d do anything to acquire what we want. But perhaps not murder.”

Though Beauvoir and Gamache knew that was not true.

“Who’re you talking about?”

Clara and Myrna had been across the room admiring a Jean Paul Lemieux, but now Clara sat on the sofa opposite Gamache.

“Tom Thomson.” Chartrand waved toward the small painting, like a window on the wall that looked into another time, another world. But one not so unlike Charlevoix.

“
Désolé
,” said Gamache quietly, not taking his eyes off Clara. “That was insensitive.”

“
Désolé?
” asked Chartrand. He looked from one to the other, perplexed by the sudden intensity of emotion. “Why would it be upsetting?”

“My own husband is missing. That’s why we’re here.” Clara turned to Gamache. “Didn’t you ask him about Peter when you went to the gallery?”

“It was closed,” said Gamache. “I thought you discussed it when you called him up.”

“Why would I? I thought you’d already asked him and he didn’t know Peter.”

“Peter?” asked Chartrand, looking from one to the other.

“My husband. Peter Morrow.”

“Your husband’s Peter Morrow?” said Chartrand.

“You knew him?” Gamache asked.

“
Bien sûr,
” said Chartrand.

“Him or his art?” asked Myrna.

“Him, the man. He spent many hours in the gallery.”

Clara was stunned into silence, momentarily. And then questions jumbled together in her brain, and created a logjam. None able to escape. But finally, one popped out.

“When was this?”

Chartrand thought. “In April, I guess. Maybe a little later.”

“Did he stay with you?” asked Clara.

“
Non
. He rented a cabin down the road.”

“Is he still there?” She stood up as though about to leave.

Chartrand shook his head. “No. He left. I haven’t seen him in months. I’m sorry.”

“Where did he go?” Clara asked.

Chartrand faced her. “I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Gamache asked.

Chartrand thought about that. “It’s now early August. He left before the summer. In late spring, I think.”

“Are you sure he left?” Jean-Guy asked. “Did he tell you he was leaving?”

Chartrand looked like a punch-drunk boxer, staggering from questioner to questioner. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember.”

“Why can’t you remember?” asked Clara, her voice rising.

Chartrand appeared flustered, confused. “It didn’t seem important,” he tried to explain. “He wasn’t a close friend or anything. He was here one day, and not here the next.”

He looked from Clara to Gamache and back again.

“Is that why you invited us here?” Jean-Guy asked. “Because Peter had told you about her?”

He gestured toward Clara.

“I told you, I didn’t know he was her husband. I invited you here because it was late, the hotels are full and you needed a place to stay.”

“And because you recognized us,” said Gamache, not letting Chartrand get away with it. He might be a very, very good man. But he was also a not completely honest one.

“True. I know of you, Chief Inspector. We all do. From the news. And I knew Clara, from articles about her in the art magazines. I approached you in La Muse because…”

“Yes?”

“Because I thought you might make interesting conversation. That’s all.”

Gamache took in, yet again, the single, solitary chair. Which now seemed to envelop, consume, Marcel Chartrand. And Gamache wondered if it was that simple.

Did this man just want company? Someone he could talk to, and listen to?

Was it the art of conversation Marcel Chartrand finally yearned for? Would he trade these silent masterpieces for a single good friend?

Chartrand turned back to Clara.

“Peter never mentioned he had a wife. He lived the life of a
religieux
here. A monk.” Chartrand smiled reassuringly. “He’d visit me, but more for the company of my paintings than me. He’d take a meal at one of the diners in town. Rarely anything as fancy as La Muse. He spoke to almost no one. And then he’d go back to his cabin.”

“To paint,” said Clara.

“Perhaps.”

“Did he show you what he was working on?” Gamache asked.

Chartrand shook his head. “And I never asked to see it. I’m approached often enough, I don’t need to seek it out. Except on rare occasions.”

He turned back to Clara. “What you said at La Muse earlier today, about Gagnon stripping the skin off the land and painting the muscle, the veins, was exactly right. Far from being ugly or gruesome, what he painted was the wonder of the place. The heart and soul of the place. He painted what so few really see. He must’ve had a very powerful muse to let him get so deep.”

“Who was Gagnon’s muse?” Gamache asked.

“Oh, I didn’t mean a person.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Nature. I think like Tom Thomson, Clarence Gagnon’s muse was Nature herself. Doesn’t get more powerful than that.” He turned back to Clara. “What Gagnon did for landscapes, you do for people. Their face, their skin, their veneer is there for the outside world. But you also paint their interiors. It’s a rare gift, madame. I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.”

It was clear he had.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I promised myself I wouldn’t mention your work. You must get it all the time. Forgive me. And you have more pressing concerns. How can I help?”

He turned from Clara to Gamache.

“Did you know Peter’s earlier works?” Gamache asked.

“I knew he was an artist and a successful one. I can’t say I remember seeing any particular painting.”

Chartrand’s voice had changed. Still gracious, there was now a distance. He was talking business.

“Did you talk to him about his work?” Clara asked.

“No. He never asked for my opinion and I never volunteered.”

But they had only his word for that, thought Gamache. And the Chief already knew Chartrand was not always completely honest.

TWENTY-FOUR

Gamache woke up early in the unfamiliar bed, to unfamiliar sounds outside the open window.

The lace curtain puffed out slightly, as though taking a breath, then subsided. The air that was inhaled into the room smelled fresh, with the unmistakable tang that came from a large body of water nearby.

He looked at his watch on the bedside table.

Not yet six but the sun was already up.

Beauvoir, however, was not. He was fast asleep in the next bed, his face squished into the pillow, his mouth slightly open. It was a sight Gamache had seen many times and knew that Annie saw every day.

It must be love, he decided as he quietly got up and prepared for the day, pausing to pull back the lace at the window and look out. It had been well past midnight when they’d finally gotten to sleep under the comforters. Gamache had no idea what he’d see outside the window, and was surprised and delighted that this bedroom looked out over the metal roofs of the old Charlevoix village. And to the St. Lawrence beyond.

Once showered and dressed, he crept downstairs and outside.

It was a pastel time of day. Everything soft blues and pinks in the early sun. The tourists were asleep in their inns and B and Bs. Few residents were up, and Gamache had the village to himself. Far from feeling abandoned, the place felt expectant. About to give birth to another vibrant day.

But not just yet. For now all was peaceful. Anything was possible.

He found a bench not far away, sat down, reached into his pocket and brought out the book. His constant companion.

He started reading. After a few pages he closed the book and held his large hand over the cover so that the title was slightly obscured. Like the river between the old homes. Hinted at. There, but not completely seen.

The Balm in Gilead.

He pressed it closed and thought, as he did each morning since his retirement, of the last hands that had shut the book.

… to cure a sin-sick soul.

Was there a cure for what he’d done in those woods outside Three Pines, eight months ago? It wasn’t so much the act of killing. The taking of a life. It was how he’d felt about it. And the fact he’d intended to do it, even hoped to do it, when he’d arrived.

Mens rea
. The difference between manslaughter and murder. Intent.
Mens rea
. A guilty mind. A sin-sick soul.

He looked at the book beneath his hand.

How would the previous owner of this book have felt about what he’d done?

Armand Gamache was pretty sure he knew the answer to that.

He turned his back on the river, on the rugged shoreline, on the container ships and the whales gliding beneath the surface. Huge and unseen.

Gamache walked back to the home of Marcel Chartrand.

“I thought I heard someone leave,” said Chartrand from the porch as Gamache approached. “How’d you sleep?”

“Perfectly.”

“You must be used to strange beds,” said their host, handing Gamache a mug of coffee that steamed in the fresh morning air.