The Long Way Home(67)

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.