The Long Way Home(80)

If the clearing wasn’t seen literally, if the true colors weren’t looked for on the canvas, then slowly it revealed itself.

What Clara held was a strange marriage, a sort of alchemy, between reality and perception. Between what they saw and what Peter felt.

“He was here,” Myrna agreed. “And the other?”

Myrna retrieved the other painting and, with Beauvoir beside her, held it up and walked through the field. Until they stopped.

“Here.”

And then they all looked at Marcel Chartrand.

“You knew, didn’t you?” said Gamache.

“Not at first,” he said. “Not when I saw the paintings in my office. It’s impossible to connect them with here.”

Reluctantly, Gamache had to agree. But he still stared at Chartrand.

“When did you know that Peter had been here?”

“After we realized Professor Norman and No Man are the same person. You have to understand, I hadn’t given this fellow No Man a thought in years. Artist colonies pop up around here all the time. There was one a few years back where the members only painted in shades of green. Another where they only spoke Latin. Some of the communities survive for a while, most don’t. That’s just the way it is.”

“But you didn’t tell us Peter came here,” said Beauvoir. He and Myrna had rejoined them.

“I still wasn’t sure until we got here.” Chartrand looked at Clara.

“How’d he know how to find it?” Gamache asked. “It’s not exactly on the tourist place mat. Did you tell him? Did you bring him here?”

“I told you, no. But it wasn’t a secret. Everyone knew about the colony. As I said, it was just one of many. There’re probably former members still living in the area. Maybe one of them told Peter about it.”

“But you knew where it was. You’ve been here before,” Gamache said.

“Once.”

“Were you a member?” He watched Chartrand closely.

“Me?” The gallery owner seemed genuinely surprised at the suggestion. “No. I’m not an artist.”

“Was this place really about art?” Myrna asked. “Or about the tenth muse?”

“Art, as far as I know.”

“Why did you come here if not for the art?” Gamache asked.

“No Man asked me to talk about Clarence Gagnon. He was interested in him. All the members were.”

“Why?” Gamache asked.

“You know why,” said Chartrand. “I can see it when you look at his paintings. The man wasn’t just a genius, he was courageous, bold. Willing to break with convention. He painted traditional images, but with such—” Chartrand searched for the word, and in the silence they could hear the buzz of flies and bees. “Grace. He painted with grace.”

And Gamache knew the truth in that.

“Do you think Clarence Gagnon had found the tenth muse?”

The question came from Jean-Guy Beauvoir, without a hint of sarcasm.

Marcel Chartrand took a deep breath and thought about that.

“I think if there was a muse for art, then Clarence Gagnon had found her. Here, in Baie-Saint-Paul. There’re lots of beautiful places in Québec, but this one is like a magnet for artists. I think No Man suspected Clarence Gagnon had found the tenth muse here. And that’s why he came. To find her.”

They looked around the empty, abandoned field. At the lumps and bumps that had once been homes and now looked like burial mounds. And Armand Gamache wondered what he’d see if he returned at night. Probably no human. No Man. But would he see the muses, dancing?

Nine of them?

Or just one. Twirling like a dervish. Alone, powerful. Expelled. As No Man had been.

Driven mad. Driven here.





TWENTY-NINE

It was getting late by the time they returned to Baie-Saint-Paul.

Chartrand parked at the gallery, and Beauvoir, after a glance at Gamache, excused himself and walked down the cobblestone street.

“Where’s he going?” Myrna asked.

“To get an iced tea,” said Gamache.

“I wouldn’t mind one myself,” she said. But by the time she turned around, Beauvoir had disappeared. She turned back to Gamache. “What’re you up to, Armand?”

He smiled. “If you were a member of No Man’s colony, and the place fell apart, what would you do?”

“Go home.”

“Suppose this was home?”

“I’d—” She thought about it. “Find work, I guess.”

“Or maybe start your own business,” said Gamache.

“I might. An art gallery, for instance?” She studied him, then dropped her voice. “You don’t believe Chartrand, do you?”

“I don’t believe anyone. Not even you.”

She laughed. “Nor should you. I lied just now. I’m not interested in an iced tea, I just wanted to know where Jean-Guy raced off to.”

“Can you guess?” asked Gamache.

Myrna thought about it, then a smile spread across her face. “You sneak. He’s gone to the brasserie. La Muse.”

Armand smiled. “Worth a try.”

“And you think she’ll be there? This tenth muse?” Myrna asked.