The Brutal Telling
“Go on,” said Gamache.
“His hair was a little long and he looked a bit scruffy. Not the sort to do a lot of buying. But it was quiet and I talked to him. He came back a week later, and then about once a week for a few months. Finally he took me aside and said he had something he wanted to sell. That was pretty disappointing too. I’d been nice to the guy but now he was asking me to buy some piece of junk and it pissed me off. I almost asked him to leave, but by then he had the piece in his hand.”
Olivier remembered looking down. They were at the back and the lighting wasn’t good, but it didn’t gleam or glitter. In fact it looked very dull. Olivier reached out for it but the Hermit drew his hand back. And then it caught the light.
It was a miniature portrait. The two men walked to the window and Olivier got a good view.
It was in a tarnished old frame and must have been painted with a single horse hair, so fine was the detail. It showed a man in profile, powdered wig, blowsy clothing.
Even the memory made Olivier’s heart quicken.
“How much do you want?”
“Maybe some food?” the Hermit had asked, and the deal was sealed.
Olivier looked at Gamache, whose thoughtful brown eyes never wavered.
“And that’s how it started. I agreed to take the painting in exchange for a few bags of groceries.”
“And what was it worth?”
“Not much.” Olivier remembered carefully taking the miniature from its frame, and seeing the old lettering on the back. It was some Polish count. With a date. 1745. “I sold it for a few dollars.”
He held Gamache’s eyes.
“Where?”
“Some antique place along rue Notre Dame in Montreal.”
Gamache nodded. “Go on.”
“After that the Hermit brought stuff to the shop every now and then and I’d give him food. But he became more and more paranoid. Didn’t want to come into the village anymore. So he invited me to his cabin.”
“Why did you agree to go? It was quite an inconvenience.”
Olivier had been afraid of that question.
“Did he ever explain how he came to have items that were priceless?”
“Never, and I never asked. I was afraid to scare him off.”
“Did he know the value of what he had?”
That was an interesting question, and one Olivier had debated himself. The Hermit treated the finest engraved silver the way Gabri treated Ikea flatware. There was no attempt to coddle anything. But neither was the Hermit cavalier. He was a cautious man, that much was certain.
“I’m not sure,” said Olivier.
“So you gave him groceries and he gave you near-priceless antiques?”
Gamache’s voice was neutral, curious. It held none of the censure Olivier knew it could, and should.
“He didn’t give me the best stuff, at least not at first. And I did more than take him groceries. I helped dig his vegetable garden, and brought the seeds to plant.”
“How often did you visit?”
“Every two weeks.”
Gamache considered, then spoke. “Why was he living in the cabin away from everyone else?”
“Hiding, I guess.”
“But from what?”
Olivier shook his head. “Don’t know. I tried to ask but he was having none of it.”
“What can you tell us?” Gamache’s voice wasn’t quite as patient as it had been. Beauvior looked up from his notebook, and Olivier shifted in his seat.
“I know the Hermit built the cabin over several months. Then he carried all the stuff in himself.” Olivier was studying Gamache, eager for his approval, eager for the thaw. The large man leaned forward slightly and Olivier rushed on. “He told me all about it. Most of his things weren’t big. Just the armchairs, really, and the bed. The rest anybody could’ve carried. And he was strong.”
Still, Gamache was silent. Olivier squirmed.
“I’m telling the truth. He never explained how he got all those things, and I was afraid to ask, but it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? He must have stolen them. Otherwise, why hide?”