The Brutal Telling

“None.”

“Are you sure?” Gamache twisted in his chair to look at Morin, but the agent shook his head.

“I double- and triple-checked. It’s almost midnight there but I have a call in to the Martinù Conservatory in Prague to get more information and I’ll ask them, but it doesn’t seem so.”

“Ask about the violin, would you?” said Gamache, rising and putting his coat back on. He’d headed to the cabin, walking slowly through the woods, thinking.

A Sûreté officer guarding the cabin greeted him on the porch.

“Come with me, please,” said Gamache and led the agent to the wheelbarrow sitting by the vegetable patch. He explained it had been used to carry a body and asked the officer to take samples. While she did that, Gamache went into the cabin.

It would be emptied the next morning, everything taken away for cataloguing, safe keeping. Put away in a dark vault. Away from human hands and eyes.

But before that happened Gamache wanted to see it all one last time.

Closing the door behind him he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. As always, it was the smell that first impressed him. Wood, and woodsmoke. Then the musky undertone of coffee and finally the sweeter scent of coriander and tarragon, from the window boxes.

The place was peaceful, restful. Cheerful even. While everything in it was a masterpiece, it all seemed at home in the rustic cabin. The Hermit might have known their worth, but he certainly knew their use, and used everything as it was intended. Glasses, dishes, silverware, vases. All put to purpose.

Gamache picked up the Bergonzi violin and cradling it he sat in the Hermit’s chair by the fireplace. One for solitude, two for friendship.

The dead man had no need, or desire, for society. But he did have company.

They now knew who had sat in that other comfortable chair. Gamache had thought it was Dr. Vincent Gilbert, but he’d been wrong. It was Olivier Brulé. He’d come to keep the Hermit company, to bring him seeds and staples, and companionship. And in return the Hermit had given him what Olivier wanted. Treasure.

It was a fair trade.

But had someone else found him? If not, or if Gamache couldn’t prove it, then Olivier Brulé would be arrested for murder. Arrested, tried and probably convicted.

Gamache couldn’t shake the thought that it was too convenient that Dr. Vincent Gilbert had arrived just as the Hermit had been killed. Hadn’t Olivier said the dead man was worried about strangers? Maybe Gilbert was that stanger.

Gamache tipped his head back and thought some more. Suppose Vincent Gilbert wasn’t the one the Hermit was hiding from. Suppose it was another Gilbert. After all, it was Marc who’d bought the old Hadley house. He’d quit a successful job in the city to come here. He and Dominique had plenty of money; they could have bought any place in the Townships. So why buy a broken-down old wreck? Unless it wasn’t the house they wanted, but the forest.

And what about the Parras? Olivier had said the Hermit spoke with a slight accent. A Czech accent. And Roar was clearing the trail. Heading straight here.

Maybe he’d found the cabin. And the treasure.

Maybe they knew he was here somewhere and had been looking. When Gilbert bought the place maybe Roar took the job so that he could explore the woods. Searching for the Hermit.

And Havoc. What was the case against him? He seemed, by all reports, like a regular young man. But a young man who chose to stay here, in this backwater, while most of his friends had moved away. To university. To careers. Waiting table couldn’t be considered a career. What was such a personable, bright young man doing here?

Gamache sat forward. Seeing the last night of the Hermit’s life. The crowd at the bistro. Old Mundin arriving with the furniture then leaving. Olivier leaving. Havoc locking up. Then noticing his employer do something unexpected. Something bizarre even.

Had Havoc seen Olivier turn toward the woods instead of going home?

Curious, Havoc would have followed Olivier. Straight to the cabin. And the treasures.

It played out before Gamache’s eyes. Olivier leaving and Havoc confronting the frightened man. Demanding some of the things. The Hermit refusing. Maybe he shoved Havoc away. Maybe Havoc struck out, picking up a weapon and smashing the Hermit. Frightened, he’d fled. Just before Olivier returned.

But that didn’t explain everything.

Gamache put down the violin and looked up at the web in the corner. No, this wasn’t a murder that had happened out of the blue. There was cunning here. And cruelty. The Hermit was tortured first, then killed. Tortured by a tiny word.

Woo.