The Brutal Telling
“I realize that,” said Gamache, wondering if he was making himself clear. “But it seems possible the Hermit carved the same figures into each of his sculptures.”
“The boy?”
“And the people. Anything else?”
Olivier thought. There was something else. The shadow over the trees. Something loomed just behind them. Something was rising up. And Olivier knew what it was.
“No, nothing. Just a forest and the people inside. The dealer was pretty excited.”
“What did it sell for?”
“Fifteen thousand.” He watched for the shock on Gamache’s face.
But Gamache’s gaze didn’t waver, and Olivier congratulated himself on telling the truth. It was clear the Chief Inspector already knew the answer to that question. Telling the truth was always a crapshoot. As was the telling of lies. It was best, Olivier had found, to mingle the two.
“How many carvings did he make?”
“I thought eight, but now that you’ve found those, I guess he did ten.”
“And you sold all the ones he gave you?”
Olivier nodded.
“You’d told us he started out giving you other things from his cabin, as payment for food. Where did those go?”
“I took them to the antique stores on rue Notre Dame in Montreal. But then once I realized the stuff was valuable I found private dealers.”
“Who?”
Gamache remained quiet.
The Chief Inspector nodded. “They’re hurt by what you did.”
“Me? Marc Gilbert’s way worse. Be careful with him. He’s not what he seems.”
“And neither are you, Olivier. You’ve lied all along. You may be lying now. I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to think carefully about the answer.”
Olivier nodded and straightened up.
“Was the Hermit Czech?”
Olivier immediately opened his mouth but Gamache quickly brought up a hand to stop him. “I asked you to think about your answer. Consider it. Could you have been wrong? Maybe there was no accent,” Gamache watched his companion closely. “Maybe he spoke with an accent but it wasn’t necessarily Czech. Maybe you just assumed. Be careful what you say.”
Olivier stared at Gamache’s large, steady hand and as it lowered he switched his gaze to the large, steady man.
“There was no mistake. I’ve heard enough Czech over the years from friends and neighbors. He was Czech.”
It was said with more certainty than anything Olivier had said to Gamache since the investigation began. Still, Gamache stared at the slight man across from him. He examined his mouth, his eyes, the lines on his forehead, his coloring. Then the Chief Inspector nodded.
“Chilly night,” said Ruth, plopping onto the seat beside Gamache and managing to knock his knee quite hard with her muddy cane. “Sorry,” she said, then did it again.
She was completely oblivious of the conversation she was interrupting and the tension between the two men. She looked from Olivier to Gamache.
“Well, enough of this gay banter. Can you believe what Olivier did with that body? His idiocy eclipses even your own. Gives me a sense of the infinite. It’s almost a spiritual experience. Cheese?”
She took the last bite of Gamache’s Saint-André and reached for his Scotch, but he got there first. Myrna arrived, then Clara and Peter dropped by and told everyone about Denis Fortin. There was general commiserating and all agreed Clara had done the right thing. Then they agreed she should call in the morning and beg his forgiveness. Then they agreed she shouldn’t.
“I saw Rosa outside,” said Clara, anxious to change the subject. “She’s looking very smart in her rain jacket.” It had occurred to her to wonder why a duck might need a raincoat, but she supposed Ruth was just training Rosa to get used to wearing coats.
Eventually the conversation came back to Olivier, and the Hermit, dead, and the Hermit alive. Ruth leaned over and took Olivier’s hand. “It’s all right, dear, we all know you’re greedy.” Then she looked at Clara. “And we all know you’re needy, and Peter’s petty and Clouseau here,” she turned to Gamache, “is arrogant. And you’re . . .” She looked at Myrna, then turned back to Olivier, whispering loudly, “Who is that anyway? She’s always hanging around.”