A Trick of the Light

Her eyes never softened, but her expression did, as she began to lose herself in the paintings and the puzzle.

Armand hadn’t told her anything about them. About who’d done them, about what he wanted to know. He’d given her no information, except that they were from a murder investigation.

He wanted her to form her own opinion, unsullied by his questions or comments.

The Chief Inspector had taught her at the academy that a crime scene wasn’t simply on the ground. It was in people’s heads. Their memories and perceptions. Their feelings. And you don’t want to contaminate those with leading questions.

Finally she leaned away from the table and looked up, first as always at Jérôme, then to Gamache.

“Well, Superintendent?”

“Well, Chief Inspector, I can tell you I’ve never seen these works or this artist before. The style is singular. Like nothing else out there. Deceptively simple. Not primitive, but not self-conscious either. They’re beautiful.”

“Would they be valuable?”

“Now there’s a question.” She considered the images again. “Beautiful isn’t in fashion. Edgy, dark, stark, cynical, that’s what galleries and curators want. They seem to think they’re more complex, more challenging, but I can tell you, they’re not. Light is every bit as challenging as dark. We can discover a great deal about ourselves by looking at beauty.”

“And what do these,” Gamache indicated the paintings on the table, “tell you?”

“About myself?” she asked with a smile.

“If you’d like, but I was thinking more about the artist.”

“Who is he, Armand?”

He hesitated. “I’ll tell you in a moment, but I’d like to hear what you think.”

“Whoever painted these is a wonderful artist. Not, I think, a young artist. There’s too much nuance. As I said, they’re deceptively simple, but if you look closely they’re made up of grace notes. Like here.” She pointed to where a road swept around a building, like a river around a rock. “That slight play of light. And over here, in the distance, where sky and building and road all meet and become difficult to distinguish.”

Thérèse looked at the paintings, almost wistfully. “They’re magnificent. I’d like to meet the artist.” She looked into Gamache’s eyes and held them for a moment longer than necessary. “But I suspect I won’t. He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s the victim?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Besides the fact you’re the head of homicide?” She smiled and beside her Jérôme gave a harrumph of amusement. “Because for you to bring these to me the artist would have to be either a suspect or the victim, and whoever painted these would not kill.”

“Why not?”

“Artists tend to paint what they know. A painting is a feeling. The best artists reveal themselves in their works,” said Superintendent Brunel, glancing again at the art. “Whoever painted this was content. Not, perhaps, perfect, but a content man.”

“Or woman,” said the Chief Inspector. “And you’re right, she’s dead.”

He told them about Lillian Dyson, her life and her death.

“Do you know who killed her?” Jérôme asked.

“I’m getting closer,” said Gamache, gathering up the photographs. “What can you tell me about François Marois and André Castonguay?”

Thérèse raised a finely shaped brow. “The art dealers? Are they involved?”

“Along with Denis Fortin, yes.”

“Well,” said Thérèse, sipping her white wine. “Castonguay has his own gallery, but most of his income comes from the Kelley contract. He landed it decades ago and has managed to hold on to it.”

“You make it sound tenuous.”

“I’m actually amazed he still has it. He’s lost a lot of his influence in recent years, with new, more contemporary galleries opening.”

“Like Fortin’s?”

“Exactly like Fortin. Very aggressive. Fortin’s taken a real run at the gentlemen’s club. Can’t say I blame him. They shut him out so he had no choice but to pound down the doors.”

“Denis Fortin doesn’t seem content with pounding down just the doors,” said Gamache, taking a thin slice of cured Italian sausage and a black olive. “I get the impression he wants everything to come crashing down around Castonguay’s ears. Fortin wants it all, and means to get it.”

“Van Gogh’s ear,” said Thérèse, and smiled as Gamache paused before putting the sliced sausage in his mouth. “Not the cold cut, Armand. You’re safe. Though I can’t vouch for the olives.”

She gave him a wicked look.

“Did you just say, ‘Van Gogh’s ear’?” asked the Chief Inspector. “Someone else used the same expression earlier in the investigation. Can’t remember who now. What does it mean?”

“It means scooping up everything for fear of missing something important. Like they missed Van Gogh’s genius in another era. Denis Fortin is doing just that. Grabbing up all the promising artists, in case one of them turns out to be the new Van Gogh, or Damien Hirst or Anish Kapoor.”

“The next big thing. He missed it with Clara Morrow.”

“He sure did,” agreed Superintendent Brunel. “Which must make him desperate not to do it again.”

“So he’d want this artist?” Gamache indicated the now closed dossier on the table.