Brutal Telling

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.

After a few minutes Gamache got up and slowly wandered the room, picking up pieces here and there, touching things he never thought he’d see never mind hold. The panel from the Amber Room that threw pumpkin light into the kitchen. Ancient pottery used by the Hermit for herbs. Stunning enameled spoons and silk tapestries. And first editions. One was on the bedside table. Gamache picked it up idly, and looked at it.

Currer Bell was the author. Agent Morin had mentioned this book. He flipped it open. Another first edition. Then he noticed the title of the book.

Jane Eyre: An Autobiography. Currer Bell. That was the pseudonym used by—

He opened the book again. Charlotte Brontë. He was holding a first edition of Jane Eyre.

Armand Gamache stood very quietly in the cabin. But there wasn’t complete silence. One word whispered to him, and had from the first moment they’d found the cabin. Repeated over and over. In the children’s book found in the outhouse, in the Amber panel, in the violin, and now in the book he held in his hand. One word. A name.

Charlotte.

TWENTY-SEVEN

“We’re getting more results from the lab,” said Lacoste.

Upon his return the Chief had gathered his team at the conference table and now Agent Lacoste was handing around the printouts. “The web was made of nylon fishing line. Readily available. No prints, of course, and no trace of DNA. Whoever made it probably used surgical gloves. All they found was a little dust and a cobweb.” She smiled.

“Dust?” asked Gamache. “Do they have any idea how long it was up?”

“No more than a few days, they guess. Either that or the Hermit dusted it daily, which seems unlikely.”

Gamache nodded.

“So who put it there?” asked Beauvoir. “The victim? The murderer?”

“There’s something else,” said Lacoste. “The lab’s been looking at the wooden Woo. They say it was carved years ago.”

“Was it made by the Hermit?” Gamache asked.

“They’re working on it.”

“Any progress on what woo might mean?”

“There’s a film director named John Woo. He’s from China. Did Mission Impossible II,” said Morin seriously, as though giving them vital information.

“Woo can stand for World of Outlaws. It’s a car-racing organization.” Lacoste looked at the Chief, who stared back blankly. She looked down hurriedly at her notes for something more helpful to say. “Or there’s a video game called Woo.”