Brutal Telling

“Denis? It’s Clara Morrow. Yes, that was fun. Really, is that a good price? Sure, I’ll tell the Chief Inspector. Listen, I’m going to be in Montreal today and thought maybe we could get together again. I have . . . well, a few thoughts.” She paused. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. That sounds great. Twelve thirty at the Santropole on Duluth. Perfect.”

What have I done? Peter asked himself.

Breakfast at the B and B was a somber affair of burned toast, rubber eggs and black bacon. The coffee was weak and the milk seemed curdled, as did Gabri. By mutual, unspoken consent they didn’t discuss the case, but waited until they were back at the Incident Room.

“Oh, thank God,” said Agent Lacoste, as she fell on the Tim Hortons double double coffees Agent Morin had brought. And the chocolate-glazed doughnuts. “I never thought I’d prefer this to Gabri’s breakfasts.” She took a huge bite of soft, sweet doughnut. “If this keeps up we might have to solve the case and leave.”

“There’s a thought,” said Gamache, putting on his half-moon reading glasses.

Beauvoir went over to his computer to check messages. There, taped to the monitor, was a scrap of paper with familiar writing. He ripped it off, scrunched it up and tossed it to the floor.

Chief Inspector Gamache also looked at his screen. The results of his Google search of “Charlotte.”

Sipping his coffee he read about Good Charlotte, the band, and Charlotte Brontë, and Charlotte Church and Charlotte’s Web, the city of Charlotte in North Carolina and Charlottetown on Prince Edward Island and the Queen Charlotte Islands on the other side of the continent, off British Columbia. Most of the places were named after Queen Charlotte, he discovered.

“Does the name Charlotte mean anything to you?” he asked his team.

After thinking for a moment, they shook their heads.

“How about Queen Charlotte? She was married to King George.”

“George the Third? The crazy one?” Morin asked. The others looked at him in amazement. Agent Morin smiled. “I was good at history in school.”

It helped, thought Gamache, that school for him wasn’t all that long ago. The phone rang and Agent Morin took it. It was the Martinù Conservatory, in Prague. Gamache listened to Morin’s side of the conversation until his own phone rang.

It was Superintendent Brunel.

“I arrived to find my office looking like Hannibal’s tent. I can barely move for your Hermit’s items, Armand.” She didn’t sound displeased. “But I’m not calling about that. I have an invitation. Would you like to join Jérôme and me for lunch at our apartment? He has something he’d like to show you. And I have news as well.”

It was confirmed he’d meet them at one o’clock at the Brunel apartment on rue Laurier. As he hung up the phone rang again.

“Clara Morrow for you, sir,” said Agent Morin.

“Bonjour, Clara.”

“Bonjour. I just wanted to let you know I spoke to Denis Fortin this morning. In fact, we’re having lunch today. He told me he’d found a buyer for the carvings.”

“Is that right? Who?”

“I didn’t ask, but he says they’re willing to pay a thousand dollars for the two. He seemed to think that was a good price.”

“That is interesting. Would you like a lift into town? I’m meeting someone myself.”

“Sure, thank you.”

“I’ll be by in about half an hour.”

When he hung up Agent Morin was off his call.

“They said Martinù had no children. They were aware of the violin, but it disappeared after his death in,” Morin consulted his notes, “1959. I told them we’d found the violin and an original copy of the score. They were very excited and said it would be worth a lot of money. In fact, it would be considered a Czech national treasure.”

There was that word again. Treasure.

“Did you ask about his wife, Charlotte?”

“I did. They were together a long time, but only actually married on his deathbed. She died a few years ago. No family.”

Gamache nodded, thinking. Then he spoke to Agent Morin again. “I need you to look into the Czech community here, especially the Parras. And find out about their lives in the Czech Republic. How they got out, who they knew there, their family. Everything.”

He went over to Beauvoir. “I’m heading into Montreal for the day to talk to Superintendent Brunel and follow some leads.”

“D’accord. As soon as Morin gets the information on the Parras I’ll go up there.”

“Don’t go alone.”

“I won’t.”

Gamache stooped and picked up the scrap of paper on the floor by Beauvoir’s desk. He opened it and read, In the midst of your nightmare,

“In the midst of your nightmare,” he repeated, handing it to Beauvoir. “What do you think it means?”

Beauvoir shrugged and opened the drawer to his desk. A nest of balled-up words lay there. “I find them everywhere. In my coat pocket, pinned to my door in the morning. This one was taped to my computer.”

Gamache reached into the desk and chose a scrap at random.

that the deity who kills for pleasure

will also heal,