Brutal Telling

Before Gamache could pursue it Peter got up and began clearing the table. At the sink he looked back at his friends, chatting. They were close. So close they could reach out and touch each other, which they occasionally did.

And Peter couldn’t. He stood apart, and watched. He missed Ben, who’d once lived in the old Hadley house. Peter had played there as a child. He knew its nooks and crannies. All the scary places where ghosts and spiders lived. But now someone else lived there and had turned it into something else.

Thinking of the Gilberts, Peter could feel his own heart lift a little.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Peter started as he realized Armand Gamache was right beside him.

“Nothing much.”

Gamache took the mixer from Peter’s hand and poured whipping cream and a drop of vanilla into the chilled bowl. He turned it on and leaned toward Peter, his voice drowned out by the whirring machine, lost to all but his companion.

“Tell me about the old Hadley house, and the people there.”

Peter hesitated but knew Gamache wasn’t going to let it go. And this was as discreet as it was going to get. Peter talked, his words whipped and mixed and unintelligible to anyone more than six inches away.

“Marc and Dominique plan to open a luxury inn and spa.”

“At the old Hadley house?”

Gamache’s astonishment was so complete it almost made Peter laugh. “It’s not the same place you remember. You should see it now. It’s fantastic.”

The Chief Inspector wondered whether a coat of paint and new appliances could exorcise demons, and whether the Catholic Church knew about that.

“But not everyone’s happy about it,” Peter continued. “They’ve interviewed a few of Olivier’s workers and offered them jobs at higher wages. Olivier’s managed to keep most of his staff, but he’s had to pay more. The two barely speak.”

“Marc and Olivier?” Gamache asked.

“Won’t be in the same room.”

“That must be awkward, in a small village.”

“Not really.”

“Then why are we whispering?” Gamache shut the mixer off and spoke in a normal tone. Peter, flustered, looked over at the table again.

“Look, I know Olivier’ll get over it, but for now it’s just easier not to bring it up.”

Peter handed Gamache a shortcake, which he cut in half, and Peter piled sliced ripe strawberries in their own brilliant red juice on top of it.

Gamache noticed Clara getting up and Myrna going with her. Olivier came over and put the coffee on to perk.

“Can I help?” asked Gabri.

“Here, put cream on. The cake, Gabri,” said Peter as Gabri approached Olivier with a spoonful of whipped cream. Soon a small conga line of men assembling strawberry shortcakes was formed. When they’d finished they turned around to take the desserts to the table but stopped dead.

There, lit only by candles, was Clara’s art. Or at least three large canvases, propped on easels. Gamache felt suddenly light-headed, as though he’d traveled back to the time of Rembrandt, da Vinci, Titian. Where art was viewed either by daylight or candlelight. Was this how the Mona Lisa was first seen? The Sistine Chapel? By firelight? Like cave drawings.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel and walked closer to the three easels. He noticed the other guests did the same thing, drawn to the paintings. Around them the candles flickered and threw more light than Gamache had expected, though it was possible Clara’s paintings produced their own light.

“I have others, of course, but these’ll be the centerpieces of the exhibition at the Galerie Fortin.”

But no one was really listening. Instead they were staring at the easels. Some at one, some at another. Gamache stood back for a moment, taking in the scene.

Three portraits, three elderly women, stared back at him.

One was clearly Ruth. The one that had first caught Denis Fortin’s eye. The one that had led him to his extraordinary offer of a solo show. The one that had the art world, from Montreal to Toronto, to New York and London, buzzing. About the new talent, the treasure, found buried in Quebec’s Eastern Townships.

And there it was, in front of them.

Clara Morrow had painted Ruth as the elderly, forgotten Virgin Mary. Angry, demented, the Ruth in the portrait was full of despair, of bitterness. Of a life left behind, of opportunities squandered, of loss and betrayals real and imagined and created and caused. She clutched at a rough blue shawl with emaciated hands. The shawl had slipped off one bony shoulder and the skin was sagging, like something nailed up and empty.

And yet the portrait was radiant, filling the room from one tiny point of light. In her eyes. Embittered, mad Ruth stared into the distance, at something very far off, approaching. More imagined than real.

Hope.

Clara had captured the moment despair turned to hope. The moment life began. She’d somehow captured Grace.

It took Gamache’s breath away and he could feel a burning in his eyes. He blinked and turned from it, as though from something so brilliant it blinded. He saw everyone else in the room also staring, their faces soft in the candlelight.