Brutal Telling

He placed the two carvings on the table and moved them slowly to the center. So lively were the sculptures it looked as though the ship had taken sail and was moving on its own. And it looked as though the people on the shore were eagerly awaiting the arrival of the ship.

“What are those?” asked Gamache, rising from his chair and moving round the table for a closer look.

“I found them last night. They were hidden in the pillows on the bed.”

The three officers looked stunned.

“You’re kidding,” said Lacoste. “In the pillows?”

“Sewn into the pillows on the bed. Well hidden, though I’m not sure whether he was hiding them or protecting them.”

“Why didn’t you call?” demanded Beauvoir, tearing his eyes from the carvings to look at Morin.

“Should I have?” He looked stricken, his eyes bouncing among the officers. “I just thought there was nothing we could do until now anyway.”

He’d longed to call; only a mighty effort had stopped him from dialing the B and B and waking them all up. But he didn’t want to give in to his fear. But he could see by their faces he’d made a mistake.

All his life he’d been afraid, and all his life it had marred his judgment. He’d hoped that had stopped, but apparently not.

“Next time,” the Chief said, looking at him sternly, “call. We’re a team, we need to know everything.”

“Oui, patron.”

“Have these been dusted?” Beauvoir asked.

Morin nodded and held up an envelope. “The prints.”

Beauvoir grabbed it out of his hand and took it to his computer to scan in. But even from there his eyes kept going back to the two carvings.

Gamache was leaning over the table, peering at them through his half-moon glasses

“They’re remarkable.”

The joy of the little wooden travelers was palpable. Gamache knelt down so that he was at eye level with the carvings, and they were sailing toward him. It seemed the carvings were two halves of a whole. A ship full of people sailing toward a shore. And more happy people waiting.

So why did he feel uneasy? Why did he want to warn the ship to go back?

“There’s something written on the bottom of each,” Morin offered. He picked one up and showed it to the Chief who looked then handed it to Lacoste. Beauvoir picked up the other and saw a series of letters. It was nonsense, but of course it wasn’t really. It meant something. They just had to figure it out.

“Is it Russian?” Morin asked.

“No. The Russian alphabet is Cyrillic. This is the Roman alphabet,” said Gamache.

“What does it mean?”

The three more seasoned officers looked at each other.

“I have no idea,” admitted the Chief Inspector. “Most artisans mark their works, sign them in some way. Perhaps this is how the carver signed his works.”

“Then wouldn’t the lettering under each carving be the same?” asked Morin.

“That’s true. I’m at a loss. Perhaps Superintendent Brunel can tell us. She’ll be here this morning.”

“I found something else last night,” said Morin. “I took a picture of it. It’s still in my camera. You can’t see it too well, but . . .”

He turned on his digital camera and handed it to Beauvoir, who looked briefly at the image.

“Too small. I can’t make it out. I’ll throw it up onto the computer.”

They continued to discuss the case while Beauvoir sat at his computer, downloading the image.

“Tabarnac,” they heard him whisper.

“What is it?” Gamache walked to the desk. Lacoste joined him and they huddled round the flat screen.

There was the web, and the word.

Woe.

“What does it mean?” Beauvoir asked, almost to himself.

Gamache shook his head. How could a spider have woven a word? And why that one? The same word they’d found carved in wood and tossed under the bed.

“Some pig.”

They looked at Lacoste.

“Pardon?” Gamache asked.

“When I was in the outhouse yesterday I found a signed first edition.”

“About a girl named Jane?” Morin asked, then wished he hadn’t. They all looked at him as though he’d said “some pig.” “I found a book in the cabin,” he explained. “By a guy named Currer Bell.”

Lacoste looked blank, Gamache looked perplexed, and Morin didn’t even want to think what look Beauvoir was giving him.

“Never mind. Go on.”

“It was Charlotte’s Web, by E. B. White,” said Agent Lacoste. “One of my favorites as a child.”

“My daughter’s too,” said Gamache. He remembered reading the book over and over to the little girl who pretended she wasn’t afraid of the dark. Afraid of the closed closet, afraid of the creaks and groans of the house. He’d read to her every night until finally she’d fall asleep.

The book that gave her the most comfort, and that he’d practically memorized, was Charlotte’s Web.

“Some pig,” he repeated, and gave a low, rumbling laugh. “The book’s about a lonely piglet destined for the slaughterhouse. A spider named Charlotte befriends him and tries to save his life.”

“By weaving things about him into her web,” explained Lacoste. “Things like ‘Some pig’ so the farmer would think Wilbur was special. The book in the outhouse is signed by the author.”

Gamache shook his head. Incredible.