Brutal Telling

“Mais, ce n’est pas possible. This’s from the Amber Room, I’m sure of it.” She approached the glowing orange panel leaning against the kitchen window. “Bon Dieu, it is,” she whispered and all but crossed herself.

The Chief Inspector watched for a while. He knew she hadn’t really been prepared for what she’d find. He’d tried to warn her, though he knew the photographs didn’t do the place justice. He’d told her about the fine china.

The leaded crystal.

The signed first editions.

The tapestries.

The icons.

“Is that a violin?” She pointed to the instrument by the easy chair, its wood deep and warm.

“It’s moved,” said Beauvoir, then stared at the young agent. “Did you touch it last night?”

Morin blushed and looked frightened. “A little. I just picked it up. And . . .”

Superintendent Brunel held it now up to the light at the window, tipping it this way and that. “Chief Inspector, can you read this?” She handed him the violin and pointed to a label. As Gamache tried to read she picked up the bow and examined it.

“A Tourte bow,” she almost snorted and looked at their blank faces. “Worth a couple of hundred thousand.” She batted it in their direction then turned to Gamache. “Does it say Stradivari?”

“I don’t think so. It seems to say Anno 1738,” he strained, “Carlos something. Fece in Cremona.” He took off his glasses and looked at Thérèse Brunel. “Mean anything to you?”

She was smiling and still holding the bow. “Carlos Bergonzi. He was a luthier. Stradivari’s best pupil.”

“So it’s not the finest violin?” asked Beauvoir, who’d at least heard of Stradivarius violins, but never this other guy.

“Perhaps not quite as fine as his master, but a Bergonzi is still worth a million.”

“A Bergonzi?” said Morin.

“Yes. Do you know about them?”

“Not really, but we found some original sheet music for violin with a note attached. It mentions a Bergonzi.” Morin went over to the bookcase and rummaged for a moment, emerging with a sheaf of music and a card. He handed it to the Superintendent who glanced at it and passed it on to Gamache.

“Any idea what language it’s in?” she asked. “Not Russian, not Greek.”

Gamache read. It seemed addressed to a B, it mentioned a Bergonzi and was signed C. The rest was unintelligible, though it seemed to include terms of endearment. It was dated December 8, 1950.

“Could B be the victim?” Brunel asked.

Gamache shook his head. “The dates don’t match. He wouldn’t have been born yet. And I presume B couldn’t be Bergonzi?”

“No, too late. He was long dead. So who were B and C and why did our man collect the music and the card?” Brunel asked herself. She glanced at the sheet music and smiled. Handing the sheaf to Gamache she pointed to the top line. The music was composed by a BM.

“So,” said Gamache, lowering the pages. “This original score was composed by a BM. The note attached was addressed to a B and mentions a Bergonzi violin. Seems logical to assume B played the violin and composed and someone, C, gave him this gift.” He nodded to the violin. “So who was BM and why did our victim have his music and his violin?”

“Is it any good?” Brunel asked Morin. Gamache handed him the score. The young agent, mouth slightly open, thick lips glistening, was looking particularly stupid. He stared at the music and hummed. Then looked up.

“Seems okay.”

“Play it.” Gamache handed him the million-dollar violin. Morin took it, reluctantly. “You played it last night, didn’t you?” the Chief asked.

“You what?” demanded Beauvoir.

Morin turned to him. “It’d been dusted and photographed and I didn’t think it’d matter.”

“Did you also juggle the china or have batting practice with the glasses? You don’t mess around with evidence.”

“Sorry.”

“Play the music, please,” said Gamache. Superintendent Brunel gave him the near-priceless bow.

“I didn’t play this last night. I only really know fiddle music.”

“Just do your best,” said the Chief.

Agent Morin hesitated then placed the violin under his chin and curving his body he brought the bow up. And down. Across the gut strings.

The slow, full notes of a tune left the instrument. So rich was the sound the notes were almost visible as they filled the air. The tune they heard was slower than intended by BM, Gamache suspected, since Agent Morin was stuggling to follow the music. But it was still beautiful, complex and accomplished. Obviously BM knew what he was doing. Gamache closed his eyes and imagined the dead man there, alone. On a winter’s night. Snow piling up outside. A simple vegetable soup on the stove, the fireplace lit and throwing heat. And the small cabin filled with music. This music.

Why this music and no other?

“Do you know it?” Gamache looked at Superintendent Brunel, who was listening with her eyes closed. She shook her head and opened her eyes.

“Non, but it’s lovely. I wonder who BM was.”

Morin lowered the violin, relieved to stop.

“Was the violin in tune when you played yesterday or did you have to adjust it?” she asked.