Brutal Telling Read online

  “The victim was struck from behind by a blunt object. Something clean and hard, and narrow.”

  “A fireplace poker?” Beauvoir asked, looking over at the fires Olivier had set. Gamache also looked. It was a damp morning, but not all that cool. A fire wasn’t necessary. Still, it was probably made to comfort more than to heat.

  “If it was a poker it would be clean. The coroner will take a closer look, of course, but there’s no obvious sign of dirt, ash, wood, anything, in the wound.”

  Gamache was staring at the gaping hole in the man’s head. Listening to his agent.

  “No weapon, then?” asked Beauvoir.

  “Not yet. We’re searching, of course.”

  “Who was he?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Gamache took his eyes off the wound and looked at the woman, but said nothing.

  “We have no ID,” Agent Lacoste continued. “We’ve been through his pockets and nothing. Not even a Kleenex. And no one seems to know him. He’s a white male, mid-seventies I’d say. Lean but not malnourished. Five seven, maybe five eight.”

  Years ago, when she’d first joined homicide, it had seemed bizarre to Agent Lacoste to catalog these things the Chief could see perfectly well for himself. But he’d taught them all to do it, and so she did. It was only years later, when she was training someone else, that she recognized the value of the exercise.

  It made sure they both saw the same things. Police were as fallible and subjective as anyone else. They missed things, and misinterpreted things. This catalog made it less likely. Either that or they’d reinforce the same mistakes.

  “Nothing in his hands and it looks like nothing under his fingernails. No bruising. Doesn’t appear to have been a struggle.”

  They stood up.

  “The condition of the room verifies that.”

  They looked around.

  Nothing out of place. Nothing tipped over. Everything clean and orderly.

  It was a restful room. The fires at either end of the beamed bistro took the gloom out of the day. Their light gleamed off the polished wood floors, darkened by years of smoke and farmers’ feet.

  Sofas and large inviting armchairs sat in front of each fireplace, their fabric faded. Old chairs were grouped around dark wooden dining tables. In front of the mullioned bay windows three or four wing chairs waited for villagers nursing steaming café au lait and croissants, or Scotches, or burgundy wine. Gamache suspected the people milling outside in the rain could do with a good stiff drink. He thought Olivier and Gabri certainly could.

  Chief Inspector Gamache and his team had been in the bistro many times, enjoying meals in front of the roaring fire in winter or a quiet cool drink on the terrasse in summer. Almost always discussing murder. But never with an actual body right there.

  Sharon Harris joined them, taking off her wet raincoat then smiling at Agent Lacoste and shaking hands solemnly with the Chief Inspector.

  “Dr. Harris,” he said, bowing slightly. “I’m sorry about disturbing your long weekend.”

  She’d been sitting at home, flipping through the television channels, trying to find someone who wasn’t preaching at her, when the phone had rung. It had seemed a godsend. But looking now at the body, she knew that this had very little to do with God.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said Gamache. Through the windows he saw the villagers, still there, waiting for news. A tall, handsome man with gray hair bent down to listen as a short woman with wild hair spoke. Peter and Clara Morrow. Villagers and artists. Standing like a ramrod beside them and staring unblinking at the bistro was Ruth Zardo. And her duck, looking quite imperious. Ruth wore a sou’wester that glistened in the rain. Clara spoke to her, but was ignored. Ruth Zardo, Gamache knew, was a drunken, embittered old piece of work. Who also happened to be his favorite poet in the world. Clara spoke again and this time Ruth did respond. Even through the glass Gamache knew what she’d said.

  “Fuck off.”

  Gamache smiled. While a body in the bistro was certainly different, some things never changed.

  “Chief Inspector.”

  The familiar, deep, singsong voice greeted him. He turned and saw Myrna Landers walking across the room, her electric yellow boots clumping on the floor. She wore a pink tracksuit tucked into her boots.

  She was a woman of color, in every sense.

  “Myrna,” he smiled and kissed her on both cheeks. This drew a surprised look from some of the local Sûreté officers, who didn’t expect the Chief Inspector to kiss suspects. “What’re you doing in here when everyone else is out there?” He waved toward the window.

  “I found him,” she said, and his face grew grave.

  “Did you? I’m sorry. That must’ve been a shock.” He guided her to a chair by the fire. “I imagine you’ve given someone your statement?”

  She nodded. “Agent Lacoste took it. Not much to tell, I’m afraid.”

  “Would you like a coffee, or a nice cup of tea?”

  Myrna smiled. It was something she’d offered him often enough. Something she offered everyone, from the kettle that bubbled away on her woodstove. And now it was being offered to her. And she saw how comforting it actually was.

  “Tea, please.”

  While she sat warming herself by the fire Chief Inspector Gamache went to ask Gabri for a pot of tea, then returned. He sat in the armchair and leaned forward.

  “What happened?”

  “I go out every morning for a long walk.”

  “Is this something new? I’ve never known you to do that before.”

  “Well, yes. Since the spring anyway. I decided since I turned fifty I needed to get into shape.” She smiled fully then. “Or at least, into a different shape. I’m aiming for pear rather than apple.” She patted her stomach. “Though I suspect my nature is to be the whole orchard.”

  “What could be better than an orchard?” he smiled, then looked at his own girth. “I’m not exactly a sapling myself. What time do you get up?”

  “Set my alarm for six thirty and I’m out the door by quarter to seven. This morning I’d just left when I noticed Olivier’s door was open a little, so I looked in and called. I know Olivier doesn’t normally open until later on a Sunday so I was surprised.”

  “But not alarmed.”

  “No.” She seemed surprised by the question. “I was about to leave when I spotted him.”

  Myrna’s back was to the room, and Gamache didn’t glance over to the body. Instead he held her gaze and encouraged her with a nod, saying nothing.

  Their tea arrived and while it was clear Gabri wanted to join them he, unlike Gamache’s son-in-law David, was intuitive enough to pick up the unspoken signals. He put the teapot, two bone china cups and saucers, milk, sugar and a plate of ginger cookies on the table. Then left.

  “At first I thought it was a pile of linen left by the waiters the night before,” Myrna said when Gabri was out of earshot. “Most of them’re quite young and you never know. But then I looked closer and saw it was a body.”

  “A body?”

  It was the way someone describes a dead man, not a living one.

  “I knew he was dead right away. I’ve seen some, you know.”

  Gamache did know.

  “He was exactly as you see him now.” Myrna watched as Gamache poured their tea. She indicated milk and sugar then accepted her cup, with a biscuit. “I got up close but didn’t touch him. I didn’t think he’d been killed. Not at first.”

  “What did you think?” Gamache held the cup in his large hands. The tea was strong and fragrant.

  “I thought he’d had a stroke or maybe a heart attack. Something sudden, by the look on his face. He seemed surprised, but not afraid or in pain.”

  That was, thought Gamache, a good way of putting it. Death had surprised this man. But it did most people, even the old and infirm. Almost no one really expected to die.

  “Then I saw his head.”

  Gamache nodded. It was hard to miss. Not the head, but what was missing from it.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Never seen him before. And I suspect he’d be memorable.”

  Gamache had to agree. He looked like a vagrant. And while easily ignored they were hard to forget. Armand Gamache put his delicate cup on its delicate saucer. His mind kept going to the question that had struck him as soon as he’d taken the call and heard about the murder. In the bistro in Three Pines.

  Why here?

  He looked quickly over to Olivier who was talking to Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste. He was calm and contained. But he couldn’t be oblivious of how this appeared.

  “What did you do then?”

  “I called 911 then Olivier, then went outside and waited for them.”

  She described what happened, up to the moment the police arrived.

  “Merci,” said Gamache and rose. Myrna took her tea and joined Olivier and Gabri across the room. They stood together in front of the hearth.

  Everyone in the room knew who the three main suspects were. Everyone, that was, except the three main suspects.

  THREE

  Dr. Sharon Harris stood, brushed her skirt clean and smiled thinly at the Chief Inspector.

  “Not much finesse,” she said.

  Gamache stared down at the dead man.

  “He looks like a tramp,” said Beauvoir, bending down and examining the man’s clothing. It was mismatched and worn.

  “He must be living rough,” said Lacoste.

  Gamache knelt down and looked closely at the old man’s face again. It was weathered and withered. An almanac face, of sun and wind and cold. A seasoned face. Gamache gently rubbed his thumb across the dead man’s cheek, feeling stubble. He was clean shaven, but what might have grown in would’ve been white. The dead man’s hair was white and cut without enthusiasm. A snip here, a snip there.

  Gamache picked up one of the victim’s hands, as though comforting him. He held it for an instant, then turned it over, palm up. Then he slowly rubbed his own palm over the dead man’s.

  “Whoever he was he did hard work. These are calluses. Most tramps don’t work.”

  Gamache shook his head slowly. So who are you? And why are you here? In the bistro, and in this village. A village few people on earth even knew existed. And even fewer found.

  But you did, thought Gamache, still holding the man’s cold hand. You found the village and you found death.

  “He’s been dead between six and ten hours,” the doctor said. “Sometime after midnight but before four or five this morning.”

  Gamache stared at the back of the man’s head and the wound that killed him.

  It was catastrophic. It looked like a single blow by something extremely hard. And by someone extremely angry. Only anger accounted for this sort of power. The power to pulverize a skull. And what it protected.

  Everything that made this man who he was was kept in this head. Someone bashed that in. With one brutal, decisive blow.

  “Not much blood.” Gamache got up and watched the Scene of Crime team fanning out and collecting evidence around the large room. A room now violated. First by murder and now by them. The unwanted guests.

  Olivier was standing, warming himself by the fire.

  “That’s a problem,” said Dr. Harris. “Head wounds bleed a lot. There should be more blood, lots more.”

  “It might’ve been cleaned up,” said Beauvoir.

  Sharon Harris bent over the wound again then straightened up. “With the force of the blow the bleeding might have been massive and internal. And death almost instantaneous.”

  It was the best news Gamache ever heard at a murder scene. Death he could handle. Even murder. It was suffering that disturbed him. He’d seen a lot of it. Terrible murders. It was a great relief to find one swift and decisive. Almost humane.

  He’d once heard a judge say the most humane way to execute a prisoner was to tell him he was free. Then kill him.

  Gamache had struggled against that, argued against it, railed against it. Then finally, exhausted, had come to believe it.

  Looking at this man’s face he knew he hadn’t suffered. The blow to the back of the head meant he probably hadn’t even seen it coming.

  Almost like dying in your sleep.

  But not quite.

  They placed him in a bag and took the body away. Outside men and women stood somberly aside to let it pass. Men swept off their damp caps and women watched, tight-lipped and sad.

  Gamache turned away from the window and joined Beauvoir, who was sitting with Olivier, Gabri and Myrna. The Scene of Crime team had moved into the back rooms of the bistro, the private dining room, the staff room, the kitchen. The main room now seemed almost normal. Except for the questions hanging in the air.

  “I’m sorry this has happened,” Gamache said to Olivier. “How’re you doing?”

  Olivier exhaled deeply. He looked drained. “I think I’m still stunned. Who was he? Do you know?”

  “No,” said Beauvoir. “Did anyone report a stranger in the area?”

  “Report?” said Olivier. “To whom?”

  All three turned perplexed eyes on Beauvoir. The Inspector had forgotten that Three Pines had no police force, no traffic lights, no sidewalks, no mayor. The volunteer fire department was run by that demented old poet Ruth Zardo, and most would rather perish in the flames than call her.

  The place didn’t even have crime. Except murder. The only criminal thing that ever happened in this village was the worst possible crime.

  And here they were with yet another body. At least the rest had had names. This one seemed to have dropped from the sky, and fallen on his head.

  “It’s a little harder in the summer, you know,” said Myrna, taking a seat on the sofa. “We get more visitors. Families come back for vacation, kids come home from school. This is the last big weekend. Everyone goes home after this.”

  “The weekend of the Brume County Fair,” said Gabri. “It ends tomorrow.”

  “Right,” said Beauvoir, who couldn’t care less about the fair. “So Three Pines empties out after this weekend. But the visitors you describe are friends and family?”

  “For the most part,” said Myrna, turning to Gabri. “Some strangers come to your B and B, don’t they?”

  He nodded. “I’m really an overflow if people run out of space in their homes.”

  “What I’m getting at,” said an exasperated Beauvoir, “is that the people who visit Three Pines aren’t really strangers. I just want to get this straight.”

  “Straight we don’t specialize in. Sorry,” said Gabri. This brought a smile to even Olivier’s tired face.

  “I heard something about a stranger,” said Myrna, “but I didn’t really pay any attention.”

  “Who said it?”

  “Roar Parra,” she said, reluctantly. It felt a bit like informing, and no one had much stomach for that. “I heard him talking to Old Mundin and The Wife about seeing someone in the woods.”

  Beauvoir wrote this down. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard about the Parras. They were a prominent Czech family. But Old Mundin and The Wife? That must be a joke. Beauvoir’s lips narrowed and he looked at Myrna without amusement. She looked back, also without amusement.

  “Yes,” Myrna said, reading his mind. It wasn’t hard. The teapot could read it. “Those are their names.”

  “Old and The Wife?” he repeated. No longer angry, but mystified. Myrna nodded. “What’re their real names?”

  “That’s it,” said Olivier. “Old and The Wife.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you Old. It’s just possible, but no one looks at a newborn and decides to call her The Wife. At least I hope not.”

  Myrna smiled. “You’re right. I’m just so used to it I never thought. I have no idea what her real name is.”

  Beauvoir wondered just how pathetic a woman had to be to allow herself to be called The Wife. It actually sounded slightly biblical, Old Testament.

  Gabri put some beers, Cokes and a couple of bowls of mixed nuts on the table. Outside the villagers had finally gone home. It looked wet and bleak, but inside they were snug and warm. It was almost possible to forget this wasn’t a social occasion. The Scene of Crime agents seemed to have dissolved into the woodwork, only evident when a slight scratching or mumbling could be heard. Like rodents, or ghosts. Or homicide detectives.

  “Tell us about last night,” said Chief Inspector Gamache.

  “It was a madhouse,” said Gabri. “Last big weekend of the summer so everyone came by. Most had been to the fair during the day so they were tired. Didn’t want to cook. It’s always like that on Labor Day weekend. We were prepared.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Agent Lacoste, who’d joined them.

  “I brought in extra staff,” said Olivier. “But it went smoothly. People were pretty relaxed and we closed on time. At about one in the morning.”

  “What happened then?” asked Lacoste.

  Most murder investigations appeared complex but were really quite simple. It was just a matter of asking “And then what happened?” over and over and over. And listening to the answers helped too.

  “I usually do the cash and leave the night staff to clean up, but Saturdays are different,” said Olivier. “Old Mundin comes after closing and delivers the things he’s repaired during the week and picks up any furniture that’s been broken in the meantime. Doesn’t take long, and he does it while the waiters and kitchen staff are cleaning up.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Beauvoir. “Mundin does this at midnight on Saturdays? Why not Sunday morning, or any other reasonable time? Why late at night?”

  It sounded furtive to Beauvoir, who had a nose for things secretive and sly.

  Olivier shrugged. “Habit, I guess. When he first started doing the work he wasn’t married to The Wife so he’d hang around here Saturday nights. When we closed he’d just take the broken furniture then. We’ve seen no reason to change.”

  In a village where almost nothing changed this made sense.

  “So Mundin took the furniture. What happened then?” asked Beauvoir.

  “I left.”

  “Were you the last in the place?”

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