“Go on,” said Comeau.
“There were signed first editions, ancient pottery, leaded glass thousands of years old. There was a panel from the Amber Room and dinnerware once belonging to Catherine the Great.”
And a violin. In a breath Gamache was back in that cabin watching Agent Paul Morin. Gangly, awkward, young, picking up the priceless violin, tucking it under his chin and leaning into it. His body suddenly making sense, as though bred to play this instrument. And filling the rustic, log cabin with the most beautiful, haunting Celtic lament.
“Armand?”
“Sorry,” Gamache came back to the stone home in Quebec City. “I was just remembering something.”
His mentor examined him. “All right?”
Gamache gave a nod and smiled. “A tune.”
“You found out who killed this recluse though?”
“We did. The evidence was overwhelming. We found the murder weapon and other things from the cabin in the bistro.”
“Olivier was the murderer?” Emile lifted the letters and Gamache nodded.
“It was hard for everyone to believe, hard for me to believe, but it was the truth.”
Emile watched his companion. He knew Armand well. “You liked him, this Olivier?”
“He was a friend. Is a friend.”
Gamache remembered again sitting in the cheery bistro, holding the evidence that damned his friend. The terrible realization that Olivier was indeed the murderer. He’d taken the man’s treasure from his cabin. But more than that. He’d taken the man’s life.
“You said the body was found in the bistro, but he was murdered in his own cabin? Is that what Gabri means? Why would Olivier move the body from the cabin to the bistro?”
Gamache didn’t say anything for a long time, and Emile gave him that time, sipping his wine, thinking his own thoughts, staring into the soft flames and waiting.
Finally Gamache looked at Emile. “Gabri asks a good question.”
“Are they partners?”
Gamache nodded.
“Well, he just doesn’t want to believe Olivier did it. That’s all.”
“That’s true, he doesn’t. But the question is still good. If Olivier murdered the Hermit in a remote cabin, why move the body to a place it would be found?”
“And his own place at that.”
“Well, no, that’s where it gets complicated. He actually moved it to a nearby inn and spa. He admits to moving the body, to try to ruin the spa. He saw it as a threat.”
“So you have your answer.”
“But that’s just it,” said Gamache, turning so that his whole body faced Emile. “Olivier says he found the Hermit already dead and decided to use the body as a kind of weapon, to hurt the competition. But he says if he’d actually murdered the man he’d never have moved the body. He’d have left it there, or taken it into the woods to be eaten by coyotes. Why would a murderer kill someone then make sure the body was found?”
“But wait a second,” said Emile, trying to piece it together. “You said the body was found in Olivier’s own bistro. How did that happen?”
“A bit awkward for Olivier that,” said Gamache. “The owner of the inn and spa had the same idea. When he found the body, he moved it to the bistro, to try to ruin Olivier.”
“Nice neighborhood. Quite a Merchants’ Association.”
Gamache nodded. “It took a while but we eventually found the cabin and the contents and the evidence the Hermit had been killed there. All the forensics confirmed only two people had spent time in the cabin. The Hermit, and Olivier. And then we found items from the cabin hidden in Olivier’s bistro, including the murder weapon. Olivier admitted to stealing them—”
“Foolish man.”
“Greedy man.”
“You arrested him?”
Gamache nodded, remembering that terrible day when he knew the truth and had to act on it. Seeing Olivier’s face, but worse, seeing Gabri’s.
And then the trial, the evidence, the testimony.
The conviction.
Gamache looked down at the pile of letters on the sofa. One every day since Olivier had been sentenced. All cordial, all with the same question.
“You keep calling this man ‘the Hermit.’ Who was he?”
“A Czech immigrant named Jakob, but that’s all we know.”
