“What happened to the young man?” asked Gamache. “The one in the story. Did the Mountain find him?”
“It must have. He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Olivier.
THIRTY-FIVE
At the B and B Gamache showered and shaved and changed his clothing. He glanced briefly at his bed, with its clean, crisp sheets and the duvet turned back. Waiting for him. But he avoided that siren song and before long he and Beauvoir were back across the village green and at the Incident Room, where Agents Lacoste and Morin waited.
They sat round the conference table, mugs of strong coffee and the Hermit’s carvings in front of them. Succinctly the Chief Inspector told them about his trip to the Queen Charlottes and their interview with Olivier.
“So the dead man was telling a story all along. With his carvings,” said Lacoste.
“Let’s walk through this,” said Beauvoir, going over to the sheets of paper on the wall. “The Hermit gets out of Czechoslovakia with the treasures just as the Soviet Union’s crumbling. It’s chaos there so he bribes port officials to get the goods shipped to the Port of Montreal. Once there he puts them into storage.”
“If he was a refugee or an immigrant his fingerprints would’ve shown up on record,” said Agent Morin.
Agent Lacoste turned to him. He was young, she knew, and inexperienced. “There’re illegal immigrants all over Canada. Some hiding, some with false papers that pass for real. A little money to the right people.”
“So he snuck in,” said Morin. “But what about the antiques? Were they stolen? Where’d he get them? Like the violin, and that Amber Room thing?”
“Superintendent Brunel says the Amber Room disappeared in the Second World War,” said Gamache. “There’re a lot of theories about what happened to it, including that it was hidden by Albert Speer in a mountain range. Between Germany and Czechoslovakia.”
“Really?” said Lacoste, her mind working rapidly. “Suppose this Jakob found it?”
“If he found it he’d have the whole thing,” said Beauvoir. “Suppose someone else found it, or part of it, and sold it to the Hermit.”
“Suppose,” said Morin, “he stole it.”
“Suppose,” said Gamache, “you’re all right. Suppose someone found it, maybe decades ago. And split it up. And all that was left to one family was the one pane. Suppose that pane was entrusted to the Hermit, to smuggle out of the country.”
“Why?” asked Lacoste, leaning forward.
“So they could start a new life,” Beauvoir jumped in. “They wouldn’t be the first who smuggled a family treasure out and sold it to start a business or buy a home in Canada.”
“So they gave it to the Hermit to get out of the country,” said Morin.
“Did it all come from different people?” wondered Lacoste. “A book here, a piece of priceless furniture or glass or silver there? Suppose all his things came from different people, all hoping to start a new life here? And he smuggled it all out.”
“It would answer Superintendent Brunel’s question about why there’s such a range of items,” said Gamache. “It’s not from one collection, but many.”
“No one would trust anyone with things that valuable,” said Beauvoir.
“Maybe they had no choice,” said the Chief. “They needed to get them out of the country. If he was a stranger they might not have trusted him. But if he was a friend . . .”
“Like the boy in the story,” said Beauvoir. “Betraying everyone who trusted him.”
They stared ahead. Silent. Morin had never realized murderers were caught in silence. But they were.
What would have happened? Families waited in Prague, in smaller cities and towns and villages. Waiting for word. From their trusted friend. At what stage did hope turn to despair? And finally to rage? And revenge?
Had one of them made it out, come across to the New World, and found the Hermit?
“But why did he come here?” asked Agent Morin.
“Why not?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, there’s a big Czech population here. If he was bringing all sorts of stolen goods, stuff he’d taken from people in Czechoslovakia, wouldn’t he stay as far away from them as possible?”
They appealed to Gamache, who was listening, and thinking. Then he sat forward and drew the photographs of the carvings to him. Particularly the one of the happy people building a new village, in their new home. Without the young man.
“Maybe Olivier isn’t the only one who lies,” he said, getting up. “Maybe the Hermit wasn’t alone when he came here. Maybe he had accomplices.”
“Who are still in Three Pines,” said Beauvoir.
Hanna Parra was clearing up lunch. She’d made a hearty soup and the place smelled of her mother’s home in her Czech village. Of broth and parsley and bay leaves, and garden vegetables.
Her own gleaming metal and glass home couldn’t be more different from the wooden chalet she’d grown up in. Full of wonderful aromas, and a hint of fear. Fear of attracting attention. Of standing out. Her parents, her aunts, her neighbors, had all lived comfortable lives of conformity. The fear of being found different, though, created a thin film between people.
But here everything really was transparent. She’d felt light as soon as they’d arrived in Canada. Where people minded their own business.
