With his team inside working, and the space cramped, Gamache decided to explore outside the cabin. Finely carved window boxes bloomed with cheery nasturtiums and greenery. He rubbed his fingers first on one plant then the others. They smelled of cilantro, rosemary, basil and tarragon. He walked over to the column of sunlight breaking through the trees beside the cabin.
A fence, made of twisted branches, formed a large rectangle about twenty feet wide by forty feet long. Vines grew through the fence, and as he got closer Gamache noticed they were heavy with peas. He opened the wooden gate and walked into the garden. Neat rows of vegetables had been planted and tended, intended for a harvest that would not now come. Up and down the long, protected garden the victim had planted tomatoes and potatoes, peas and beans, and broccoli and carrots. Gamache broke off a bean and ate it. A wheelbarrow with some dirt and a shovel stood halfway along the path and at the far end there sat a chair of bent branches, with comfortable and faded cushions. It was inviting and Gamache had an image of the man working in the garden, then resting. Sitting quietly in the chair.
The Chief Inspector looked down and saw the impression of the man in the cushions. He’d sat there. Perhaps for hours. In the column of light.
Alone.
Not many people, Gamache knew, could do that. Even if they wanted to, even if they chose to, most people couldn’t take the quiet. They grew fidgety and bored. But not this man, Gamache suspected. He imagined him there, staring at his garden. Thinking.
What did he think about?
“Chief?”
Turning around Gamache saw Beauvoir walking toward him.
“We’ve done the preliminary search.”
“Weapon?”
Beauvoir shook his head. “But we did find Mason jars of preserves and paraffin. Quite a bit of it. I guess we know why.” The Inspector looked around the garden, and seemed impressed. Order always impressed him.
Gamache nodded. “Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
Now the Chief Inspector turned fully to his second in command. “What do you mean? Did this cabin belong to our victim?”
“We think so. It’s almost certainly where he died. But we haven’t found any ID. Nothing. No photographs, no birth certificate, passport, driver’s license.”
“Letters?”
Beauvoir shook his head. “There’re clothes in the dressers. Old clothing, worn. But mended and clean. In fact, the whole place is clean and tidy. A lot of books, we’re just going through them now. Some have names in them, but all different names. He must have picked them up at used-book stores. We found woodworking tools and sawdust by one of the chairs. And an old violin. Guess we know what he did at night.”
Gamache had a vision of the dead man, alive. Healthy even. Coming in after working the garden. Making a simple dinner, sitting by the fire and whittling. Then, as the night drew in, he’d pick up the violin and play. Just for himself.
Who was this man who loved solitude so much?
“The place is pretty primitive,” Beauvoir continued. “He had to pump water into the sink in his kitchen. Haven’t seen that in years. And there’s no toilet or shower.”
Gamache and Beauvoir looked around. Down a winding well-worn path they found an outhouse. The thought almost made Beauvoir gag. The Chief opened the door and looked in. He scanned the tiny one-holer, then closed the door. It too was clean, though spider’s webs were beginning to form and soon, Gamache knew, more and more creatures and plants would invade until the outhouse disappeared, eaten by the forest.
“How did he wash?” asked Beauvoir as they walked back to the cabin. They knew he had, and regularly, according to the coroner.
“There’s a river,” said Gamache, pausing. Ahead sat the cabin, a tiny perfect gem in the middle of the forest. “You can hear it. Probably the Bella Bella, as it heads into the village.”
Sure enough Beauvoir heard what sounded strangely like traffic. It was comforting. There was also a cistern beside the cabin, designed to catch rainfall.
“We’ve found fingerprints.” Beauvoir held the door open for the Chief as they entered the cabin. “We think they belong to two different people.”
Gamache’s brows rose. The place looked and felt as though only one person lived here. But judging by events, someone else had found the cabin, and the man.
Could this be their break? Could the murderer have left his prints?
The cabin was growing dimmer. Morin found a couple more lamps and some candles. Gamache watched the team at work. There was a grace to it, one perhaps only appreciated by another homicide officer. The fluid motions, stepping aside, leaning in and out and down, bowing and lifting and kneeling. It was almost beautiful.
He stood in the middle of the cabin and took it in. The walls were made of large, round logs. Strangely enough there were curtains at the windows. And in the kitchen a panel of amber glass leaned against the window.
A hand pump at the sink was attached to the wooden kitchen counter, and dishes and glasses were neatly placed on the exposed shelves. Gamache noticed food on the kitchen counter. He walked over and looked, without picking anything up. Bread, butter, cheese. Nibbled, and not by anything human. Some Orange Pekoe tea in an open box. A jar of honey. A quart of milk sat opened. He sniffed. Rancid.
He motioned Beauvoir over.
