“Well, it was just about the only thing in the cabin that wasn’t an antique,” said Lacoste. “And what with the whittling tools I’m guessing he made it himself.”
Gamache nodded. It was his guess as well. “But why woe?”
“Could that be his name?” Beauvoir asked, but without enthusiasm.
“Monsieur Woe?” asked Lacoste. “That might also explain why he lived alone in a cabin.”
“Why would someone carve that for himself?” Gamache put down his knife and fork. “And you found nothing else in the cabin that looked as though it had been whittled?”
“Nothing,” said Beauvoir. “We found axes and hammers and saws. All well used. I think he must have made that cabin himself. But he sure didn’t whittle it.”
Woe, thought Gamache, picking up his knife and fork again. Was the Hermit that sad?
“Did you notice our photographs of the stream, sir?” Lacoste asked.
“I did. At least now we know how the dead man kept his groceries cool.”
Agent Lacoste, on investigating the stream, had found a bag anchored there. And in it were jars of perishable foods. Dangling in the cold water.
“But he obviously didn’t make his own milk and cheese, and no one remembers seeing him in the local shops,” said Beauvoir. “So that leaves us with one conclusion.”
“Someone was taking him supplies,” said Lacoste.
“Everything all right?” asked Olivier.
“Fine,
“Do you need more mayonnaise or butter?” Olivier smiled back, trying not to look like a maniac. Trying to tell himself that no matter how many condiments or warm buns or glasses of wine he brought it would make no difference. He could never ingratiate himself.
“
“We at least have prints from the cabin. We should find out something tomorrow,” said Beauvoir.
“The paths,” said Lacoste. “Roar Parra was cutting riding paths for Dominique. One path was almost at the cabin. Close enough to see it.”
“Which Madame Gilbert did,” said Beauvoir. “But we have only her word that she didn’t find the cabin on an earlier ride.”
“Except that they didn’t have the horses then,” said Lacoste. “They didn’t arrive until the day after the murder.”
“But she might have walked the old paths,” suggested Gamache, “in preparation for the horses, and to tell Roar which ones he should open.”
“Roar might have walked them too,” said Beauvoir. “Or that son of his. Havoc. Parra said he was going to help him.”
The other two thought. Still, there seemed no very good reason why either Parra would walk the old riding paths before clearing them.
“But why kill the recluse?” Lacoste said. “Even supposing one of the Parras or Dominique Gilbert found him. It makes no sense. Killing for the treasure, maybe. But why leave it all there?”
“Maybe it wasn’t,” said Beauvoir. “We know what we found. But maybe there was more.”
It struck Gamache like a ton of bricks. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He’d been so overwhelmed by what was there, he’d never even considered what might be missing.
Agent Morin lay in the bed and tried to get comfortable. It felt strange to be sleeping in a bed made by a dead man.
He closed his eyes. Turned over. Turned back. Opening his eyes he stared at the firelight flickering in the hearth. The cabin was less frightening. In fact, it was almost cozy.
He punched the pillow a few times to fluff it up, but something resisted.
Sitting up he took the pillow and scrunched it around. Sure enough, there was something besides feathers inside. He got up and lighting an oil lamp he took the pillow out of its case. A deep pocket had been sewn inside. Carefully, feeling like a vet with a pregnant horse, he slipped his arm in up to the elbow. His hand closed over something hard and knobby.
Withdrawing it he held an object to the oil lamp. It was an intricate carving. Of men and women on a ship. They were all facing the bow. Morin marveled at the workmanship. Whoever carved this had captured the excitement of a journey. The same excitement Morin and his sister had felt as kids when they took family car trips to the Abitibi or the Gaspe.
He recognized the happy anticipation on the shipboard faces. Looking closer he saw most had bags and sacks and there was a variety of ages, from newborns to the very old and infirm. Some were ecstatic, some expectant, some calm and content.
All were happy. It was a ship full of hope.
The sails of the ship were, incredibly, carved of wood shaved thin. He turned it over. Something was scratched into the bottom. He took it right up to the lamp.
OWSVI
Was it Russian? Agent Lacoste thought the dead man might be Russian because of the icons. Was this his name? Written in that strange alphabet they use?
