A Trick of the Light

He looked, in fact, more like a banker. A collector, perhaps? The other end of the artistic chain. He’d be in his early seventies, Gamache guessed. Prosperous, in a tailored suit and silk tie. There was a hint of expensive cologne about the man. Very subtle. He was balding, with hair immaculately and newly cut, clean-shaven, with intelligent blue eyes. All this Chief Inspector Gamache took in quickly and instinctively. Francois Marois seemed both vibrant and contained. At home in this rarified, and quite artificial, setting.

Gamache glanced into the body of the room, packed with men and women milling about and chatting, juggling hors d’oeuvres and wine. A couple of stylized, uncomfortable benches were installed in the middle of the cavernous space. More form than function. He saw Reine-Marie chatting with a woman across the room. He found Annie. David had arrived and was taking off his coat, then he went to join her. Gamache’s eyes swept the room until he found Gabri and Olivier, side-by-side. He wondered if he should go and speak with Olivier.

And do what? Apologize again?

Had Reine-Marie been right? Did he want forgiveness? Atonement? Did he want his mistake purged from his personal record? The one he kept deep inside, and wrote in each day.

The ledger.

Did he want that mistake stricken?

The fact was, he could live just fine without Olivier’s forgiveness. But now that he saw Olivier again he felt a slight frisson and wondered if he wanted that forgiveness. And he wondered if Olivier was ready to give it.

His eyes swept back to his companion.

It interested Gamache that while the best art reflected humanity and nature, human or otherwise, galleries themselves were often cold and austere. Neither inviting nor natural.

And yet, Monsieur Marois was comfortable. Marble and sharp edges appeared to be his natural habitat.

“No,” said Marois to Gamache’s question. “I’m not an artist.” He gave a little laugh. “Sadly, I’m not creative. Like most of my colleagues I dabbled in art as a callow youth and immediately discovered a profound, almost mystical lack of talent. Quite shocking, really.”

Gamache laughed. “So what brings you here?”

It was, as the Chief knew, a private cocktail party the night before the public opening of Clara’s big show. Only the select were invited to a vernissage, especially at the famous Musee in Montreal. The monied, the influential, the artist’s friends and family. And the artist. In that order.

Very little was expected of an artist at the vernissage. If they were clothed and sober most curators considered themselves fortunate. Gamache stole a glance at Clara, looking panicked and disheveled in a tailored power suit that had experienced a recent failure. The skirt was slightly twisted and the collar was riding high as though she’d tried to scratch the middle of her back.

“I’m an art dealer.” The man produced his card and Gamache took it, examining the cream background with the simple embossed black lettering. Just the man’s name and a phone number. Nothing more. The paper was thick and textured. A fine-quality business card. No doubt for a fine-quality business.

“Do you know Clara’s work?” Gamache asked, tucking the card into his breast pocket.

“Not at all, but I’m friends with the chief curator of the Musee and she slipped me one of the brochures. I was frankly astonished. The description says Madame Morrow has been living in Quebec all her life and is almost fifty. And yet no one seems to know her. She came out of nowhere.”

“She came out of Three Pines,” said Gamache and at the blank look from his companion, he explained. “It’s a tiny village south of here. By the Vermont border. Not many people know it.”

“Or know her. An unknown artist in an anonymous village. And yet—”

Monsieur Marois opened his arms in an elegant and eloquent gesture, to indicate the surroundings and the event.

They both went back to gazing at the portrait in front of them. It showed the head and scrawny shoulders of a very old woman. A veined and arthritic hand clutched a rough blue shawl to her throat. It had slipped to reveal skin stretched over collarbone and sinew.

But it was her face that captivated the men.

She looked straight at them. Into the gathering, with the clink of glasses, the lively conversations, the merriment.

She was angry. Filled with contempt. Hating what she heard and saw. The happiness all around her. The laughter. Hating the world that had left her behind. Left her alone on this wall. To see, to watch and to never be included.

Like Prometheus Bound, here was a great spirit endlessly tormented. Grown bitter and petty.

Beside him Gamache heard a small gasp and knew what it was. The art dealer, Francois Marois, had understood the painting. Not the obvious rage, there for all to see, but something more complex and subtle. Marois had got it. What Clara had really created.

“Mon Dieu,” Monsieur Marois exhaled. “My God.”

He looked from the painting to Gamache.

*   *   *

Across the room Clara nodded and smiled, and took in almost nothing.

There was a howl in her ears and a swirl before her eyes, her hands were numb. She was losing her senses.

Deep breath in, she repeated to herself. Deep breath out.

Peter had brought her a glass of wine and her friend Myrna had offered a plate of hors d’oeuvres, but Clara was