“I believe so. He was convinced Champlain was buried in your basement, put there by James Douglas and Father Chiniquy.”
“And he was right,” said Porter, all bravado gone. “What’ll they do to us when they find out we’ve been hiding Champlain all these years?”
“We didn’t hide him,” said Winnie. “We didn’t even know he was there.”
“Try convincing the tabloids of that,” said Porter. “And even if most believe us, the fact is, it was still an Anglo conspiracy.”
“A conspiracy of two,” said Mr. Blake. “More than a hundred years ago. Not the whole community.”
“And you think if James Douglas had asked the community they’d have disagreed?” demanded Porter, making a more coherent argument than Gamache had thought him capable of. One thing was certain, he knew his community, as did Mr. Blake, who accepted that Porter, finally, was right.
“This is a disaster,” said Winnie and no one contradicted her, except Gamache.
“Well, not entirely. The coffin was Champlain’s, but the body inside wasn’t.”
Now they gaped at him. Dying men thrown a rope, a slender hope.
They were hushed. And finally Ken Haslam spoke, his voice filling the room, squeezing them all into the corners.
“Who was he?”
“She. The body in the coffin appears to be female.”
“She? What was she doing in Champlain’s coffin?” Haslam shouted.
“We don’t know, but we will.”
Beside him Emile’s eyes slid from Haslam to Elizabeth MacWhirter. She looked sad and frightened. Her veneer cracking. Emile smiled at her slightly. An encouraging look from someone who knew what it felt like to be shattered.
“Things are strongest where they’re broken,” Agent Morin laughed. “Good thing too, since I’m always dropping things. Suzanne’s pretty clumsy too, you know. We’re going to have to put our babies in bubble wrap. Babies bounce, right?”
“Not twice,” said Gamache and Morin laughed again.
“Oh well, I guess we’ll have strong kids.”
“Without a doubt.”
“I started with the assumption that the killer had found one of the Hermit’s treasures in the antique shop,” said Beauvoir, “and traced it back here to Three Pines.”
The only sounds now in the bistro were the crackling of the log fire and snow hitting the windows.
Inside, the fireplaces threw odd shadows against the walls but none of them threatening. Not to Beauvoir, but he suspected at least one person in this room was beginning to find it close, tight, claustrophobic.
“But who could it be? The Gilberts had bought a lot of antiques from that very store. The Parras? They’d inherited a lot of things from their family in the Czech Republic and managed to get them out when the wall came down. By their own admission, they’d sold most of it to pay for their new home. Perhaps they sold the things through Les Temps Perdu. Old Mundin? Well, he restores antiques. Wouldn’t he also be drawn to the terrific shops on rue Notre-Dame?
“It hardly seemed to narrow the suspects, so I looked at another clue. Woo. Olivier had described the Hermit whispering the word when he was particularly distressed. It was upsetting to him. But what did ‘woo’ mean? Was it a name, a nickname?”
He looked over to the Gilbert table. Like the rest they were staring, entranced and guarded.
“Was ‘woo’ short-form for a name that was hard to say, particularly for a child? That’s when most nicknames are given, isn’t it? In childhood. I was at the Mundins’ and heard little Charlie speaking. Shoo, for
Clara leaned in to Myrna and whispered, “That’s what I was afraid of. As soon as I heard her maiden name was Woloshyn.”
Myrna raised her brows and turned, with the rest of them, to look at Carole Gilbert.
Carole didn’t move but Vincent Gilbert did. He rose to his full height, his towering personality filling the room.
“Enough with these insinuations. If you have something to say come out with it.”
“And you,” Beauvoir rounded on him. “Sir. The magnificent Dr. Gilbert. The great man, the great healer.” As he spoke he knew the Chief Inspector would be handling this differently, would never employ sarcasm, would rarely lose his temper, as Beauvoir could feel himself doing. With an effort he pulled back from the edge. “One of the great mysteries of this case has always been why the murderer didn’t steal the treasure. Who could resist it? Even if it wasn’t the motive for murder, it was just sitting there. Who wouldn’t pick up a trinket? A rare book? A gold candlestick?”
“And what was your brilliant conclusion?” Dr. Gilbert asked, his voice filled with contempt.
“There seemed only one. The killer had no need of it. Did that apply to Olivier? No. He was about as greedy as they come. Marc, your son? Same thing. Greedy, petty. He’d have stripped the cabin.”
He could see Marc Gilbert struggling, wanting to defend himself, but recognizing that these insults actually helped clear him of suspicion.
“The Parras? A landscaper, a waiter? Not exactly rolling in money. Even one of the Hermit’s pieces would make a huge difference in their lives. No, if one of them had killed the Hermit they’d have stolen something. Same with
