“Okay, but then if he lashed out and murdered the man, wouldn’t he have just run away? Why take the body all the way through the woods to the Gilbert place?” asked Clara.
“Why indeed,” asked Gamache. “Any theories?”
“Because he wanted the body found,” said Peter. “And the Gilberts’ is the nearest place.”
The murderer wanted the body found. Why? Most murderers went to huge lengths to hide the crime. Why had this man advertised it?
“Either the body found,” Peter continued, “or the cabin.”
“We think it would have been found in a few days anyway,” Gamache said. “Roar Parra was cutting riding paths in that area.”
“We’re not being much help,” said Clara.
Gamache reached into his satchel. “I actually came by to show you something we found in the cabin. I’d like your opinions.”
He brought out two towels and placed them carefully on the table. They looked like newborns, protected against a chilly world. He slowly unwrapped them.
Clara leaned in.
“Look at their faces.” She looked up directly into Gamache’s. “So beautiful.”
He nodded. They were. Not just their features. It was their joy, their vitality, that made them beautiful.
“May I?” Peter reached out and Gamache nodded. He picked up one of the sculptures and turned it over.
“There’s writing, but I can’t make it out. A signature?”
“Of sorts, perhaps,” said Gamache. “We haven’t figured out what the letters mean.”
Peter studied the two works, the ship and the shore. “Did the dead man carve them?”
“We think so.”
Though, given what else was in the cabin, it wouldn’t have surprised Gamache to discover they were carved by Michelangelo. The difference was every other piece was in plain sight, but the dead man had kept these hidden. Somehow these were different.
As he watched he saw first Clara’s then Peter’s smile fade until they both looked almost unhappy. Certainly uncomfortable. Clara fidgeted in her chair. It had taken the Morrows less time than it took the Sûreté officers that morning to sense something wrong. Not surprising, thought Gamache. The Morrows were artists and presumably more in tune with their feelings.
The carvings emanated delight, joy. But beneath that was something else. A minor key, a dark note.
“What is it?” Gamache asked.
“There’s something wrong with them,” said Clara. “Something’s off.”
“Can you tell me what?”
Peter and Clara continued to stare at the pieces, then looked at each other. Finally they looked at Gamache.
“Sorry,” said Peter. “Sometimes with art it can be subliminal, unintended by the artist even. A proportion slightly off. A color that jars.”
“I can tell you though,” said Clara, “they’re great works of art.”
“How can you tell?” asked Gamache.
“Because they provoke a strong emotion. All great art does.”
Clara considered the carvings again. Was there too much joy? Was that the problem? Was too much beauty and delight and hope disquieting?
She thought not, hoped not. No, it was something else about these works.
“That reminds me,” said Peter. “Don’t you have a meeting with Denis Fortin in a few minutes?”
“Oh, damn, damn, damn,” said Clara, springing up from the table.
“I won’t keep you,” said Gamache, rewrapping the sculptures.
“I have a thought,” she said, joining Gamache at the door. “Monsieur Fortin might know more about sculpture than us. Hard to know less, really. Can I show one to him?”
“It’s a good idea,” said Gamache. “A very good idea. Where’re you meeting him?”
“In the bistro in five minutes.”
Gamache took one of the towels out of his satchel and handed it to Clara.
“This is great,” she said as they walked down the path to the road. “I’ll just tell him I made it.”
“Would you have liked to?”
Clara remembered the blossoming horror in her chest as she’d looked at the carvings.
“No,” she said.
TWENTY-TWO
Gamache arrived back at the Incident Room to find Superintendent Thérèse Brunel sitting at the conference table, surrounded by photographs. As he entered she rose, smiling.
“Chief Inspector.” She advanced, her hand out. “Agent Lacoste has made me so comfortable I feel I could move right in.”