“Maybe he wanted to hurt his son,” said Beauvoir. But that didn’t seem right. They paused on the stone bridge over the Rivière Bella Bella and the Inspector stared over the side, thinking. The sun bounced off the water and he was momentarily mesmerized by the movement. “Maybe it’s just the opposite,” he began, feeling his way forward. “Maybe Gilbert wanted back in his son’s life but needed an excuse. For anyone else I would think that was ridiculous but he has an ego and it might not have let him just knock and apologize. He needed an excuse. I could see him killing a vagrant, someone he considered so far beneath him. Someone he could use for his purpose.”
“And what would that be?” asked Gamache, also staring into the clear waters beneath them.
Beauvoir turned to the Chief, noticing the reflected light playing on the man’s face. “To be reunited with his son. But he’d need to be seen as the savior, not just as some deadbeat dad crawling back to the family.”
Gamache turned to him, interested. “Go on.”
“So he killed a vagrant, a man no one would miss, put him in his son’s vestibule and waited for the fireworks, figuring he could sweep in and take command of the family when it needed help.”
“But then Marc moved the body and there was no excuse,” said Gamache.
“Until now. The timing is interesting. We discover the body was in the old Hadley house and an hour later dad appears.”
Gamache nodded, his eyes narrowing, and once again he looked into the flowing waters of the river. Beauvoir knew the Chief well enough to know he was walking slowly now through the case, picking his way along the slippery rocks, trying to make out a path obscured by deceit and time.
Beauvoir unfolded the paper in his hands.
I just sit where I’m put, composed
of stone, and wishful thinking:
“Who’s Vincent Gilbert, sir? You seemed to know him.”
“He’s a saint.”
Beauvoir laughed, but seeing Gamache’s serious face he stopped. “What do you mean?”
“There’re some people who believe that.”
“Seemed like an asshole to me.”
“The hardest part of the process. Telling them apart.”
“Do you believe he’s a saint?” Beauvoir was almost afraid to ask.