The Brutal Telling - Page 9/160

“Would you like a coffee, or a nice cup of tea?”

Myrna smiled. It was something she’d offered him often enough. Something she offered everyone, from the kettle that bubbled away on her woodstove. And now it was being offered to her. And she saw how comforting it actually was.

“Tea, please.”

While she sat warming herself by the fire Chief Inspector Gamache went to ask Gabri for a pot of tea, then returned. He sat in the armchair and leaned forward.

“What happened?”

“I go out every morning for a long walk.”

“Is this something new? I’ve never known you to do that before.”

“Well, yes. Since the spring anyway. I decided since I turned fifty I needed to get into shape.” She smiled fully then. “Or at least, into a different shape. I’m aiming for pear rather than apple.” She patted her stomach. “Though I suspect my nature is to be the whole orchard.”

“What could be better than an orchard?” he smiled, then looked at his own girth. “I’m not exactly a sapling myself. What time do you get up?”

“Set my alarm for six thirty and I’m out the door by quarter to seven. This morning I’d just left when I noticed Olivier’s door was open a little, so I looked in and called. I know Olivier doesn’t normally open until later on a Sunday so I was surprised.”

“But not alarmed.”

“No.” She seemed surprised by the question. “I was about to leave when I spotted him.”

Myrna’s back was to the room, and Gamache didn’t glance over to the body. Instead he held her gaze and encouraged her with a nod, saying nothing.

Their tea arrived and while it was clear Gabri wanted to join them he, unlike Gamache’s son-in-law David, was intuitive enough to pick up the unspoken signals. He put the teapot, two bone china cups and saucers, milk, sugar and a plate of ginger cookies on the table. Then left.

“At first I thought it was a pile of linen left by the waiters the night before,” Myrna said when Gabri was out of earshot. “Most of them’re quite young and you never know. But then I looked closer and saw it was a body.”

“A body?”

It was the way someone describes a dead man, not a living one.

“I knew he was dead right away. I’ve seen some, you know.”

Gamache did know.

“He was exactly as you see him now.” Myrna watched as Gamache poured their tea. She indicated milk and sugar then accepted her cup, with a biscuit. “I got up close but didn’t touch him. I didn’t think he’d been killed. Not at first.”

“What did you think?” Gamache held the cup in his large hands. The tea was strong and fragrant.

“I thought he’d had a stroke or maybe a heart attack. Something sudden, by the look on his face. He seemed surprised, but not afraid or in pain.”

That was, thought Gamache, a good way of putting it. Death had surprised this man. But it did most people, even the old and infirm. Almost no one really expected to die.

“Then I saw his head.”

Gamache nodded. It was hard to miss. Not the head, but what was missing from it.

“Do you know him?”

“Never seen him before. And I suspect he’d be memorable.”

Gamache had to agree. He looked like a vagrant. And while easily ignored they were hard to forget. Armand Gamache put his delicate cup on its delicate saucer. His mind kept going to the question that had struck him as soon as he’d taken the call and heard about the murder. In the bistro in Three Pines.

Why here?

He looked quickly over to Olivier who was talking to Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste. He was calm and contained. But he couldn’t be oblivious of how this appeared.

“What did you do then?”

“I called 911 then Olivier, then went outside and waited for them.”

She described what happened, up to the moment the police arrived.

“Merci,” said Gamache and rose. Myrna took her tea and joined Olivier and Gabri across the room. They stood together in front of the hearth.

Everyone in the room knew who the three main suspects were. Everyone, that was, except the three main suspects.

THREE

Dr. Sharon Harris stood, brushed her skirt clean and smiled thinly at the Chief Inspector.

“Not much finesse,” she said.

Gamache stared down at the dead man.

“He looks like a tramp,” said Beauvoir, bending down and examining the man’s clothing. It was mismatched and worn.

“He must be living rough,” said Lacoste.