THIRTY
“Did Peter ever talk to you about Scotland?” Clara asked Chartrand.
“Scotland?”
“Dumfries, actually,” said Myrna.
“The Garden of Cosmic Speculation,” said Gamache.
Chartrand looked momentarily startled, as though his companions had turned into lunatics.
“Or hares,” said Clara.
“Hair hair?” Chartrand touched his head. “Or the musical?”
“The rabbit,” said Myrna, and could see it wasn’t really a clarification.
“What’re you talking about?”
“None of this sounds familiar?” asked Gamache.
“No, it doesn’t sound familiar,” said Chartrand, exasperated. “It doesn’t even sound sensible.” He turned to Clara. “What did you mean about Scotland?”
“He was there last winter. Visited a garden.”
Clara explained what they’d learned about Peter and the Garden of Cosmic Speculation, expecting any moment to hear Chartrand laugh.
But he didn’t. He listened and nodded.
“The rabbit turned from flesh to stone, and back again,” said Chartrand, as though that was a perfectly reasonable thing for a rabbit to do. “Peter’s river turns from sorrow to joy, and back again. He’s learned the miracle of transformation. He can turn his pain into paint. And his painting into ecstasy.”
“It’s what makes a great artist,” said Clara.
“Not many get there,” said Chartrand. “But I think if Peter’s courage holds and he keeps exploring, he’ll be like few others. Van Gogh, Picasso, Vermeer, Gagnon. Clara Morrow. Creating a whole new form, one that doesn’t distinguish between thought and emotion. Between natural and manufactured. Water, and stone, and living tissue. All one. Peter will be among the greats.”
“It took a hare in the Garden of Cosmic Speculation for him to see it,” said Myrna.
“It took Peter growing into a brave man,” said Gamache. “Brave enough not to explain it away.”
“If we find No Man, we find Peter,” said Myrna.
“And maybe the tenth muse,” said Clara. “I’d like to meet her.”
“You already have,” said Chartrand. “You might not know who she is, but she’s someone in your life.”
“Ruth?” Clara mouthed to Myrna, and opened her eyes wide in mock-horror.
“Rosa?” Myrna mouthed back.
Clara chuckled at the thought and looked over the railing, to the woods and the rocks and the river. She wondered if the tenth muse could be a place. Like Charlevoix was for Gagnon. Home.
“I don’t understand why the Greeks would erase the tenth muse,” Myrna said. “You’d think she’d be more important than the other nine Muses, since the Greeks revered art.”
“Maybe that’s why,” said Gamache.
Across the terrasse, the backgammon players stopped rolling the dice and looked at him.
“Power,” he said. “Maybe the tenth muse was too powerful. Maybe she was banished because she was a threat. And what could be more threatening than freedom? Isn’t that what inspiration is? It can’t be locked up, or even channeled. It can’t be contained or controlled. And that’s what the tenth muse was offering.”
He looked from one to the other and rested his eyes on Clara.
“Isn’t that what Professor Norman, or No Man, was also offering? Inspiration? Freedom? No more rigid rules, no lockstep, no conformity. He was offering to help the young artists break away. Find their own way. And when their works were rejected by the establishment, he honored them.” Gamache held Clara’s eyes. “With their own Salon. And for his troubles he was despised, laughed at, marginalized.”
“Expelled,” said Clara.
“He built a small home here, in a clearing,” said Gamache. “But he wasn’t alone for long. Other artists were drawn to him. But only the failed ones, the desperate ones. The ones who’d tried everything else. And had nowhere else to turn.”
“A Salon des Refusés,” said Clara. “He’d created not an artist community, but a home for des refusés. Outcasts, misfits, refugees from the conventional art world.”
“He was their last hope,” said Myrna. Then after a pause she added, “A shame he was crazy.”
“I’ve been called that, lots of times,” said Clara. “God help me, even Ruth thinks I’m nuts. What’s crazy?”
Armand Gamache pressed on his device, and there, glowing on the table, was the photograph of a portrait of a madman.
No Man.
“That is,” he said.
* * *
The menu landed on the table the same instant Jean-Guy Beauvoir landed in a chair.
“La Muse,” he said. “The owner’s name is Luc Vachon and he was a member of No Man’s community. He drew that.” Beauvoir tapped the menu.
“What did he say about No Man and the colony?” Gamache asked, picking up the menu and looking at the picture.
“Nothing. He wasn’t at the brasserie. He takes off painting every year.”
“At this time?” asked Myrna. “He runs a brasserie and he leaves at the height of the tourist season?”
“Can you imagine a business owner doing that?” Clara stared at Myrna until the other woman laughed.
“Touché, little one,” said Myrna, and wondered briefly how her bookstore was doing under the management of Ruth and Rosa.
“When will this Vachon be back?” Clara asked.
“Couple of weeks,” said Beauvoir. “And no way to reach him. The fellow I spoke with said Vachon didn’t like talking about his time in the colony. He did admit that Vachon and No Man must’ve been fairly close, since No Man entrusted him with sending his paintings to a gallery down south.”
“South like Florida?” asked Myrna.
“No, south like Montréal. No Man apparently had a gallery there, or a representative. He sent art off and got canvases and art supplies in return. The guy didn’t know the name of the gallery, but Vachon would probably know.”
Gamache had put on his reading glasses and was studying the signature on the drawing.
“I looked,” said Beauvoir. “It’s signed Vachon. Not No Man.”
Gamache nodded and gave the menu to Clara. “It’s a nice drawing.”
“Pretty,” said Clara, her voice neutral.
It wasn’t, they all felt, the muse. It was Vachon’s idea of a muse. Someone he clearly had not personally met. Yet.
But it was a lone figure, not the classic nine sisters. La Muse. Not Les Muses.
“The community fell apart when No Man suddenly took off. Didn’t tell anyone. He just left.”
Gamache shifted in his seat, but said nothing. He glanced down at the dancing figure on the menu, but in his mind he was seeing the clearing. The bracken, the wildflowers, the bumps and lumps where homes had once been.
That looked so much like burial mounds.
He looked at his watch. It was past six in the evening.
“I’m afraid we might have to impose on you another night,” he said to Chartrand, who smiled.
“I consider you friends now. You’re welcome for as long as you’d like.”
“Merci.”
“What now?” Clara asked. “I think we’ve spoken to everyone in Baie-Saint-Paul.”
“There is one place we could try,” said Gamache.
* * *
Jean-Guy Beauvoir entered first, and this time he brought out his S?reté ID.
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
Beauvoir waited for the young agent behind the counter to size him up, and when she didn’t he looked at her. She was young. Very young. Fifteen years younger than him. She could almost be …
But while a brave man, he wasn’t quite brave enough to go there. But he did wonder how, and when, it had happened. That he’d gone from clever, young, whip-smart Jean-Guy Beauvoir, the enfant terrible of homicide, to Inspector Beauvoir. Sir.
Not all transformations were miracles or magical. Or improvements.
“We’d like to speak to your station chief.”
The young agent looked at him, then behind him to the others who were crammed into the entrance of the small S?reté detachment.
And then her eyes widened.
Standing at the back, patiently waiting, was a man she recognized.
She stood up, then sat down. Then stood up again.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir suppressed a grin. He was used to this reaction and had been expecting it. Waiting for it.
“Chief Inspector,” the agent said, practically bowing.
“Armand Gamache.” He stepped forward and, squeezing his arm between Clara and Chartrand, offered his hand.
“Agent Pagé,” she said, feeling his grip. “Beatrice Pagé.”
She could have cursed. Why’d she give him her first name? He doesn’t care. He’s the Chief Inspector of fucking Homicide. Or was. Until that whole rotten business. Until he retired.
Agent Pagé had joined the S?reté months before it all blew up. And she knew that while she’d spend most of her career with other superiors, this man would always be, in her mind, the Chief Inspector of homicide.
“I just started,” she said, and her eyes widened. Stop talking, stop talking. He doesn’t care. Shut the fuck up. “My shift, I mean. And in the S?reté.”
Oh, dear God. Take me now.
“This is my first posting.”
She stared at him.
“And where are you from?” Gamache asked.
He looked interested.
“Baie-Comeau, up the coast.”
Merde, merde, merde, she thought. He knows where it is. Merde.
Gamache nodded. “They’ve cleaned up the bay there. A beautiful place.”
He smiled.
“Yes, sir. It is. My family’s been working in the mills for a long time.”
“Are you the first of your family in the S?reté?” he asked.
“Oui. They didn’t want me to join. Said it wasn’t respectable.”
Maudit tabarnac, she thought, and looked around for a gun to stick in her mouth.
But the large man in front of her, with the scar by his temple, just laughed and lines radiated from his kind brown eyes. “And do they still feel that way?”
“No, sir, they don’t.” And now all her nerves calmed and she met his gaze. “Not after what you did. Now they’re proud of me.”
Gamache held her eyes and smiled. “They’re proud of you, and they should be. It has nothing to do with me.”
By now other agents and inspectors had heard Chief Inspector Gamache was there, and they drifted by. Some said hello. Some just stared and moved on.
“Chief Inspector.” A middle-aged woman in uniform came out of an office, her hand outstretched. “Jeanne Nadeau. I’m the station chief.”
She led them into her office. It was an even tighter squeeze than the reception area.
“This isn’t, of course, official business,” he said. “We’re trying to find a friend of ours and he was last seen in your area in late spring.”
“He’s my husband,” Clara said, and showed Captain Nadeau a picture of Peter and described him.
“Can we make copies?” Nadeau asked, and when Clara agreed she made the arrangements.
“How can I help?”
“I take it no one matching his description has come to your attention lately?” Gamache asked, and they all recognized the code. Nadeau shook her head and her intelligent eyes went from Gamache to Clara.
“Why was he here?”
Clara explained it, succinctly.
“So you think he was looking for this Professor Norman,” Nadeau said. She turned from Clara to Chartrand. “You say he was known as No Man when he lived here?”
“Well, that’s what he called himself.”
Nadeau barely reacted. It was clear that this was not the first oddity she’d run into in Baie-Saint-Paul. Artists were not, perhaps, best known for conventional behavior.
“Did you know him?” Clara asked.
“No Man?” Nadeau shook her head. “Before my time.” She walked over to the wall, where a detailed map of the area was pinned.
“Where was this art colony of his?”
Chartrand showed her and she made a note of it.
“But you say it’s long gone?”
“At least ten years, probably more,” said Chartrand.
“Any suggestion of criminal activity?” she asked.
“No,” said Chartrand. “They seemed to keep to themselves.”
Nadeau picked up her phone and spoke into it. A short time later, a bulky older man in uniform came into the office. He smelled of bachelorhood and fried fish.
“Oui?”
He looked like he might be in trouble, and his eyes shifted from his station commander to Gamache, who was squeezed into a corner and felt the coat tree digging into his back, as though it was a stickup.
“This is Agent Morriseau,” said Nadeau. “He’s been here longer than anyone. These people are asking about a man named Norman. He lived here a number of years ago and started an artist retreat, a sort of colony out by the second concession.”
“You mean No Man?” Morriseau asked, and suddenly had everyone’s attention.
“That’s the one,” said Clara.
“Got quite popular for a while,” said Morriseau. “But then they do, don’t they?”
“They?”
“Cults.” He looked at their surprised faces. “You must’ve known. Otherwise, why’re you asking?”
“It was a cult?” asked Chartrand.
“Yes.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Clara.
“It wasn’t just a bunch of artists painting away,” said Morriseau. “They were into some sort of weird religion.”
“How do you know that?” asked Jean-Guy.
“I made it my business to know,” said the agent. “These places can start out pretty normal and then take a nasty turn. I wanted to make sure they stayed on this side of crazy.”
There was that word again, thought Gamache.
“Why do you say crazy?”
Morriseau turned in the direction of the talking coat tree.
“And what would you call it, sir?” he asked politely.
Gamache decided not to ask him if he ever prayed his lottery ticket numbers won, or the skidding car stayed on the road.
“And did they?” he asked instead. “Stay on this side of the line?”
“As far as I know they did. Then that No Man disappeared. The spaceship must’ve come and taken him away.”
Morriseau laughed, then stopped, having misjudged his audience. It worked in the bar. It worked in the squad room. But these people just stared, as though he was the one who’d crossed a line.
“Any idea where he went?” Beauvoir asked.
“Non. I think people were just happy to see him go.”
Driven out of another place, thought Gamache. Or maybe not.
“Is there anyone still living in Baie-Saint-Paul who was a member of the community?” Clara asked.
“Yes. Luc Vachon.”
“We already know about him,” said Beauvoir. “He’s off painting. Anyone else?”
The agent thought about it, then shook his head.
“Merci,” said the station chief and Morriseau left. She looked at them expectantly. “Is there anything else I can do?”
There wasn’t.
Before they left, Gamache ducked back into Captain Nadeau’s office and asked if they had any sniffer dogs.
“For drugs?” she asked.
“For the other,” he said.
“You think not everyone left,” she said.
“I think there was no spaceship,” he said.
She gave one brusque nod. “I’ll make arrangements.”
He gave her his coordinates, and as he left he saw her walk to the map on the wall.
* * *
They returned to the Galerie Gagnon expecting to spend the night there, but Marcel Chartrand surprised them.
“I think I mentioned that this isn’t my main home. I stay here on weekends when the gallery’s busy. My main home is up the coast a few miles. I need to go back there tonight, but you’re welcome to stay here.”
“What would you prefer?” Clara asked.
“I’d prefer it if you came with me,” he said. And while his eyes swept the group and included them all, they came to rest on Clara.
She didn’t shy away from the gaze.
“I think—” Beauvoir began.
“We’d love to come to your home. Merci,” said Clara.
As they packed, Beauvoir whispered to Gamache, “You should’ve said something, patron. We’re better off here than in a house in the middle of nowhere. If we’re going to track down Peter, we need to be asking more questions.”
“And what questions are those?” Gamache asked.
“Was it really a cult? Did No Man leave voluntarily or was he kicked out of his own community? Where did he go?”
“Good questions, but who would we ask?” Gamache zipped up his case and turned to face Beauvoir.
Jean-Guy considered. They seemed to have hit a dead end.
“Are we so sure No Man really did leave?” Beauvoir asked.
Gamache gave one curt nod. “Captain Nadeau is looking into that. They’re bringing in sniffer dogs.”
“For corpses?”
Gamache nodded again. He wasn’t sure if they’d find anything. And if they did, whether the body would be ten years old, or ten weeks.
Like Beauvoir, he also found it curious that Marcel Chartrand wanted to take them away from Baie-Saint-Paul. They could have stayed above the Galerie for another night. They were already settled in. Surely it was easier, even for Chartrand, to stay.
And yet the gallery owner wanted to move them to a remote home.
Beauvoir was right. There were questions to be asked here. But Gamache suspected most of the answers could be found with Chartrand.