Gamache leaned back, thinking, then he nodded and sat forward. “It’s possible. But is it likely?”
This was the part of investigating he liked the most, and that most frightened him. Not the cornered and murderous suspect. But the possibility of turning left when he should have gone right. Of dismissing a lead, of giving up on a promising trail. Or not seeing one in his rush to a conclusion.
No, he needed to step carefully now. Like any explorer he knew the danger wasn’t in walking off a cliff, but in getting hopelessly lost. Muddled. Disoriented by too much information.
In the end the answer to a murder investigation was always devastatingly simple. It was always right there, obvious. Hiding in facts and evidence and lies, and the misperceptions of the investigators.
“Let’s leave if for now,” he said, “and keep an open mind. The Hermit might have been Czech, or not. Either way there’s no denying the contents of his cabin.”
“What did Superintendent Brunel have to say? Any of it stolen?” asked Beauvoir.
“She hasn’t found anything, but she’s still looking. But Jérôme Brunel’s been studying those letters under the carving and he thinks they’re a Caesar’s Shift. It’s a type of code.”
He explained how a Caesar’s Shift worked.
“So we just need to find the key word?” asked Beauvoir. “Should be simple enough. It’s Woo.”
“Nope. Tried that one.”
Beauvoir went to the sheet of foolscap on the wall and uncapped the magic marker. He wrote the alphabet. Then the marker hovered.
“How about violin?” asked Morin. Beauvoir looked at him again as at an unexpectedly bright chimp. He wrote violin on a separate sheet of paper. Then he wrote Martinù, Bohuslav.
“Bohemia,” suggested Morin.
“Good idea,” said Beauvoir. Within a minute they had a dozen possibilities, and within ten minutes they’d tried them all and found nothing.
Beauvoir tapped his Magic Marker with some annoyance and stared at the alphabet, as though it was to blame.
“Well, keep trying,” said Gamache. “Superintendent Brunel is trying to track down the rest of the carvings.”
“Do you think that’s why he was killed?” asked Morin. “For the carvings?”
“Perhaps,” said Gamache. “There’s not much some people wouldn’t do for things that valuable.”
“But when we found the cabin it hadn’t been searched,” said Beauvoir. “If you find the guy, find the cabin, go there and kill him, wouldn’t you tear the place apart to find the carvings? And it’s not like the murderer had to worry about disturbing the neighbors.”
“Maybe he meant to but heard Olivier returning and had to leave,” said Gamache.
Beauvoir nodded. He’d forgotten about Olivier coming back. That made sense.
“That reminds me,” he said, sitting down. “The lab report came in on the whittling tools and the wood. They say the tools were used to do the sculptures but not to carve Woo. The grooves didn’t match, but apparently the technique didn’t either. Definitely different people.”
It was a relief to have something definite about this case.
“But red cedar was used for all of them?” Gamache wanted to hear the confirmation.
Beauvoir nodded. “And they’re able to be more specific than that, at least with the Woo carving. They can tell by looking at water content, insects, growth rings, all sorts of things, where the wood actually came from.”
Gamache leaned forward and wrote three words on a sheet of paper. He slid it across the table and Beauvoir read and snorted. “You talked to the lab?”
“I talked to Superintendent Brunel.”
He told them then about Woo, and Emily Carr. About the Haida totem poles, carved from red cedar.
Beauvoir looked down at the Chief’s note.
Queen Charlotte Islands, he’d written.
And that’s what the lab had said. The wood that became Woo had started life as a sapling hundreds of years earlier, on the Queen Charlotte Islands.
Gabri walked, almost marched, up rue du Moulin. He’d made up his mind and wanted to get there before he changed it, as he had every five minutes all afternoon.
He’d barely exchanged five words with Olivier since the Chief Inspector’s interrogation had revealed just how much his partner had kept from him. Finally he arrived and looked at the gleaming exterior of what had been the old Hadley house. Now a carved wooden sign hung out front, swinging slightly in the breeze.