“Well, now, this is a very beautiful part of the world, you know.”
Gamache envied Constable Stuart his accent. In French it became soft and charming, the rolling Scottish burr melding perfectly with the French language.
Who knew?
“So there are famous artists?”
“Not exactly famous.” There was a pause. “No, I cannot say they’re famous. But very good. And any artist would be inspired by the setting.” Constable Stuart looked out the window at the cold, gray day. At the sheets of rain pouring down.
It was beautiful.
“Now, we do have a number of very pretty gardens. Some remarkable, apparently. Would a gardener do?”
“I’m afraid not. I think it needs to be an artist. No idea why my friend might have gone to Dumfries?”
“Beyond the fact I think everyone should? No, sir.”
Gamache looked out the sitting room window. A heavy mist had descended and he could barely see the three pines on the village green. The bistro was just a ghostly outline with a slight glow of light in the window.
It was beautiful.
“We know by his bank withdrawals that he was in your area, but there’s no record of where he stayed.”
“Now, that’s not unusual. There’re a lot of B and Bs in the town and surrounding area. They prefer cash.”
“I’d like to send you a photograph and description of my friend.”
“Perfect. I’ll circulate it.”
He sounded cheerful, helpful. Hopeful. But the charming accent could not disguise the fact there was little to be hopeful about. The chances of Constable Stuart finding any trace of Peter Morrow’s activity from months ago were tiny. Still, he was willing to try and Gamache was grateful.
Peter had gone all the way to Dumfries for a reason. But that reason remained obscure. What they did know was that Peter wasn’t there now. He’d eventually left and popped up in Toronto.
The two men said their good-byes and Gamache sat in the easy chair. The window was open and he could hear the rain pelting down. Striking the leaves, hitting the porch and drumming against the window. The weather, and the Chief, had settled in for the day.
He leaned back, wove his fingers together and stared into space, considering. Thinking about Peter, and Dumfries, and his conversation with Constable Stuart. The Scots and the Québécois had a lot in common. They’d both been conquered by the English. Both had managed to keep their language and culture alive, against great odds. Both had nationalistic aspirations.
But Gamache knew Peter Morrow hadn’t gone to Scotland to study self-determination. Not on a national level anyway. His was a more personal quest for self.
Somewhere along the line something had happened and Peter Morrow had painted those extraordinary pictures.
Gamache was anxious to see them for himself.
* * *
They arrived at Clara’s home first thing the next morning. The cheerful UPS driver, in his brown truck and brown shorts, handed Clara what looked like the love child of a baseball bat and a baguette.
Clara signed for the long brown tube and waved it toward Gamache and Reine-Marie, who were breakfasting on the terrace of the bistro with Jean-Guy and Ruth.
The rain had stopped in the night and the day had dawned clear and warm, the sun gleaming off the moisture beaded on the leaves and flower petals, the roofs and grass. As it evaporated, vaporized by the sun, it filled the air with the scent of rose and lavender and asphalt shingles.
By noon the village would be sizzling, but for now it was gleaming and fragrant. But all that was lost on Clara. She only had eyes for the UPS tube. Taking it inside, she called Myrna.
Then she waited. Clutching the tube. Staring at the tube. Picking at the brown paper wrapping. Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait. Within minutes everyone had arrived and Clara tore the wrapping off.
“Let’s see, let’s see,” said Ruth.
“You know that’s not a giant joint, right?” said Jean-Guy.
“I know, numb nuts.” Still, much of Ruth’s enthusiasm waned. Then she took a closer look at the tube and perked up.
“There’s no bottle of Scotch inside either,” said Jean-Guy, reading her thoughts. It was a source of some concern that he could.
“Then what’s all the excitement?”
“Peter’s paintings are inside,” said Reine-Marie, staring at the tube, anxious to see them.
It was as though Peter had mailed himself. Not his physical self. She hoped. Peter had posted his thoughts, his feelings. Inside that tube was a diary of where he’d gone, creatively, since he’d left Three Pines.
