“No. The place was a mess. So I thought I’d clean it up first. After that, I’d let him have it. But then I realized he hadn’t eaten in a while, so I bought some food and cooked it. I’m not much of a cook, but I made scrambled eggs and toast. Something nutritious and light.”
“Did you tell him after that?” asked Beauvoir.
“No. His clothes and bedding were filthy. So I took them to the Laundromat in Tabaquen and washed them.”
Beauvoir had stopped asking, and was now just listening.
“His clothes and linen were clean then,” said Peter. “But he hadn’t had a bath in days. He was too weak.” Peter took a deep breath. “So I bathed him. I poured a bath and put in rosewater and lavender and a little essence of lily. Anything I could find.” Peter smiled. “I might’ve overdone it.” He looked down at the man in the bed. “I picked him up and put him in the bath. And washed him. It smelled like our garden in Three Pines.”
By now he’d come all the way into the room and was looking at the dead man with such tenderness. Seeing past the blood and the gaping wound. To the man.
“I stayed on, to look after him.”
Beauvoir’s voice broke the spell. “Did you know what was wrong with him? Did he?”
“If he did, he didn’t tell me. It was something to do with his lungs. I wanted him to go to the hospital in Sept-Îles, but he didn’t want to leave. I could understand that. He wanted to die at home.”
Peter looked at Beauvoir, then over to Gamache.
“Do you know what was wrong with him?” Peter asked.
“Do you know why Professor Massey came here?” Gamache countered.
“No.” Peter looked at Gamache closely. “But I get the feeling you do.”
“I think it might have been to confess,” said Gamache.
“Confess? To what?”
“You were right,” said Gamache. “Professor Norman was dying. Had been dying for a long time. Well before he realized it. Massey had killed him.”
“Massey? But that’s ridiculous. Why? How? Voodoo?”
“No. Asbestos.”
That stopped Peter.
“I think when Massey heard we were looking for you,” Gamache continued, “and that you were looking for Professor Norman, he realized we’d almost certainly find both of you. And learn everything.”
“But what’s there to learn?” Peter asked, lost.
“That Professor Massey had been sending him asbestos-infected canvases, for years.”
“Why?” Peter asked, astonished.
“Because Norman was a threat,” said Gamache. “Just like Clara was a threat to you. You loved Clara, but that didn’t stop you from trying to destroy her art, and actually destroying your marriage.”
Peter looked as though he’d been kicked in the gut. But Gamache didn’t let him off. He stood firm, staring at Peter until Peter nodded agreement.
“You loved her, and still you did that,” said Gamache. Drilling it home again. “Imagine what you might have done had the love not been there? Had there been hate instead? Love of Clara gave you some brakes, at least. A line beyond which you wouldn’t cross. But Massey had none. He felt he had everything to lose. And that Norman was about to take it away.”
“But he got Professor Norman fired,” said Peter. “Wasn’t that enough?”
“This wasn’t about revenge or vindictiveness,” said Gamache. “For Massey it was about survival. The art college was everything to him. It was his home, physically, emotionally, creatively. And the students were his children. He was the respected, revered professor. The brilliant one. The one they idolized and adored. But suppose a better painter, a more courageous artist, a truly avant-garde teacher appeared?”
Peter’s face had gone slack. And finally he conceded. He knew how that felt. To be usurped. Left behind. To see it all slipping away.
Massey was fighting for his survival. And getting Norman fired wasn’t enough. If Norman’s paintings started appearing in shows, then questions would be asked of the man who’d gotten rid of him.
Massey could not let that happen.
“When the asbestos was taken out of the walls of the college, he kept some, and sent asbestos-infected canvases to Norman,” said Beauvoir. “As a gift. One artist to another.”
“But how’d he do that, just logistically?” asked Peter. “Professor Norman lived in the middle of the woods, in Charlevoix.”
“He had help,” said Beauvoir. “Luc Vachon.”
Peter opened his mouth to protest, but paused, then closed it. And thought. And rethought all he knew.