The Long Way Home(92)
“Nothing. I cleared the trees, then left. Saw the guy a few times in the village here. Grew pretty big, I heard. His artist retreat. And then it ended. Everyone left.”
“Do you know why?”
“Like all the others, I suppose,” said the elderly man. “It’d run its course.”
Gamache thought about that. “You called it a strange place. Why?”
The other elderly man looked up from the board and examined Gamache with a clear eye. “I know you. You’re that cop. Seen you on TV.”
Gamache nodded and smiled. “Not anymore. We’re just here trying to find a friend. The man who painted those pictures. His name’s Peter Morrow.”
They shook their heads.
“Tall,” said Gamache. “Middle-aged. Anglo?” But the two men just gave him blank stares. “He was interested in the fellow who ran that art colony. Norman. Or No Man.”
“No Man,” the elderly man repeated. “I remember now. Strange name.”
“Strange man?” asked Gamache.
The backgammon player considered that. “No more than the rest. Perhaps less. Kept to himself. Seemed to want to be left alone.”
He laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“So many artists here are desperate for students. They advertise and hold shows and offer all sorts of courses. But this guy builds a small cabin in that clearing, says nothing, and students flock to him.”
“You know why?” Gamache asked. “Was he charismatic?”
That brought another laugh. “Anything but. I can tell you one thing, he didn’t look like an artist. Most are pretty scruffy. He seemed, well, more like you.”
The elderly man eyed him, and Gamache was far from convinced that was a compliment.
“Can you describe him? What did he look like?”
The elderly man considered. “Small guy. Wiry. About my age. My age back then, I mean.”
“Were there ever any women?”
“Are you suggesting there were orgies?”
“You made the clearing for orgies, Léon? Wait ’til your wife finds out.”
“If there were, I wasn’t invited.”
“No,” said Gamache, pretty sure they were having fun with him. “I’m just asking if it seemed that No Man was married or had a companion.”
“Not that I ever saw.”
“No muses?” asked Gamache, and watched their response. But there was no response, except that the one elderly man finally made his move.
The other man shook his head and clicked his tongue.
“You said the place was strange. What did you mean?” Gamache asked again.
“Where it was, for one thing. Is that where you’d choose to live, if you could’ve had that?”
He waved at the river.
“Most of the other artist retreats or communities or whatever you call them take advantage of the view. And why not?”
Gamache considered that. “Why not?” he asked.
The elderly man shrugged. “Privacy, I guess.”
“Or secrecy,” said the other man, his head bowed, studying the board. He looked across at his friend. “For orgies.”
They laughed and Gamache returned to the table, and considered what a fine line it was, between privacy and secrecy.
Their drinks had arrived by then.
“What were you talking about?” Myrna nodded toward the backgammon players.
“They knew No Man,” said Gamache. “And recognized the place from Peter’s painting.”
“Did they know Peter?” asked Clara.
“No.” He told them what the players had said, then he pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket and set them on the table. “Where’re we at?”
He looked for his pen, but Clara had taken it and turned her paper place mat over.
Gamache remembered then who was in charge. And who wasn’t.
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.”