“Okay,” said Gamache, walking over to the canvases on the floor. “These are the more recent works. Mailed by Peter in late spring. They’re on canvas, while the earlier works”—he took three long strides over to the pine table—“given to Bean in the winter, are on paper.”

They looked like some living thing had fallen from a great height. And hit the table.

They could not be considered a triumph. Or a success. Or a good end.

But these, Gamache knew, weren’t anywhere close to an end. These were the beginning. They were signposts. Markers.

The Inuit used to erect stone men as a navigation tool, to mark their path. To point out where they were going and where they’d been. The way forward and the way home. Inuksuit, they were called. Literally, a substitute for a man. When found by Europeans they were initially destroyed. Then they were loathed as heathen. Now they’re recognized as not only markers, but works of art.

That’s what Peter had done. These might be works of art, but more than that, they were markers, signposts. Pointing out where he’d been and where he was going. The route he was traveling, artistically, emotionally, creatively. These odd paintings were his inuksuit, recording not so much his location, but the progress of his thoughts and feelings.

These paintings were a substitute for the man. Peter’s insides, out.

With that insight, Gamache looked more closely at the six paintings. What did they tell him about Peter?

They at first appeared to be simply splashes of color. The most recent ones, on canvas, seemed to clash even more violently than the early ones.

“Why paint some on paper and the rest on canvas?” Reine-Marie asked.

Clara had been wondering that herself. She stared at the groupings. Frankly, they all seemed equally crappy to her. It wasn’t like the three on canvas were clearly better and worth preserving and the paper ones were disposable.

“I guess there might be a couple of reasons,” she said. “He either didn’t have any canvases when he painted the first three, or he knew they’d be experiments. Not meant to last.”

“But these were?” Jean-Guy pointed to the works on the floor.

“Sometimes the magic works…” said Clara, and Gamache gave a small laugh.

“Peter’s a smart man,” said Reine-Marie. “A successful artist. He must have realized these aren’t great. They’re not even good.”

Jean-Guy nodded. “Exactly. Why keep them? And not just keep them, but give them to someone else, let someone else see them?”

“What do you do with the works you don’t like?” Reine-Marie asked Clara.

“Oh, I keep most.”

“Even the ones you couldn’t save?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Even those.”

“Why?”