But it was more likely she never even thought of those things. She acted instinctively, as had her mother. And CC’s instincts were always to get rid of anything unpleasant. To erase and disappear them. As she had her soft and indolent husband and her immense and silent daughter.

And El was a huge, stinking unpleasantness.

Eleanor Allaire died at the hands of her only child.

And then the child had died. Reine-Marie sighed, saddened by the images.

‘If CC killed her mother,’ she asked, ‘then who killed CC?’

Gamache paused. Then he told her.

Upstairs in the B. & B. Yvette Nichol lay on her bed listening to the Hockey Night in Canada music and the occasional outbursts from the living room. She longed to join them. To discuss Thomas’s new contract and whether the coach should be blamed for the horrible season, and whether Toronto had known Pagé was injured when they’d traded him to the Canadians.

She’d felt something for Beauvoir, that night when she’d nursed him, and the next morning when they’d breakfasted together. Not a crush, really. Just a sort of comfort. A relief, as though a weight she never even knew she was carrying had been lifted.

And then the fire, and her stupidity in going into the building. Another reason to hate stupid Uncle Saul. It was his fault, of course. Everything bad that happened to the family could be traced back to him. He was the rot in the family tree.

She’s not worth it. The words had scalded and burned. She hadn’t known how bad the injury was at first. You never do. You go sort of numb. But with the passage of time it had become clear. She was gravely wounded.

Gamache had spoken to her, and that had been interesting. Had actually helped. If only to make it clear what she had to do. She picked up her cell phone and dialed. A man’s voice answered, the hockey game playing in the background.

‘I have a question for you,’ Gamache said, his change of tone alerting Reine-Marie. ‘Did I do the right thing with Arnot?’

Reine-Marie’s heart broke, hearing Armand ask that. Only she knew the price he’d paid. He’d put on a brave and firm public face. Not Jean Guy, not Michel Brébeuf, not even their best friends had known the agony he’d gone through. But she knew.

‘Why are you asking now?’

‘It’s this case. It’s become about more than murder. Somehow it’s about belief.’

‘Every murder you’ve been on is about belief. What the murderer believes, what you believe.’

It was true. We are what we believe. And the only case where he’d seriously been in danger of betraying what he believed had been Arnot.

‘Maybe I should have let them die.’

There it was. Had he been driven by his ego in the Arnot case? His pride? His certainty that he was right and everyone else was wrong?

Gamache remembered the hushed and hurried meeting at Sûreté headquarters. The decision to let the men commit suicide, for the good of the force. He remembered raising his objections and being voted down. And then he’d left. He still felt a pang of shame as he remembered what happened next. He’d taken a case in Mutton Bay, as far from headquarters as he could get. Where he could clear his head. But he’d known all along what he had to do.

And the fisherman had put it beyond doubt.

Gamache had jumped on a plane and headed back to Montreal. It was the weekend Arnot had chosen to go to the Abitibi. Gamache had made the long drive up. And as he got closer the weather had closed in. The first storm of the winter had descended, rapidly and brutally. And Gamache had become lost and stuck.

But he’d prayed and pushed and finally the tires had gripped and the car had headed back the way it had come. Back to the main road. The right road. He’d found the cabin and arrived just in time.

As Gamache entered Arnot had hesitated then jumped for his gun. And in that instant, as Arnot lunged, Gamache had known the truth of it. Arnot would see the others dead then he’d disappear.

Gamache had leaped across the room and grabbed the gun first. And suddenly it was over. The three men were taken back to Montreal to face trial. A trial that no one wanted, except Armand Gamache.

The trial had been a very public affair, rending the Sûreté and the entire community. And many blamed Gamache. He’d done the unthinkable. He’d taken the matter public.

Gamache had known this would happen, and that was why he’d hesitated. To lose the respect of your peers is a terrible thing. To become a pariah was hard.

And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,