Gamache raised his brow. “I thought—”

“That I was in charge? The sober guy leading the drunks?”

“Well, the one responsible for the meeting,” said Gamache.

“We’re all responsible,” said Thierry.

The Chief Inspector glanced over to a man arguing with his chair.

“To varying degrees,” admitted Thierry. “We take turns running the meetings. A few people here know what I do for a living, but most know me as plain old Thierry P.”

But Gamache knew the jurist and knew there was nothing “plain old” about him.

Thierry turned his attention to Beauvoir. “I’ve seen you in the courthouse too.”

“Jean Guy Beauvoir,” said Beauvoir. “I’m an inspector in homicide.”

“Of course. I should have recognized you sooner. I just didn’t expect to see you here. But then, obviously you didn’t expect to see me either. What brings you here?”

He looked from Beauvoir to Gamache.

“A case,” said Gamache. “Can we speak in private?”

“Absolutely. Come with me.”

Thierry led them through a rear door then down a series of corridors, each dingier than the last. Finally they found themselves in a back stairwell. Mr. Chief Justice Pineault indicated a step as though inviting them into an opera stall, then he took one himself.

“Here?” asked Beauvoir.

“It’s about as private as this place gets I’m afraid. Now, what’s this about?”

“We’re investigating the murder of a woman in a village in the Eastern Townships,” said Gamache, sitting on the filthy step beside the Chief Justice. “A place called Three Pines.”

“I know it,” said Thierry. “Wonderful bistro and bookstore.”

“That’s right.” Gamache was a little taken aback. “How do you know Three Pines?”

“We have a country place close by. In Knowlton.”

“Well, the woman who was killed lived in Montréal but was visiting the village. We found this near her body,” Gamache handed Thierry the beginner’s chip, “and this was in her apartment, along with a number of pamphlets.” He gave Thierry the meeting list. “This meeting was circled.”

“Who was she?” asked Thierry, looking at the meeting list and coin.

“Lillian Dyson.”

Thierry looked up, into Gamache’s deep brown eyes. “Are you serious?”

“You knew her.”

Thierry P. nodded. “I wondered why she wasn’t here tonight. She normally is.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Oh, I’d have to think. A few months anyway. Not more than a year.” Thierry trained sharp eyes on Gamache. “She was murdered, I take it.”

Gamache nodded. “Her neck was broken.”

“Not a fall? An accident?”

“Definitely not,” said Gamache. He could see that “plain old” Thierry P. had disappeared and the man sitting beside him on the dirty steps was the Chief Justice of Québec.

“Any suspects?”

“About two hundred. There was a party to celebrate an art show.”

Thierry nodded. “You know, of course, that Lillian was an artist.”

“I do. How do you know?”

Gamache found himself on guard. This man, while being the Chief Justice, also knew both the victim and the tiny village where she died.

“She talked about it.”

“But I thought this was anonymous,” said Beauvoir.

Thierry smiled. “Well, some people have bigger mouths than others. Lillian and her sponsor are both artists. I’d hear them talking over coffee. After a while you get to know each other personally. Not just in shares.”

“Shares?” Beauvoir asked. “Share of what?”

“Sorry. That’s AA speak. A share is what you heard from Brian tonight. It’s a speech, but we don’t like to call it that. Makes it sound too much like a performance. So we call it sharing.”

Chief Justice Pineault’s clever eyes picked up Beauvoir’s expression. “You find that funny?”

“No sir,” said Beauvoir quickly. But they all knew it was a lie. He found it both funny and pathetic.

“I did too,” Thierry admitted. “Before I joined AA. Thought words like ‘sharing’ were laughable. A crutch for stupid people. But I was wrong. It’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. In our AA shares we need to be completely and brutally honest. It’s very painful. Like what Brian did tonight.”