“That’s how I feel, that I’m not really alone. Not since I met Suzanne. You know?”

“I do.”

“The only thing wrong with my image of our wedding is that Suzanne always faints or throws up in church.”

“Really? How extraordinary. Why do you think that is?”

“The incense, I think. I hope. Either that or she’s the antichrist.”

“That would mess up the wedding,” said Gamache.

“Not to mention the marriage. I’ve asked and she assures me she isn’t.”

“Well, good enough. Have you considered a pre-nup?”

Paul Morin laughed.

May your days be good and long upon this earth, thought Gamache.

“You asked to speak with me?”

Gamache’s eyes flew open, jolted. A middle-aged man in a cassock was staring down at him.

“Père Sébastien?”

“That’s right.” The voice was clipped, efficient, officious.

“My name is Armand Gamache. I was hoping for some of your time.”

The man’s beady eyes were hard, wary. “It’s a busy day.” He looked closely at Gamache. “Do I know you?”

Since the priest showed no interest in sitting Gamache stood. “Not personally, no, but you might have heard of me. I’m the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec.”

The man’s face cleared of annoyance and he smiled. “Of course, Chief Inspector.” Now he put out a slender hand and greeted him. “I’m sorry. It’s dark in here, and, do you normally wear a beard?”

“No, I’m incognito,” smiled Gamache.

“Then you might not want to be telling people you’re the head of homicide.”

“Good suggestion.” Gamache looked around. “It’s been a while since I was in the basilica. Not since the premier’s funeral a few years ago.”

“I was one of the celebrants,” said Père Sébastien. “Beautiful service.”

Gamache remembered it as formal, stilted, and very, very long.

“Now,” Father Sébastien sat and patted the wood next to him. “Tell me what you’d like to know. Unless it’s the confessional you need?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” the young voice repeated, over and over. Gamache had reassured him it wasn’t his fault, and assured Morin he’d find him before it was too late.

“You’ll be having dinner with your parents and Suzanne tonight.” There’d been a pause and Gamache thought he heard a sob. “I’ll find you.”

Another pause.

“I believe you.”

“No,” Gamache said to the priest, “just information.”

“How can I help?”

“It’s about the murder of Augustin Renaud.”

The priest didn’t look surprised. “Terrible. But I don’t think I can be of much help. I hardly knew the man.”

“But you did know him?”

Père Sébastien looked at Gamache with some suspicion now. “Of course I knew him. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Frankly I don’t know why I’m here, except someone suggested I speak with you. Can you think why?”

The priest became prickly, offended. “Well, maybe because I’m the leading scholar on the early settlement of Québec and the role of the church. But maybe that’s not important.”

Dear God, thought Gamache, save me from a huffy priest. “Forgive me, but I’m not from Quebec City so I’m unfamiliar with your work.”

“My articles are published worldwide.”

This wasn’t getting better.

“Désolé. It’s not an area of expertise for me, but it’s clearly of immense importance and I desperately need your help.”

The priest relaxed a bit, his hackles slowly lying flat. “How can I help?” he asked, coldly.

“What can you tell me about Augustin Renaud?”

“Well, he wasn’t crazy, I can tell you that.” He was the first person to say that and Gamache leaned forward. The priest continued, “He was passionate and obstinate and he was certainly offensive, but he wasn’t crazy. People called him that in order to dismiss the man, take away his credibility. It was a cruel thing to do.”

“You liked him?”

Père Sébastien shifted a little on the hard pew. “I wouldn’t say that. He was a difficult man to like, not very socially adept. Maladroit, in fact. He had only one goal in life and everything else was trivial to him, including people’s feelings. I can see how he’d make a lot of enemies.”