“You know, I actually did. Amazing, isn’t it, our capacity for self-deceit.”

Gamache looked at him quizzically.

“All right, my capacity for it,” snapped Gilbert. He studied Gamache. Tall, powerfully built. Probably ten pounds overweight, maybe more. Go to fat if he’s not careful. Die of a heart attack.

He imagined Gamache suddenly clutching his chest, his eyes widening then closing in pain. Staggering against the wall and gasping. And Dr. Vincent Gilbert, the celebrated physician, folding his arms, doing nothing, as this head of homicide slipped to the ground. It comforted him to know he had that power, of life and death.

Gamache looked at this rigid man. In front of him was the face he’d seen staring, glaring, from the back of that lovely book, Being. Arrogant, challenging, confident.

But Gamache had read the book, and knew what lay behind that face.

“Are you staying here?” They’d told Gilbert not to leave the area and the B and B was the only guesthouse.

“Actually, no. I’m the first guest at Marc’s inn and spa. Don’t think I’ll ask for a treatment, though.” He had the grace to smile. Like most stern people, he looked very different when he smiled.

Gamache’s surprise was obvious.

“I know,” agreed Gilbert. “It was actually Dominique who invited me to stay, though she did suggest I might want to be . . .”

“Discreet?”

“Invisible. So I came into town.”

Gamache sat in an armchair. “Why did you come looking for your son now?”

It had escaped no one that both Gilbert and the body had shown up at the same time. Again Gamache saw the cabin, with its two comfortable chairs by the fire. Had two older men sat there on a summer’s night? Talking, discussing? Arguing? Murdering?

Vincent Gilbert looked down at his hands. Hands that had been inside people. Hands that had held hearts. Repaired hearts. Got them beating again, and restored life. They trembled, unsteady. And he felt a pain in his chest.

Was he having a heart attack?

He looked up and saw this large, steady man watching him. And he thought if he was having a heart attack this man would probably help.

How to explain his time at LaPorte, living with men and women with Down’s syndrome? At first he’d thought his job was to simply look after their bodies.

Help others.

That’s what the guru had told him to do. Years he’d been at the ashram in India and the guru had finally acknowleged his presence. Almost a decade he’d spent there, in exchange for two words.

Help others.

So that’s what he did. He returned to Quebec and joined Brother Albert at LaPorte. To help others. It never, ever occurred to him that they’d help him. After all, how could people that damaged have anything to offer the great healer and philosopher?

It had taken years, but he’d woken up one morning in his cottage in the grounds of LaPorte and something had changed. He’d gone down to breakfast and realized he knew everyone’s name. And everyone spoke to him, or smiled. Or came up and showed him something they’d found. A snail, a stick, a blade of grass.

Mundane. Nothing. And yet the whole world had changed, as he slept. He’d gone to bed helping others, and woken up healed himself.

That afternoon, in the shade of a maple tree, he’d started writing Being.

“I’d kept an eye on Marc. Watched his successes in Montreal. When they sold their home and bought down here I knew the signs.”

“Signs of what?” Gamache asked.

“Burnout. I wanted to help.”

Help others.

He was just beginning to appreciate the power of those two simple words. And that help came in different forms.

“By doing what?” asked Gamache.

“By making sure he was all right,” Gilbert snapped. “Look, they’re all upset up there about the body. Marc did a stupid thing moving it, but I know him. He’s not a murderer.”

“How do you know?”

Gilbert glared at him. His rage back in full force. But Armand Gamache knew what was behind that rage. What was behind all rage.

Fear.

What was Vincent Gilbert so afraid of?

The answer was easy. He was afraid his son would be arrested for murder. Either because he knew his son had done it, or because he knew he hadn’t.

A few minutes later a voice cut across the crowded bistro, aimed at the Chief Inspector, who’d arrived seeking a glass of red wine and quiet to read his book.

“You bugger.”

More than one person looked up. Myrna sailed across the room and stood next to Gamache’s table, glaring down at him. He got up and bowed slightly, indicating a chair.