‘My question first, please. Where did you go yesterday afternoon?’

‘I was just up the hill.’

‘At the old Hadley house?’

The revulsion in her face was instant, as though a curtain had suddenly been raised and he had a glimpse of what was back there.

‘No, not that place. I hope never again to go there.’ She looked hard at him, strip-mining his face for any indication he was going to ask her to do just that. Gamache thought it was a look dentists would recognize. Frightened patients pleading with just their eyes, ‘Don’t hurt me.’

Then the moment was gone. ‘I was at the other extreme. The little church.’

‘St Thomas’s?’

‘Yes. It’s beautiful. I felt the need for quiet, for a peaceful place to pray.’

She saw his confusion.

‘What? Witches don’t pray? Or we only pray to the fallen angels not the ones who hang around St Thomas’s?’

‘I know nothing about the Wiccan,’ said Gamache. ‘I’d like to hear.’

‘Will you come with me?’

‘Where to?’

‘Are you afraid?’ She wasn’t laughing at him.

He paused for a moment to think about that. He tried not to lie to suspects. Not because he was a moral or ethical man, but because he knew if found out it weakened his position. And Chief Inspector Gamache would never do that. Not for something as foolish as a lie.

‘I’m always a little afraid of the unknown,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m not afraid of you.’

‘You trust me?’

‘No.’ He smiled. ‘I trust myself. Besides, I have a gun and you probably don’t.’

‘Not my weapon of choice, it’s true. It’s such a lovely day it’s a shame to be inside. I’m only suggesting a walk. Perhaps we can go back to the chapel.’

They stood on the wide veranda for a moment, beside the rocking chairs and wicker tables, then descended the sweeping stairs and fell into step. They walked in silence for a minute or two. It was a golden day with every shade of green imaginable just appearing. The dirt road was finally dry and the air smelled of fresh grass and buds. Purple and yellow crocuses dotted the lawns and the village green. Great fields of early daffodils bobbed, having spread and naturalized all over Three Pines, their bright yellow trumpets catching the sun. After a minute Gamache took off his field coat and draped it over his arm.

‘It’s very peaceful,’ said Jeanne. Gamache didn’t answer. He walked and waited. ‘It’s like a mystical village that only appears for people who need it.’

‘Did you?’

‘I needed a rest, yes. I’d heard about the B. & B. and decided to book in at the last minute.’

‘How’d you hear about it?’

‘A brochure. Gabri must have advertised.’

Gamache nodded. The sun was warm on his face, though not hot.

‘Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. No one has ever died at one of my rituals. And no one has ever been hurt. Not in the physical sense.’

Gamache longed to ask, but decided to stay quiet.

‘People often hear things that upset them emotionally,’ said Jeanne. ‘Spirits don’t seem to care much for people’s feelings. But for the most part contacting the dead is a very gentle, even tender experience.’

She stopped and looked at him. ‘You said you know nothing about the Wicca. I assume that means you know nothing about our rituals as well.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Séances aren’t about hauntings or ghosts or demons. They aren’t about exorcisms even. Not really. They’re not even about death, though we do contact the spirits of the dead.’

‘What are they about?’

‘Life. And healing. When people ask for a séance chances are they need healing. On the surface it might appear to be about titillation or a game to pass the time and scare each other, but someone there needs something resolved, in order to get on with their lives. They need to let something or someone go. That’s what I do. That’s my job.’

‘You’re a healer?’

Jeanne stopped and looked directly into Gamache’s deep brown eyes. ‘I am. All Wicca are. We’re the crones, the midwives, the medicine women. We use herbs and ritual, we use the power of the Earth and the power of the mind and soul. And we use the energy of the universe and we use spirits. We do whatever we can to help wounded souls heal.’

‘There are a lot of wounded souls.’