Gamache wiped up gravy with soft, warm bread. ‘It’s possible.’

‘But if Madeleine had a heart condition, why keep it secret?’

And what other secrets might Madeleine have had, and tried to take with her screaming into the grave?

‘Maybe the murderer just got lucky,’ said Beauvoir. But both men knew although this was a murder that had relied on many things, luck wasn’t one of them.

THIRTY-TWO

Jeanne Chauvet sat with her back to the room and tried to pretend she liked being alone. Tried to pretend she was mesmerized by the warm and lively fire. Tried to pretend she didn’t feel bruised and buffeted by the cold stares of the villagers, almost as violent as the storm outside. Tried to pretend she belonged. In Three Pines.

She’d felt immediately comfortable the moment her little car had glided down du Moulin a few short days ago, the village bathed in bright sun, the trees covered in chartreuse buds, the people smiling and nodding gently to each other. Some even bowed to each other as Gamache had just now in a courtly, courteous way that seemed only to exist in this magical valley.

Jeanne Chauvet had seen enough of the world, this and the others, to know a magical place. And Three Pines was one. She felt as though she’d been swimming all her life, but an island had risen. That night she’d lain in bed in the B. & B., snuggled into the crisp clean linen, and been sung to sleep by the frogs in the pond. Years of tired started to slip away. Not exhaustion, but a weariness as though her very bones had been fossilized, turned to stone, and were dragging her to the weedy bottom.

But that night in bed she knew Three Pines had saved her. From the moment she’d received the brochure through the mail she’d dared to hope.

But then she’d seen Madeleine that Friday night at the séance and her island had sunk, like Atlantis. She was once again in over her head.

She took a sip of Olivier’s strong, rich coffee, made a warm caramel color by the cream, and pretended the villagers, so friendly when she’d first arrived, hadn’t themselves turned to stone, cold and hard and unforgiving. She could almost see them marching toward her, with torches in the hands and terror in their eyes.

All because of Madeleine. Some things never changed. All Jeanne had ever wanted was to belong, and all Madeleine had ever done was take that from her.

‘May we join you?’

Jeanne started and looked up. Armand Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir were looking down at her, Gamache with a warm smile on his face, his eyes thoughtful and kind. The other looked grumpy.

He doesn’t want to be here with me, thought Jeanne, though she knew she didn’t have to be a psychic to figure that one out.

‘Please.’ She indicated the soft chairs on either side of the hearth, their faded fabrics warmed by the fire.

‘Are you planning to move anywhere else?’ Gabri huffed.

‘The night is young, patron,’ Gamache smiled. ‘May I offer you something?’ he asked Jeanne.

‘I have my coffee, thank you.’

‘We were about to order some liqueurs. It feels a night for one.’ He looked briefly at the mullioned window, reflecting the warm interior of the bistro. The old panes quivered in another blast, and a slight tinkling told them the hail wasn’t finished.

‘God,’ sighed Gabri, ‘how can we live in a country that does this to us?’

‘I’ll have an espresso and a brandy and Benedictine,’ said Beauvoir.

Gamache turned to Jeanne. For some reason she felt in the company of her father, or perhaps her grandfather, even though the Chief Inspector couldn’t be more than ten years her elder. There was something old world about him, as though he was from another age, another era. She wondered if he found it hard in this world. But she thought not.

‘Yes, please. I’d like a…’ She thought for a moment then turned to look at the row of liqueur bottles on a shelf at the back of the bar. Tia Maria, crème de menthe, cognac. She turned back to Gabri, ‘I’ll have a Cointreau, s’il vous plaît.’

Gamache ordered his own then the three of them discussed the weather, the Eastern Townships, and the conditions of the roads until their drinks arrived.

‘Have you always been psychic, Madame Chauvet?’ asked Gamache once Gabri had reluctantly left.

‘I think so, but it wasn’t until I was about ten that I realized not everyone saw the world as I did.’ She brought the tiny glass to her nose and sniffed. Orange and sweet and somehow warm. Her eyes started watering just from the smell. She brought the Cointreau to her lips and wetted them with the syrupy liquid. Then she lowered the glass and licked her lips. She wanted this to last. The tastes, smells, sights. The company.