Now he looked at the drawing. The artist had made a stylized circle, with a bite taken out, and a kind of neck. It hadn’t made sense at the time, but now it did. The bite was the eagle’s mouth, open and screaming. The rest was its head and neck.

So Elle had died grasping her necklace. Why had Elle valued it so much she’d died holding it? And why had the murderer taken the time to pry it from her hand?

And then what? Gamache leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. Any sounds in the room, in the village, in Quebec, receded. He was in his own world now, with the murderer. Just the two of them. What had he done, and why?

He’d taken the pendant from Elle’s dead hand and brought it back home. And he’d put it in the garbage. CC’s garbage. Gamache could feel himself getting close. It was still murky, far from clear, but the headlights were shining bright now, cutting through the night. Before he got to who, Gamache needed to know why. Why hadn’t the murderer just fled? Why take the time to pry this necklace from Elle’s hand?

Because it was a screaming eagle. It was a tarnished, filthy, cheap version of what he’d seen on the screen earlier that evening. The emblem of Eleanor of Aquitaine, the logo for CC de Poitiers and the necklace of the beggar were the same.

The murderer had taken it because it proved something more terrible than who killed Elle. It proved that Elle and CC were connected. They shared more than a symbol.

Elle was CC’s mother.

‘Come on,’ said Beauvoir, holding out his gloved hand for the necklace. ‘Some dead vagrant was CC de Poitiers’s mother?’

Gamache was on the phone, dialing. ‘That’s right.’

‘I’m confused,’ said Beauvoir and Lemieux was glad he said it. Nichol, at her computer, stole looks over to the three men talking. She watched as Lacoste got up and joined the men.

‘Oui, allô,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Is Terry Moscher there? Yes, I’ll hold.’ He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘What are the chances the dead vagrant and CC both have the same emblem? A butterfly, maybe. A flower, I’d give you that. They’re pretty common. But that?’ He gestured to the pendant hanging from Beauvoir’s fist. ‘Who do you know who’d wear that for decoration?’

Beauvoir had to agree if he bought a necklace with an insane eagle on it for his wife she wouldn’t thank him. It was more than a coincidence, but did it make them mother and daughter?

‘Yes, hello, Monsieur Moscher? It’s Chief Inspector Gamache. I’m well, thank you, but I have a question for you. You mentioned that Elle signed the register the few times she stayed at the Old Brewery Mission. Would you mind finding the entry again? Yes, I’ll hold.’ He turned back to his team. ‘We’ll send the necklace to the lab to be tested.’

‘I’ll take it back with me,’ said Lacoste.

‘Good. We should get the results in less than a day. It’ll tell us about fingerprints, but there’s also blood on it. Yes, I’m still here.’ He turned back to the phone. ‘I see. Yes. Could you fax me a copy of the page right away? And I’ll send an agent over tonight to pick up the ledger. Merci infiniment.’

Gamache hung up, looking reflective.

‘What? What’d he say?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘I’ve been a fool. When I asked him the other night to check the register he confirmed that Elle had signed it. Or at least I thought that’s what he said and meant.’ The fax rang and started printing. They all watched as the paper took its excruciating time, inching out of the machine. Finally it was done and Beauvoir snatched up the paper, scanning the signatures.

TV Bob

Frenchie

Little Cindy

L

‘L,’ he said softly, handing the sheet to Gamache. ‘L, not Elle.’

‘Her name was L,’ said Gamache, taking the paper back to his desk and picking up the Li Bien ball. He turned it over until the signature was visible. L. Exactly the same as the ledger.

Whoever had made this exquisite work of art years ago had recently signed into the Old Brewery Mission in Montreal to escape the killing cold. She’d become a vagrant, a homeless bag lady. And finally, a body with a closed file in homicide. But now Gamache felt he’d at least brought her home. To Three Pines. L was CC’s mother. He was sure of it. But that meant something else. L was dead. CC was dead.

Someone was killing the women in that family.

THIRTY

Gamache and Beauvoir hurried into their coats and boots, Beauvoir remembering to press the remote start on his car keys, to at least give it a minute or so to warm up.