“He sounds a kind man,” said Madame Dubois.

“He was.” Patenaude’s eyes met hers and he was surprised, again, by tenderness. Had he always been surrounded by it, he wondered. Was it always there? And all he’d seen were the dark woods and the deep water.

“He gave this man his personal money to invest. It was foolish, a kind of madness. The man later claimed my father and the others were as greedy as he was, and maybe that was true. But I don’t think so. I think he just wanted to help.”

He looked at Véronique, her face so strong and her eyes so clear.

“I believe you’re right,” she said, squeezing his hand slightly.

He blinked, not understanding this world that had suddenly appeared.

“The man was David Martin, wasn’t it?” said Véronique. “Julia’s husband.”

Patenaude nodded. “My father went bankrupt, of course. Lost everything. My mother didn’t care. I didn’t care. We loved him. But he never recovered. I don’t think it was the money, I think it was the shame and the betrayal. We never expected Martin to pay Dad back. It was an investment, and a bad one. It happens. Dad knew the risks. And Martin didn’t steal the money. But he never said he was sorry. And when he made his fortune, hundreds of millions of dollars, he never once contacted Dad, never offered to pay him back. Or invest in his company. I watched Martin get rich and my father work and work trying to rebuild.”

He stopped talking. There seemed nothing more that could be said. He couldn’t begin to explain how it felt to watch this man he adored sink, and finally go under. And watch the man who’d done this rise up.

Something new had started growing in the boy. Bitterness. And over the years it ate a hole where his heart should have been. And finally it ate all his insides so that there was only darkness in there. And a howl, an old echo going round and round. And growing with each repetition.

“I was happy here, you know.” He turned to Madame Dubois, who reached her old hand across the table and touched his arm.

“I’m glad,” she said. “And I was happy to have you. It seemed a kind of miracle.” She turned to Véronique. “A double blessing. And you were so good with the young staff. They adored you.”

“When I was with them I felt my father inside me. I could almost hear him whispering to me, telling me to be patient with them. That they needed a steady but gentle hand. Did you find Elliot?”

He asked Beauvoir beside him, who nodded.

“Just got the call. He was at the bus station in North Hatley.”

“Didn’t get far,” said Patenaude, and he smiled despite himself. “He never could take direction.”

“You told him to run, didn’t you? You tried to frame him, monsieur,” said Beauvoir. “Tried to make us believe he’d killed Julia Martin. You found the notes he’d written her and you kept them, deliberately tossing them into the grate, knowing we’d find them there.”

“He was homesick. I know the signs,” said Patenaude. “I’ve seen it often enough. And the longer he stayed the more angry and frustrated he got. But when he found out Julia Martin was from Vancouver he clung to her, like a junkie after a fix. At first it was inconvenient for me. I was afraid he’d figure out what I was doing. Then I saw how I could use it.”

“You’d have let him be arrested for your crime?” Véronique asked. She wasn’t, Beauvoir noticed, accusing, not judging. Just asking.

“No,” he said, tired. He rubbed his face and sighed, coming to the end of his energy. “I just wanted to confuse things, that’s all.”

Beauvoir didn’t believe him, but he thought Véronique did. Or maybe she didn’t, and loved him anyway.

“Is that why you took the child?” asked Madame Dubois. They were in dangerous territory now. Killing Julia Martin was one thing. Who, honestly, didn’t want to kill a Morrow every now and then? Even framing Elliot she could understand, perhaps. But dangling that child from the roof?

“Bean was insurance, that’s all,” said Patenaude. “To add to the confusion, and in case Elliot came back. I didn’t want to hurt Bean. I just wanted to get away. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t tried to stop me,” he said to Gamache.

And everyone in the comfortable, warm room glimpsed Pierre Patenaude’s small world, where wretched actions could be justified, and others blamed.

“Why did you kill Julia Martin?” Gamache asked again. He was bone tired but he had a distance to go yet. “She wasn’t responsible for what her husband did. They weren’t even married at the time.”