Clara and Gabri fought their way over to the bar to get more drinks.

The waiters were being run ragged. He’d give them a bonus, Olivier decided. Something to make up for two days of lost wages. Faith. Gabri was always telling him he had to have faith, trust that things would work out.

And they had worked out. Beautifully.

Beside him Ruth was tapping her cane rhythmically on the wooden floor. It was more than annoying. It was somehow threatening. So soft, but so unstoppable. Tap, tap, tap, tap.

“Scotch?”

That would get her to stop. But she stood ramrod straight, her cane lifting and dropping. Tap, tap, tap. Then he realized what she was tapping out.

Chief Inspector Gamache was still approaching, slowly, deliberately. And with each footfall came a beat of Ruth’s cane.

“I wonder if the murderer knows just how terrible a thing is pursuing him?” asked Ruth. “I feel almost sorry for him. He must feel trapped.”

“Gilbert did it. Gamache’ll arrest him soon.”

But the thumping of Ruth’s cane matched the thudding in Olivier’s chest. He watched Gamache approach. Then, miraculously, Gamache passed them by. And Olivier heard the little tinkle of Myrna’s bell.

So, there was some excitement up at the old Hadley house.”

Myrna poured Gamache a coffee and joined him by the bookshelves.

“There was. Who told you?”

“Who didn’t? Everyone knows. Marc Gilbert was the one who put the body in the bistro. But what people can’t figure out is whether he killed the man.”

“What’re some of the theories?”

“Well.” Myrna took a sip of coffee and watched as Gamache moved along the rows of books. “Some think he must have done it, and dumped the body in the bistro to get back at Olivier. Everyone knows they dislike each other. But the rest think if he was really going to do that he’d kill the man in the bistro. Why kill him somewhere else, then move him?”

“You tell me. You’re the psychologist.” Gamache gave up his search of the shelves and turned to Myrna.

“Former.”

“But you can’t retire your knowledge.”

“Can’t crawl back into Paradise?” Taking their coffee to the armchairs in the bay window they sat and sipped while Myrna thought. Finally she spoke.

“Seems unlikely.” She didn’t look pleased with her answer.

“You want the murderer to be Marc Gilbert?” he asked.

“God help me, I do. Hadn’t thought about it before, really, but now that the possibility’s here it would be, well, convenient.”

“Because he’s an outsider?”

“Beyond the pale,” said Myrna.

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you know the expression, Chief Inspector?”

“I’ve heard it, yes. It means someone’s done something unacceptable. That’s one way of looking at murder, I suppose.”

“I didn’t mean that. Do you know where the expression comes from?” When Gamache shook his head she smiled. “It’s the sort of arcane knowledge a bookstore owner collects. It’s from medieval times. A fortress was built with thick stone walls in a circle. We’ve all seen them, right?”

Gamache had visited many old castles and fortresses, almost all in ruins now, but it was the brightly colored illustrations from the books he’d pored over as a child he remembered most vividly. The towers with vigilant archers, the crenellated stone, the massive wooden doors. The moat and drawbridge. And inside the circle of the walls was a courtyard. When attacked the villagers would race inside, the drawbridge would be raised, the massive doors closed. Everyone inside was safe. They hoped.

Myrna was holding out her palm, and circling it with a finger. “All around are walls, for protection.” Then her finger stopped its movement and rested on the soft center of her palm. “This is the pale.”

“So if you’re beyond the pale . . .”

“You’re an outsider,” said Myrna. “A threat.” She slowly closed her hand. As a black woman she knew what it meant to be “beyond the pale.” She’d been on the outside all her life, until she’d moved here. Now she was on the inside and it was the Gilberts’ turn.

But it wasn’t as comfortable as she’d always imagined the “inside” to be.

Gamache sipped his coffee and watched her. It was interesting that everyone seemed to know about Marc Gilbert moving the body, but no one seemed to know about the other Gilbert, risen from the dead.