There were nods around the ring. Gamache paused, staring at Hazel.

‘Madeleine kept something a secret. Even from you. Perhaps especially from you.’

‘She told me everything,’ said Hazel, as though defending her best friend.

‘No. One last thing, one huge thing, she kept from you. From everyone. Madeleine was dying. Her cancer had spread.’

‘Mais, non,’ said Monsieur Béliveau.

‘But that’s impossible,’ Hazel snapped. ‘She’d have said something.’

‘Odd that she didn’t. I think she didn’t want to, because she sensed something in you, something that fed on, and created, weakness. Had she told you, though, you wouldn’t have killed her. But by then the plan was in motion. It started with this.’

He held up the alumni list he’d gotten from the school that afternoon.

‘Madeleine was on the alumni of your old high school. So were you.’ Gamache turned to Jeanne, who nodded. ‘Hazel took one of Gabri’s brochures, typed “Where lay lines meet – Easter Special” across the top and mailed it to Jeanne.’

‘She stole one of my brochures,’ Gabri said to Myrna.

‘Big picture, Gabri.’

With a struggle he accepted that maybe he wasn’t quite as aggrieved as Madeleine. Or Hazel.

‘Poor Hazel,’ said Gabri, and everyone nodded. Poor Hazel.

FORTY-FOUR

Akind of shell shock settled over Gamache in the week that followed. His food tasted dull, the paper held no interest. He read and re-read the same sentence in Le Devoir. Reine-Marie tried to engage him in discussions of a trip to the Manoir Bellechasse to celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. He responded, showed interest, but the clear, sparkling colors of his life had dulled. It was as though his heart was suddenly too heavy for his legs. He lugged himself around, trying not to think about what had happened. But one evening when he was out for a walk with Reine-Marie and Henri, the shepherd had suddenly tugged free and raced across the park toward a familiar man on the other side. Gamache called after him and Henri stopped. But not before the man on the far side had also spotted the dog. And the owner.

Once more, and for the last time, Michel Brébeuf and Armand Gamache locked eyes. In between so much life happened. Children played, dogs rolled and fetched, young parents marveled at what they’d produced. The air between the men was ripe with lilac and honeysuckle, the buzz of bees, puppies barking, children laughing. The world stood between Armand Gamache and his best friend.

And Gamache longed to walk across and hug him. To feel the familiar hand on his arm. The smell of Michel in his nostrils: soap and pipe tobacco. He yearned for his company, his voice, his eyes so thoughtful and full of humor.

He missed his best friend.

And to think for years Michel had actually hated him. Why? For being happy.

How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes.

But today no happiness could be found there, only sorrow and regret.

As Gamache watched, Michel Brébeuf raised one hand then lowered it and walked away. Gamache was just raising his, but his friend had already turned away. Reine-Marie took his hand, and he picked up Henri’s leash and the three of them continued their walk.

Robert Lemieux had been charged with assault and attempted murder. He faced a long prison sentence. But Armand Gamache couldn’t bring himself to lay charges against Michel Brébeuf. He knew he should. Knew he was a coward for backing away. But every time he approached Paget’s office to lay the charge he remembered little Michel Brébeuf’s hand on his arm. Telling him in his little boy voice it would be all right. He wasn’t alone.

And he couldn’t do it. His friend had saved him once. And now it was his turn.

But Michel Brébeuf had resigned from the Sûreté, a broken man. His house for sale, he and Catherine were leaving their beloved Montreal and all they knew and loved. Michel Brébeuf had placed himself beyond the pale.

Armand Gamache was invited to take tea with Agent Nichol and her family one Saturday afternoon. He pulled up to the house, tiny and immaculate. He could see the faces at the picture window overlooking the road, though they disappeared as he came up the walk. The door was opened even before he knocked.

He met Yvette Nichol for the first time. The person, not the agent. She was dressed in simple slacks and a sweater, and he realized it was also the first time he’d seen her without a stain on her clothing. Ari Nikolev, small and thin and worried, wiped his palms on his pants then held his hand out.