Arnot. Goddamned Arnot. And what that man was capable of even from prison. Especially from prison, where Gamache had put him.

But even those dark thoughts evaporated before the sight that met his eyes. How could he be fearful when faced with this?

Three Pines lay nestled in its little valley. Wood smoke wafted from the stone chimneys, and maples and cherry and apple trees were in bud if not quite in bloom. People moved here and there, some working in gardens, some pinning up fresh laundry on their lines, some sweeping the wide and graceful verandas. Spring cleaning. Villagers walked across the green with canvas bags full of baguettes and other produce Gamache couldn’t see but could imagine. Locally made cheeses and pâtés, farm fresh eggs and rich aromatic coffee beans all from the shops.

He looked at his watch. Almost noon.

Gamache had been to Three Pines on previous investigations and each time he’d had the feeling he belonged. It was a powerful feeling. After all, what else did people really want except to belong?

He longed to stride down the muddy verge, cross the village green and open the door to Olivier’s Bistro. There he’d warm his hands by the fire, order licorice pipes and a Cinzano. And maybe a rich pea soup. He’d read old copies of the Times Literary Supplement and talk to Olivier and Gabri about the weather.

How was it his favorite place on earth was so close to his least favorite?

‘What’s that?’ Jean Guy Beauvoir laid a hand on his arm. ‘Can you hear it?’

Gamache listened. He heard birds. He heard a slight breeze rustling the old leaves at his feet. And he heard something else.

A rumble. No, more than that. A muffled roar. Had the old Hadley house come to life behind them? Was it growling and growing?

Ripping his eyes from the tranquility of the village he looked around slowly until his eyes finally fell on the house.

It stared back, cold, defiant.

‘It’s the river, sir,’ said Beauvoir, smiling sheepishly. ‘The Rivière Bella Bella. Spring run-off. Nothing more.’ He watched as the Chief Inspector stared at the house, then Gamache blinked and turned to Beauvoir, smiling slightly.

‘Are you sure it wasn’t the house growling?’

‘Pretty sure.’

‘I believe you,’ Gamache laughed. He placed his large hand on the younger man’s soft leather jacket then started toward the old Hadley house.

As he approached he was surprised to see peeling paint and jagged, broken windows. The ‘For Sale’ sign had fallen over and tiles were missing from the roof and even some bricks from the chimney. It was almost as though the house was casting parts of itself away.

Stop that, he said to himself.

‘Stop what?’ Beauvoir asked, almost running to catch up to the chief, the boss’s long strides picking up speed as they neared the house.

‘I said that out loud, did I?’ Gamache suddenly stopped. ‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache began, but he didn’t know what he wanted to say. While Beauvoir waited, his handsome face going from respectful attention to quizzical, Gamache thought.

What do I want to tell him? To be careful? To know things weren’t as they appeared? Not the Hadley house, not this case, not even their own homicide team.

He wanted to pull this young man away from the house. Away from the investigation. Away from him. As far from him as possible.

Things were not as they seemed. The known world was shifting, reforming. Everything he’d taken as a given, a fact, as real and unquestioned, had fallen away.

But he was damned if he was going to fall with it. Or let anyone he loved go down.

‘The house is falling apart,’ said Gamache. ‘Be careful.’

Beauvoir nodded. ‘You too.’

Once inside Gamache was surprised by how mundane the place felt. Not evil at all. If anything it felt kind of pathetic.

‘Up here, Chief,’ Agent Isabelle Lacoste called, her brown hair hanging down as she looked over the dark wood banister. ‘She died in this room.’ Lacoste waved behind her and disappeared.

‘Joyeuses Pâques,’ she said a moment later when Gamache had climbed the stairs and walked into the room. Agent Lacoste was dressed in comfortable and stylish clothes, like most of the Québécoises. In her late twenties she’d already had two children and hadn’t bothered to work off all the weight. Instead she dressed well and was perfectly happy with the results.

Gamache took in the sight. A luxurious four-poster bed stood against one wall. A fireplace with a heavy Victorian mantel sat across from it. On the wooden floor was a huge Indian rug in rich blues and burgundies. The walls held intricate William Morris wallpaper and the lamps, both floor and table, were festooned with tassels. A colorful scarf was artfully draped over a lamp on a vanity.