Finally it was time for bed and after Beauvoir said goodnight Gamache took a final stroll in the quiet garden, looking up at the stars.

“And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

The first of July, Canada Day, dawned misty and cool. It threatened rain. Armand Gamache looked across the breakfast table at Irene Finney. Between them sat her Earl Grey teapot and his café au lait. In the background waiters set up the morning buffet.

“When can I bury my daughter, Chief Inspector?”

“I’ll call the coroner, madame, and let you know. I expect she’ll release your daughter in the next day or so. Where will you have the funeral?”

She hadn’t expected this question. To be asked about her family, yes. Herself, almost certainly. Their history, their finances, even their feelings. She’d been prepared for an interrogation, not a conversation.

“Is that really your business?”

“It is. We reveal ourselves in our choices. The only way I’ll find your daughter’s killer is if he reveals himself.”

“What an odd man you are.” It was clear Madame Finney didn’t like odd. “You really think where a murder victim is buried is a clue?”

“Everything’s a clue. Especially where bodies are buried.”

“But you’re asking me. Does that mean you suspect me?”

The woman in front of him was unflinching, almost daring him to press her.

“I do.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re lying,” she said. “You can’t possibly suspect an eighty-five-year-old woman of pushing a several-ton statue onto her own daughter. But perhaps you’ve lost sight of reality. Must run in the family.”

“Perhaps. Frankly, madame, it is as likely that you did it as anyone. None of you could have shoved Charles Morrow from his pedestal, and yet it happened, I’m sorry to say.”

The less gracious she became the more gracious he grew. And she was quickly becoming very ornery indeed. Not a surprise to the Chief Inspector, who knew she was of the type who could be both extremely courteous and excessively offensive.

“Thank you.” She smiled to the young waiter, then turned ice water eyes on Gamache. “Go on. You were accusing me of killing my own daughter.”

“That isn’t true.” He leaned forward, careful not to invade her personal space, but close enough to threaten it. “Why would you say that? I can’t imagine you aren’t desperate to find out who really did it. So why aren’t you helping?”

He spoke with curiosity, his voice calm and reasonable.

She radiated rage now. He felt his face would bubble and scald. And he knew why none of the Morrow children had ever been this close. And wondered, fleetingly, about Bert Finney, who had.

“I am trying to help. If you’d ask sensible questions I’ll answer them.”

Gamache leaned back slowly and looked at her. Her face was etched with a network of tiny lines, like a glass that had just shattered and not yet collapsed. Small patches of pink marked her cheeks, making her even lovelier, more vulnerable. He wondered how many poor souls had been taken in.

“What are the right questions?”

This too surprised her.

“Ask about my family, ask about their upbringing. They wanted for nothing, you know. Education, sports. Ski trips in winter, tennis and sailing in the summer. And I know you think we gave them things.” She picked up the sugar bowl and thumped it down, a geyser of sugar leaping out and landing on the honeysuckle wood. “And we did. I did. But we also gave them love. They knew they were loved.”

“How did they know?”

“Another foolish question. They knew because they knew. They were told. They were shown. If they didn’t feel it that was their problem. What have they told you?”

“They’ve said nothing about love, but I haven’t asked.”

“You ask me but not them? Blame the mother, is that it?”

“You mistake me, madame. When it comes time to blame, you’ll know it. I’m simply asking questions. And you were the one to mention love, not me. But it’s an interesting question. Do you think your children love each other?”

“Of course they do.”

“And yet they’re strangers to each other. It doesn’t take a detective to know they barely tolerate each other. Have they ever been close?”

“Before Julia left, yes. We used to play games. Word games. Alliteration. And I’d read to the children.”