For that was the musée of Auguste Rodin. And Armand Gamache went to visit the Burghers of Calais.

“Does the statue remind you of anything?”

“Horror movies. He looks as though he’s about to come alive,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache smiled. There was something otherworldly about the statue. And it had killed once, after all.

“Have you ever heard of Les Bourgeois de Calais? The Burghers of Calais?”

Beauvoir pretended to think.

“Non.” He had the feeling he was about to. At least the chief wasn’t quoting poetry. Yet.

“He reminds me of them.” Gamache stepped back again. “Auguste Rodin sculpted them. They’re in the Musée Rodin, in Paris, but there’s also one outside the Musée des Beaux Arts in Montreal, if you want to see it.”

Beauvoir took that as a joke.

“Rodin lived about a hundred years ago, but the story goes back much further, to 1347.”

He had Beauvoir’s attention. The chief’s deep, thoughtful voice spoke as though reciting a tale and Beauvoir could see the events unfold.

The port of Calais almost seven hundred years ago. Bustling, rich, strategic. In the middle of the Hundred Years War between the French and the English, though of course they didn’t call it that then. Just war. Calais was an important French port and it found itself under siege by the mighty army of Edward III of England. Expecting to be relieved by Philip VI of France the townspeople settled in, unconcerned. But days stretched to weeks stretched to months and hope stretched to breaking. And beyond. Eventually starvation was at the door, through the gate and in their homes. Still they held on, trusting relief would come. That surely they wouldn’t be forgotten, forsaken.

Eventually Edward III made an offer. He’d spare Calais, if six of its most prominent citizens would surrender. To be executed. He ordered that these men present themselves at the gate, stripped of their finery, with ropes round their necks and holding the key to the city.

Jean Guy Beauvoir paled, imagining what he’d do. Would he step forward? Would he step back, look away? He imagined the horror of the town, and the choice. Listening to the chief he felt his heart pounding in his chest. This was far worse than any horror film. This was real.

“What happened?” Beauvoir whispered.

“A man, Eustache de Saint-Pierre, one of the wealthiest men in Calais, volunteered. Five others joined him. They took off all their clothes, down to their undergarments, put nooses round their own necks, and walked out of the gates.”

“Bon Dieu,” whispered Beauvoir.

Dear God, agreed Gamache, looking again at Charles Morrow.

“Rodin did a sculpture of that moment, when they stood at the gate, surrendering.”

Beauvoir tried to imagine what it would look like. He’d seen a lot of official French art, commemorating the storming of the Bastille, the wars, the victories. Winged angels, buxom cheering women, strong determined men. But if this statue reminded the chief of those men, it couldn’t be like anything he’d seen before.

“It’s not a regular statue, is it?” said Beauvoir, and thought maybe he’d find out where the Musée des Beaux Arts was in Montreal.

“No, it’s like no other war statue you’re likely to see. The men aren’t heroic. They’re resigned, frightened even.”

Beauvoir could imagine. “But wouldn’t that make them even more heroic?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Gamache, turning back to Charles Morrow. Who wore clothing, who had no chains or ropes or noose. At least, not visible. But Armand Gamache knew Charles Morrow was bound as surely as those men. Roped and chained and tied to something.

What was Charles Morrow seeing with those sorrowful eyes?

The owner of the crane company was waiting for them at the reception desk. He was small and square and looked like a pedestal. His steel-gray hair was short and stood on end. A red ridge cut across his forehead where a hard hat had sat, that day and every working day for the past thirty years.

“It wasn’t my fault, you know,” he said as he stuck his square hand out to shake.

“I know,” said Gamache, taking it and introducing himself and Beauvoir. “We think it was murder.”

“Tabernacle,” the man exhaled and wiped his beading brow. “For real? Wait till the boys hear that.”

“Did your worker tell you what happened?” Beauvoir asked, as they took the man into the garage.

“He’s a horse’s ass. Said the block had shifted and the statue fell off. I told him that was bullshit. The base was solid. They’d poured a concrete foundation with sona tubes sunk six feet into the ground, below frost level, so it doesn’t shift. Ya know what I’m talking about?”