While tempted to confront Arnot, he would not betray his promise to Thérèse. He started his car, put it in gear and drove away. But instead of heading back to Montréal, he turned in the other direction, back to the church. Once there, he parked by the rectory and knocked on the door.

“You again,” said the priest, but he didn’t seem unhappy.

“Désolé, mon père,” said Gamache, “but did Isidore live in his own home until his death?”

“He did.”

“He cooked and cleaned and cut firewood himself?”

“The old generation,” smiled the priest. “Self-sufficient. Took pride in that. Never asked for help.”

“But the older generation often had help,” said Gamache. “At least in years past. The family looked after the parents and grandparents.”

“True.”

“So who looked after Isidore if not his children?”

“He had help from one of his brothers-in-law.”

“Is he still here? Can I speak with him?”

“No. He moved away after Isidore died. Old Monsieur Ouellet left him the farm, as thanks I guess. Who else was he going to give it to?”

“But he’s not living at the farm now?”

“No. Pineault sold it and moved to Montréal, I think.”

“Do you have his address? I’d like to talk with him about Isidore and Marie-Harriette and the girls. He’d have known them all, right? Even their mother.”

Gamache held his breath.

“Oh yes. She was his sister. He was the girls’ uncle. I don’t have his address,” said Father Antoine, “but his name’s André. André Pineault. He’d be an old man now himself.”

“How old would he be?”

Père Antoine thought. “I’m not sure. We can check the parish records if you like, but I’d say he’d be well into his seventies. He was the youngest of that generation, quite a few years younger than his sister. The Pineaults were a huge family. Good Catholics.”

“Are you sure he’s alive?”

“Not sure, but he isn’t here.” The priest looked past Gamache, toward the graveyard. “And where else would he go?”

Home. No longer the farmhouse but the grave.

THIRTY-ONE

The technician handed Gamache the report and the tuque. “Done.”

“Anything?”

“Well, there were three significant contacts on that hat. Besides your own DNA, of course.” He looked at Gamache with disapproval, having contaminated the evidence.

“Who’re the others?”

“Well, let me just say that more than three people have handled it. I found traces of DNA from a bunch of people and at least one animal. Probably incidental contact years ago. They picked it up, might’ve even worn it, but not for long. It belonged to someone else.”

“Who?”

“I’m getting to that.”

The technician gave Gamache an annoyed look. The Chief held out his hand, inviting the man to get on with it.

“Well, as I said, there were three significant contacts. Now, one’s an outlier, but the other two are related.”

The outlier, Gamache suspected, was Myrna, who’d held the hat, and even tried to put it on her head.

“One of the matches came from the victim.”

“Constance Ouellet,” said Gamache. This was no surprise, but best to have it confirmed. “And the other?”

“Well, that’s where it gets interesting, and difficult.”

“You said they were related,” said Gamache, hoping to head off any long, and no doubt fascinating, lecture.

“And they are, but the other DNA is old.”

“How old?”

“Decades, I’d say. It’s difficult to get an accurate reading, but they’re definitely related. Siblings, maybe.”

Gamache stared at the angels. “Siblings? But could it be parent and child?”

The technician thought and nodded. “Possible.”

“Mother and daughter,” said Gamache, almost to himself. So they were right. The MA stood for Ma. Marie-Harriette had knitted six hats. One for each of her daughters and herself.

“No,” said the technician. “Not mother and daughter. Father and daughter. The old DNA is almost certainly male.”

“Pardon?”

“I can’t be one hundred percent sure, of course,” said the technician. “It’s there in the report. The DNA was from hair. I’d say that hat belonged to a man, years ago.”