‘Well, that clubhouse is full of target-shooting arrows, right?’

Lacoste nodded, her mouth full.

‘With little stubby heads, like bullet tips?’

‘Phreith,’ Lacoste managed, nodding.

‘Can those tips be removed and this put on?’

‘Yes,’ said Lacoste, swallowing hard.

‘Forgive me.’ Gamache smiled. ‘But how do you know?’

‘I read up on it on the Internet last night. The tips are made to be interchangeable. ‘Course you have to know what you’re doing or you’ll cut your fingers to ribbons. But, yes, take one out, put the other in. That’s the design.’

‘Even the old wooden ones?’

‘Yes. I suspect these hunting heads came originally from the old wooden arrows in the clubhouse. Someone took them off and replaced them with the target heads.’

Gamache nodded. Ben had told them that he’d picked up the old wooden arrows from families who were upgrading their hunting equipment. The arrows would have come originally with hunting heads and he’d have to replace them with the target ones.

‘Good. Get them all to the lab.’

‘Already on their way,’ said Lacoste, taking a seat next to Nichol, who moved her chair slightly away.

‘What time is our appointment with Notary Stickley about the will?’ Gamache asked Nichol. Yvette Nichol knew very well it was at one-thirty, but saw an opportunity to prove she’d heard his little lecture that morning.

‘I forget.’

‘I’m sorry?’

Ha, she thought, he gets it. He’d given her one of the key statements in response. She quickly went through the other statements, the ones that lead to promotion. I forget, I’m sorry, I need help and what was the other one?

‘I don’t know.’

Now Chief Inspector Gamache was looking at her with open concern.

‘I see. Did you happen to write it down?’

She considered trying out the last phrase but couldn’t bring herself to say, ‘I need help.’ Instead she lowered her head and blushed, feeling she’d somehow been set up.

Gamache looked in his own notes. ‘It’s at one-thirty. With any luck we’ll get into Miss Neal’s home after we sort out the will.’

He had called his old friend and classmate Superintendent Brébeuf earlier. Michel Brébeuf had been promoted beyond Gamache, into a job they’d both applied for, but it hadn’t affected their relationship. Gamache respected Brébeuf and liked him. The Superintendent had sympathised with Gamache, but couldn’t promise anything.

‘For God’s sake, Armand, you know how it works. It was just stinking bad luck she actually found someone dense enough to sign the injunction. I doubt we’ll find a judge willing to overturn a colleague.’

Gamache needed evidence, either that it was murder or that the home didn’t go to Yolande Fontaine. His phone rang as he contemplated the interview with the notary.

‘Oui, allô?’ He got up to take the call in a quiet part of the room.

‘I think a ritual would be perfect,’ said Clara, picking at a piece of bread but not really hungry. ‘But I have this feeling it should just be women. And not necessarily just Jane’s close friends, but any women who’d like to take part.’

‘Damn,’ said Peter, who’d been to the Summer Solstice ritual and had found it embarrassing and very strange.

‘When would you like it?’ Myrna asked Clara.

‘How about next Sunday?’

‘One week to the day Jane died,’ said Ruth.

Clara had spotted Yolande and her family arriving at the Bistro and knew she’d have to say something. Gathering her wits she walked over. The Bistro grew so silent Chief Inspector Gamache heard the sudden drop off in noise next door after he’d hung up from the call. Tiptoeing around the back he stood just inside the servers’ entrance. From there he could see and hear everything, but not be observed. You don’t get to be that good at this job, he thought, without being a sneak. He then noticed a server standing patiently behind him with a tray of cold cuts.

‘This should be good,’ she whispered. ‘Black forest ham?’

‘Thank you.’ He took a slice.

‘Yolande,’ Clara said, extending her hand. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Your aunt was a wonderful woman.’

Yolande looked at the extended hand, took it briefly and then released it, hoping to give the impression of monumental grief. It would have worked had she not been playing to an audience well acquainted with her emotional range. Not to mention her real relationship with Jane Neal.