‘It was that woman’s fault.’ As she spoke a chunk fell from her facade and he glimpsed something inside. Not sorrow, not loss.

Rage.

‘Who, madame?’ Gamache asked, though he knew the answer.

The needles stuck deeper into Beauvoir’s bottom and were heading forward.

‘Why are you here?’ Hazel asked. ‘Was Madeleine murdered?’

‘Who are you talking about? What woman?’ Gamache repeated firmly.

‘That witch. Jeanne Chauvet.’

All roads lead back to her, thought Gamache. But where was she?

FIFTEEN

Armand Gamache opened the door to Madeleine Favreau’s bedroom. He knew this was as close as he would ever come to meeting the woman.

‘So, was Madeleine murdered?’

The words came along the upstairs hallway and met them at the bedroom door.

‘You must be Sophie,’ said Beauvoir, walking toward the young woman who’d spoken, her long dark hair moist from a recent shower. Even a few paces away he could smell the fruity, fresh fragrance of the shampoo.

‘Good guess.’ She smiled fully at Beauvoir and cocked her head to one side, extending her hand. Sophie Smyth was slim and dressed in a white terrycloth robe. Beauvoir wondered if the young woman knew the effect this had.

He smiled back and thought she probably did.

‘Now, you were asking about murder.’ Beauvoir looked thoughtful, as though he was seriously contemplating her question. ‘Do you have many dangerous thoughts?’

She laughed as though he’d said something both riotous and clever and pushed him playfully.

Gamache slipped into Madeleine’s room, leaving Jean Guy Beauvoir to work his dubious magic.

The bedroom smelled slightly of perfume, or more likely an eau de toilette. Something light and sophisticated. Not the fulsome, heady aroma of young women that he’d caught in the hallway.

He turned around, taking it in. The room was small and bright, even in the waning sun. Slight white curtains framed the window and were meant to obscure, not block, the light. The room was painted a clean, refreshing white and the bedspread was chenille, with its tell-tale bumps. The bed was a double – Gamache doubted larger would have fitted – and brass. It was a good antique and as he walked by it he allowed his large hand to drag along the cool metal. Lamps stood on the bedside tables, a stack of books and magazines on one, an alarm clock on the other. The digital clock said 4:19 p.m. He pulled a hanky from his pocket and pressed the alarm button. It flashed to 7 a.m.

In her closet hung rows of dresses and skirts and blouses. Most size 12, one a size 10. In the honey pine chest of drawers the top one contained items of underwear, clean but not folded. Next to those were bras and socks. In other drawers were some sweaters and a few T-shirts though it was clear she hadn’t yet made the switch from winter to summer. And wouldn’t now.

‘So,’ Beauvoir leaned against the hallway wall, ‘tell me about last night.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Sophie leaned as well, about a foot from him. He felt uncomfortable, his personal space violated. Still, he knew he’d asked for it. And it was better than that sofa with its pricks.

‘Well, why did you go to the séance?’

‘Are you kidding? Three days here, in the middle of nowhere with two old women? Had they said we were going to swim in boiling oil I’d have gone.’

Beauvoir laughed.

‘I’d actually been looking forward to coming home. You know, like, with laundry and stuff. And Mom always makes me my favorite food. But, God, after a few hours, enough already.’

‘What was Madeleine like?’

‘When, this weekend or always?’

‘Was there a difference?’

‘When she first came here she was nice, I guess. I was only here for about a year then went to university. Only saw them on holidays and in the summer after that. I liked her at first.’

‘At first?’

‘She changed.’ Sophie turned from her side and leaned her back against the wall, her chest and hips thrust out, and stared at the blank wall opposite. Beauvoir was quiet. Waiting. He knew there was more and he suspected she wanted to tell him.

‘Not as nice this time. I don’t know.’ She looked down, her hair falling in front of her face so that Beauvoir could no longer see her expression. She mumbled something.

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m not sorry she’s dead,’ Sophie said into her hands. ‘She took things.’

‘Like what? Jewelry, money?’