Now he turned and walked toward the old railway station, lit and almost as welcoming as the bistro.

‘Chief,’ Lacoste called as soon as he entered, cold air clinging to him. ‘Am I glad to see you. Where’s the Inspector?’

‘Sick. He thinks Beatrice Mayer put a curse on him.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first woman.’

‘True.’ Gamache laughed. ‘Where’s Agent Nichol?’

‘Gone. Made a few calls then disappeared a couple of hours ago.’ She watched to see if his face reflected how she felt. Nichol had buggered up again. It was as though she had a compulsion to screw up her career and their cases. But Gamache didn’t react.

‘What’ve you got?’

‘A mountain of messages. The coroner called. She says she’ll meet you in Olivier’s Bistro at five thirty. She lives around here, doesn’t she?’

‘In a village called Cleghorn Halt, down the railway line. This is on her way home. Does she have something?’

‘The completed autopsy report. Wants to talk to you about it. Also you have a call from Agent Lemieux in Montreal. He says he sent something to you over the internet. It’s from headquarters. But he also wants a callback. But, before you do…’ She walked back to her desk, Gamache following. ‘I found Eleanor de Poitiers.’

Lacoste sat and clicked her computer. A picture appeared. It was a black and white drawing of a medieval woman on horseback carrying a flag.

‘Go on,’ said Gamache.

‘That’s it. That’s her. Eleanor de Poitiers was Eleanor of Aquitaine. Her.’ She pointed to the screen. Gamache pulled up a chair and sat beside Lacoste, his brows drawn together and his whole body leaning forward, drawn to the screen. He stared, trying to make sense of it.

‘Tell me what you know.’

‘What I know or what I think? Either way, it’s not much. CC de Poitiers listed her mother and father as Eleanor and Henri de Poitiers, of France. In her book,’ Lacoste pointed to the copy on her desk, ‘she describes her childhood of privilege in France. Then there was some sort of financial catastrophe and she was sent away to Canada, to live with distant, unnamed relatives, right?’

Gamache nodded.

‘Well, Eleanor is her.’ Once more Lacoste nodded to the medieval equestrienne, then she clicked again and the screen changed. ‘And that’s her father.’ A picture came up of a stern, strong, blond man wearing a crown. ‘Henry Plantagenet. King Henry the Second of England.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The only Henry and Eleanor de Poitiers in France are them.’ Again Lacoste pointed to the screen, now split and showing both old drawings.

‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ said Gamache, struggling with the information.

‘You’ve never been a teenage girl.’

‘What do you mean?’