‘This is the sort of thing that appeals to romantic girls. A strong and tragic queen, a noble king. The Crusades. Eleanor de Poitiers actually went on crusade with her first husband. She created an army of three hundred women and rode bare-breasted part of the way. At least, that’s the story. She eventually divorced Louis of France and married Henry.’

‘And lived happily ever after?’

‘Not exactly. He put her in prison, but not before she’d had four sons. Richard the Lionheart was one. She was amazing.’ Lacoste gazed at the woman on horseback and imagined being part of her army. Riding bare-breasted through Palestine in the wake of this remarkable woman. It wasn’t just teenagers who were drawn to Eleanor of Aquitaine.

‘Richard the Lionheart?’ Gamache asked. ‘But no daughter named CC?’

‘Who was a designer living in Three Pines? No. King Henry died in 1189. Eleanor in 1204. So either CC de Poitiers was long overdue for death herself or, just maybe, she was lying. No wonder the entire Sûreté in Paris was laughing at me. Thank God I told them I was Agent Nichol.’

Gamache shook his head. ‘So she made them up. She reached back almost a millennium to create parents. Why? Why would she do it? And why them?’

The two sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

‘So who were her real parents?’ Lacoste finally asked.

‘I think that might be an important question.’

Gamache went to his desk. It was twenty past five. Just time to speak to Lemieux before meeting Dr Harris. He downloaded his messages and dialed the number left by Lemieux.

‘Agent Lemieux,’ came the shouted answer.

‘It’s Gamache,’ he shouted back down the line, not sure why he was shouting.

‘Chief, I’m glad you called. Did you get the drawing from the Sûreté artist? He said he’d email it to you.’

‘I’m just opening my messages now. What did he say and why are we yelling?’

‘I’m at the bus station. A bus just arrived. The Sûreté artist said it looked as though Elle had been holding something in her hand as she died, and it had cut into it.’

‘And that explains the pattern of cuts in her palm?’

‘Exactly.’ The bus must have left or shut off because the background noise settled down. Lemieux spoke normally. ‘I gave him the autopsy picture and he drew a sketch as you asked. It’s not very precise, as you’ll see.’

As Lemieux spoke Gamache was going through his messages, looking for the one from the eccentric artist in the bowels of Sûreté headquarters. He clicked on it and waited while the excruciatingly slow dial-up connection downloaded the image.

Little by little a picture emerged.