The store felt like an old library in a country house. The walls were lined with warm wooden shelves, and they in turn were lined with books. Hooked rugs were scattered here and there and a Vermont Castings woodstove sat in the middle of the store with a sofa facing it and a rocking chair on either side. Gamache, who loved bookstores, thought this was just the most attractive one he’d ever met.

He’d arrived a few minutes before five, passing Ruth. The elderly poet again stopped halfway across the village green and plunked down on the icy bench. He looked out Myrna’s window now and saw her there still, rigidly and frigidly outlined in the cheerful lights of the Christmas tree.

‘Well, all children are sad,’ quoted Gamache, ‘but some get over it.’

Myrna followed his gaze.

‘Beer walk,’ she said.

‘Beer walk,’ repeated Robert Lemieux. He was in the Morrow home, having wandered away from the television set. Clara and Inspector Beauvoir were still there, eyes like satellite dishes, staring at the screen. The only sign of life Lemieux had seen in Beauvoir since The Lion in Winter had begun was the occasional gasp. Lemieux had tried to get into it, but found himself drifting off to sleep. He had visions of his head slipping onto Beauvoir’s shoulder, mouth open, drooling. Best to get up and walk around.

Now he stared out the window and Peter Morrow joined him.

‘What’s she doing?’ Lemieux pointed to the old woman sitting on the bench while the rest of the village huddled indoors or scurried through the night that felt as though the air itself would freeze solid.

‘Oh, that’s her beer walk.’

Lemieux shook his head. Pathetic old drunk.

When Myrna finished explaining Gamache walked to his coat, feeling inside each pocket until he came to what he was looking for. The copy of Ruth’s book found on Elle’s body.

He returned to his seat and opened it, reading at random.

‘She’s a remarkable poet,’ said Myrna. ‘Too bad she’s such a mess as a person. May I?’ She reached out for the book and opened it at the beginning. ‘Did Clara lend you this?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Well, it’s inscribed to her.’ Myrna showed him. ‘You stink, love Ruth.’

‘Clara’s “You stink”?’

‘Well, she did that day. Isn’t that funny? She said she lost it. I guess she found it again, though you say you didn’t get it from her?’

‘No, it’s part of an investigation.’

‘A homicide investigation?’

‘You said she lost it after the signing? Where?’ Gamache was leaning forward now, his bright eyes focused on Myrna.

‘At Ogilvy’s. She’d bought the book at Ruth’s launch, had it signed and then we had to leave.’ Myrna could feel his energy and felt herself getting excited, though she didn’t know why.

‘Did you come straight back?’