‘My God. It’s not the Arnot case? Tell me that isn’t it.’ He could feel his anger, and his dinner, rising. He felt this way whenever he thought of Pierre Arnot and what he’d done. To others, to the Sûreté. To Gamache. Surely, though, it was past. And it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Nichol. Could it?

‘Tell me,’ he demanded. ‘Enough.’ Now the younger man was almost shouting. He caught himself, looked around to see if anyone else had heard, and lowered his voice to an urgent growl. ‘You can’t keep this from me. You can’t take this on yourself. You did the first time and Arnot almost killed you. What is it with Nichol and Arnot?’

‘Leave it be, Jean Guy.’ Gamache reached across the table and gently tapped Beauvoir’s hand. ‘There is no connection. I’m just wary of her, that’s all. Nichol is certainly more agreeable than she was last time. Maybe I’m being too hard on her.’

Beauvoir studied him for a moment. ‘Bullshit. You’re humoring me now. What do you really think?’

‘It’s just a feeling.’ Gamache smiled wryly, waiting for Beauvoir to roll his eyes.

‘Your feelings aren’t always delusional.’

‘Just sometimes? It’s not important, Jean Guy.’

Gamache sipped his cappuccino and wondered whether he was turning cynical at last, thinking people couldn’t and didn’t change. All the evidence was that Agent Yvette Nichol had shed her arrogance and that huge chip she lugged around. Since joining them the day before she’d proved she could take orders, could take guidance and criticism. She’d worked hard and proved herself a self-starter, and had done good work finding out about Crie. And she’d even booked herself into the B. & B., and had paid for it herself.

This was indeed a new Nichol.

So why don’t I trust her?

Gamache leaned back in his chair and signaled Olivier, then turned back to Beauvoir.

‘I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have countermanded your orders, and certainly not in front of the team. May I offer you a cognac?’

Beauvoir recognized the bribe, but was willing to take it. Olivier delivered the amber drinks in their plump glasses and the two men discussed the case, talking about everything but thinking about only one thing. Agent Yvette Nichol.

THIRTY-ONE

The alarm sounded at twenty past two in the morning. The siren blasted through the frozen air and into every house in the village, traveling through fieldstone and mortar, through thick pink insulation and clapboard, through sweet dreams and restless sleeps, and announced a nightmare.

Fire.

Gamache leaped out of bed. Through the wail he could hear footsteps and shouting and the phone ringing. Tugging on his dressing gown he looked down the corridor and saw the vague outline of someone else in the darkness.

Beauvoir.

Downstairs he heard a woman’s voice, high and strained.