‘You’re getting what you’re getting this morning. No special orders,’ Gabri had snapped when they’d shown up. Then he’d produced an exquisite breakfast of eggs and maple-cured back bacon, French toast and syrup. And steaming, buttery croissants. ‘Fortunately for you, I cook when I’m stressed. What a night. Tragic.’

After he’d retreated to the kitchen Beauvoir turned back to Gamache.

‘What d’you mean she thinks it wasn’t arson? What else could it be? A main suspect, at the very least a witness in a murder case, dies in a fire and it isn’t murder?’

‘She says the neighbor saw flames shooting out the chimney.’

‘So? Flames were shooting out everywhere. They were almost shooting out my ass.’

‘The neighbor thinks it was an accident, a chimney fire. We’ll see. The fire inspector’ll be there now. We’ll get a report by this afternoon. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Jean Guy.’

‘And when it bursts into flames, what is it then? No, sir. That was arson. Saul Petrov was murdered.’

The rest of the day was spent in slow motion, as everyone recovered from the fire and waited for the results of the fire marshal’s investigation. Lemieux had found out that Saul Petrov’s next of kin was a sister in Quebec City. An agent was despatched to break the news and gather more background.

After breakfast Beauvoir trudged through the knee-deep fluffy snow, kicking it ahead of him as he went house to house, interviewing villagers in the hope of finding someone who knew a woman with a name beginning with L who’d lived in the area forty-five years before. Lemieux searched the parish records.

It was a quiet, almost dream-like day, their lives muffled by exhaustion and the thick layer of gathering snow. Gamache sat at his desk. Behind him the volunteer firefighters cleaned the pumper truck and put their equipment in order. Occasionally he nodded off, his feet on his desk, his eyes closed and his hands folded over his stomach.

She’s not worth it.

He startled awake. Beauvoir’s voice, panicked, filled his head again, and again he smelt smoke. He dropped his feet to the floor, his heart racing. The volunteers were slowly going about their work on their side of the large room, but he was alone on his side. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to join the volunteers, to retire to Three Pines and buy one of the old village homes. To put out his shingle. A. Gamache, Détective privé.

But then he noticed that he wasn’t alone after all. Sitting quietly at a terminal was Agent Nichol. He thought for a moment, wondering whether he was about to do something very foolish. He got up and walked over to her.