‘Perhaps I could be your matron of honour. Let me know. I hear you had a tough time of it today trying to save Madame de Poitiers.’

‘No more than Peter, and I suspect considerably less than Ruth.’ Olivier jerked his head toward the window and the invisible woman sitting alone in the cold. ‘She’ll be in soon for her Scotch.’

Her important appointment, thought Lemieux.

Gamache said to Gabri. ‘I’d like to book into your B. & B. Two rooms.’

‘Not for that horrible trainee you had last time, I hope.’

‘No, just Inspector Beauvoir and me.’

‘Merveilleux. We’ll book you in.’

‘Merci, patron. We’ll see you tomorrow.’

Walking to the door he whispered to Lemieux, ‘Rick’s is from the film Casablanca. Here’s lesson number two. If you don’t know something, ask. You have to be able to admit you don’t know something, otherwise you’ll just get more and more confused, or worse, you’ll jump to a false conclusion. All the mistakes I’ve made have been because I’ve assumed something and then acted as though it was fact. Very dangerous, Agent Lemieux. Believe me. I wonder if you haven’t already leaped to a false conclusion?’

This cut Lemieux deeply. He was desperate to impress Gamache. He needed to impress him if he was to get the job done. But now, for some reason, the chief felt he might be on the wrong track. As far as Lemieu knew he wasn’t on any track, nor had he come to any conclusions about the case. Who could, so early?

‘You need to tread very carefully, Agent Lemieux. I often think we should have tattooed to the back of whatever hand we use to shoot or write, “I might be wrong.”’

Standing outside the bistro Chief Inspector Gamache’s face was in darkness, but Lemieux assumed he was smiling. It must be a joke. The head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec couldn’t possibly be advocating such self-doubt.

Still, he knew his job was to learn from Gamache. And he knew if he watched the chief, and listened, not only would the mystery be revealed, but so would Gamache.

And Robert Lemieux was eager for that to happen.

He took out his notebook and in the biting cold he wrote down the two lessons. Then he waited in case there was more, but Armand Gamache seemed frozen in place, his tuque on, his mitts on, everything ready. Except the man.

He was staring at something in the distance. Something beyond the charming village, something beyond Ruth Zardo and her lit Christmas trees. He was staring at something in the darkness.