Outside Gamache paused to get his bearings, then, checking his watch, he set out for Lac Brume. He’d always liked Williamsburg. It was quite different from St-Rémy, which was more French while Williamsburg was traditionally more English, though this was changing as the two languages and cultures mixed. As he walked he noticed the lovely homes and shops, all covered in pure white snow. It was quiet: that peace and calm that came in winter as though the earth was resting. Cars barely made any noise on the cushion of snow. People walked silently along the sidewalks, their steps making not a sound. Everything was muffled and mute. It was very, very peaceful.

Four and a half minutes it had taken him to get from the Legion to the lake. He’d not hurried, but he had long legs and he knew most people would take slightly longer. But it was a pretty good average.

He stood at the side of the road looking down over the lake, empty and obscured now by the snow. The curling rink was almost invisible and the only real evidence anything had happened here were the stands, empty and lonely as though waiting for company that would never come.

What to do about Yvette Nichol? The peace of the place gave him a moment to mull the problem. And problem she was. He knew that now. He’d been fooled by her once, but Armand Gamache wasn’t a man to be fooled twice.

She was there for a reason, and the reason wasn’t necessarily CC de Poitier’s murder.

Inspector Beauvoir drove out of Three Pines and turned toward St-Rémy. After a few minutes down wooded and snowy back roads he turned into a driveway and up to a rambling wooden house. He’d brought an agent with him, just in case. Now he knocked on the door and stood loose-limbed, trying to give the impression he was relaxed, maybe even distracted. He wasn’t. He was ready to give chase at any moment. Actually hoped chase would be necessary. Sitting and talking was Chief Inspector Gamache’s territory. Running was his.

‘Oui?’ A disheveled middle-aged man stood on the threshold.

‘Monsieur Petrov? Saul Petrov?’

‘Oui, c’est moi.’

‘I’m here about the murder of CC de Poitiers. I understand you knew her?’

‘I’ve been waiting for you. What took so long? I have some pictures that might interest you.’

Gamache shrugged out of his huge coat, readjusting his jacket and sweater which had bunched up underneath. Like everyone else in winter, he looked as though someone had put a mouse down his back. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, then walked into the small private room, picked up the phone, and dialed.

‘Oh, it’s you, Armand. Did you get my present?’

‘If you mean Agent Nichol, I did, Superintendent Francoeur. Merci.’ Gamache spoke jovially into the phone.