The chief inspector closed his eyes and the cheerful bistro disappeared. Now he saw the gently swinging body in the cold, dead forest. And the clean hands. Could he have been wrong? Had Ellis climbed up the tree himself? Maybe he wiped his hands on his pants and got the dirt off.

Certainly, everything he was hearing about Mr. Ellis pointed to a lonely man who might have taken his own life.

But why come into the village and ask about young men?

No, there were questions still.

“Can you read the note to me again?”

“If you are reading this, my body has been found,” Beauvoir read over the phone. “I am sorry. I hope the discovery did not upset anyone. I tried to go as far away as possible so that no children would find me. My work is finally done. I am tired, but I am at peace. Finally. I know you cannot forgive me, but perhaps you can understand.”

There was silence as both men thought about what the note said.

“It’s a suicide note,” said the chief at last. There was no doubt. Beauvoir was right. Should he be happy, though? Relieved that this poor man at least hadn’t suffered the terror of being murdered?

No. There was nothing to be happy about here. Mr. Ellis had clearly suffered other things in his life. Sufered enough that he could no longer stand the pain.

I am tired, but I am at peace. Finally.

But there was something else he had written.

“Can you read it to me again, please?”

Gamache listened to the now-familiar words. “What did he mean by My work is finally done?”

“Maybe his kids were grown up, or he’d retired. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

“But the note wasn’t addressed to anyone, was it? Not to children or a wife. No one,” said Gamache.

“True. But that isn’t unusual.”

“And the note isn’t signed. That’s more unusual,” said Gamache.

“What are you getting at, chief?”

“I’m just wondering,” said Gamache. At that moment, a shadow fell across the bar where he stood talking on the bistro telephone. Looking up, he saw Myrna beside him. She had a book in her hand and a very serious look on her face.

“Can you call Dr. Harris and see if she has any autopsy results?” Gamache asked Inspector Beauvoir before hanging up and greeting Myrna. Once again he bowed slightly, and waved toward a nearby table.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he said as they sat. It was now past noon. The bistro was filling with lunch customers and the smell of fresh bread and garlic and hearty stews.

“You’ll need one, too, once you see this.”